Page 43 of Poet & Protector

That was only a half truth. We wouldn’t have been able to get in without my connection to Caleb through the Bunker, but that wasn’t something I could tell Ansel about.

Ansel’s mouth twisted as he mulled over my argument. I could tell this logic was more persuasive, but he wasn’t entirely won over.

“It would be cool to see a live band,” Ansel said. “Are you sure we’re on the list?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“And Calla won’t find out?” Ansel shifted nervously in his seat. “’Cause if she somehow hears I was at a bar with you, watching a Bane play live music, I will never be allowed to leave the house again except for school and patrol.”

“She won’t find out,” I promised. “I wouldn’t have brought you along if I thought you’d get in trouble.”

“Okay.” Ansel nodded slowly, then began to smile. “Yeah. Yeah, this is cool.”

“It will be.” I opened the driver’s side door. “Let’s go.”

As soon as we were out of the car, I heard guitar and drums reverberating from within the bar. This was really happening. I strode toward the entrance with more confidence than I felt.

Despite knowing Caleb put our names on the list, I was still on edge as we approached the Burnout’s front door. The bouncer was human, but not someone I’d seen in the Bunker and it was unlikely he’d recognize me. He was a tall, bulky man with a ginger beard and a kerchief tied around his head. I didn’t know if he was in a biker gang or just dressed like he was. I envied his black leather vest with silver chains on the shoulders and running down the sides like rib bones, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t a look I could pull off.

I was a little over six feet tall, but the doorman was at least six four and he had the advantage of standing on the narrow porch that ran the length of the front side of the bar while we waited on the stairs. He looked down at me and frowned, and when he glanced over at Ansel, his frown deepened.

“You lost?”

“Mason Elliott and Ansel Tor,” I replied, trying to sound cool and disinterested, which pretty much meant I imitated the way Nev talked.

Keeping on the theme of ‘I’m cool and totally belong here,’ I didn’t say ‘we’re on the list’ but instead shot a meaningful look at the folded piece of paper in his vest pocket, which I assumed was the list. I hoped it was the list.

The doorman scoffed but pulled out the paper and unfolded it. He scanned the page, scoffed again, then shrugged.

“Go on in.”

My reflex was to thank him, but that would probably work against the ‘cool and belong here’ thing I had going, so I walked past him.

When we were through the door, Ansel blew out a relieved breath.

“Wow. Sorry, man, I kind of thought you were bullshitting me about the list. When you said you were sure we’d get in I expected you to bribe the bouncer or something.”

“You need to have more faith in me,” I replied, elbowing him playfully.

Caleb told me the set started at nine, which I knew meant the band wouldn’t play until at least nine thirty. I timed our arrival at a little past ten so Nev would already be busy on stage and we could slip in unnoticed.

That was the plan. Get in, listen, and steal away before the show ended with Nev being none the wiser. My curiosity would be sated, no harm, no foul.

We stopped just inside the door. On stage, Nev and Caleb faced each other. Caleb was in the middle of a bass solo while Nev accompanied him on rhythm guitar. Tom Shaw was drumming. A fourth person sat on stage, slightly to the side, but they were hidden in shadow. Whatever role they had in the band wasn’t required in this song.

The music was bluesy hard rock, well-suited to the venue and crowd. I was generally more of an indie electronic and shoegaze kind of guy, but I liked this, too. My taste in music was pretty eclectic. The only genre I’d never been able to get into, despite my best effort, was experimental jazz. It felt too much like trying to solve a math problem.

Nev probably loved experimental jazz.

“So, this is the Burnout.” Ansel turned in a slow circle. “It’s really dark. Kind of grimy, too, huh?”

“Maybe don’t insult the bar within earshot of the regulars,” I growled.

He probably hadn’t spoken loudly enough to be overheard, but still.

Ansel surveyed the rough-and-tumble patrons that filled the bar. “I don’t think they’d consider grimy an insult, more of a choice. It’s a vibe. A grumpy, angry vibe. I like it. And it makes so much sense that Calla likes it here. She enjoys being grumpy and angry way too much.”

“Maybe keep your opinions to yourself, An,” I said. “I’d rather not step on any toes.”