by Daisy Allen
Don’t you really hate that he DID get at you? Ugh, that voice again.
Shut up, bitch. I tell myself, oblivious to the irony.
I gather my things, shoving my phone into my bag. I don’t want to run into the asswipe again tonight. I’m just going to have to reschedule my appointment. I down the last mouthful of my drink, this time managing not to miss my mouth and push my way to the exit.
Suddenly there’s a huge cheer from somewhere and everyone surges forward. I get caught up in the crowd of people moving like a wave of sloshed humans towards the direction of the back of the bar. I know better than to fight it, and just hold tight to my handbag, pulling it against my body and taking deep breaths, waiting for the tide of cheering drinkers around me to subside.
There’s a squeal of feedback from a microphone, and then a female voice.
“Welcome to the Muddy Pig! How are you all doing TONIIIGGHHHTT!!!!!!?” There’s a huge roar, and a sweaty guy in a flannel shirt next to me gives me a toothy grin and raises his half full glass at me. Despite my mood, I can’t help but smile back; his good mood, slightly infectious. “Judging by the crowd, I guess our best kept secret wasn’t such a secret. We have with us tonight, the lovely lads, half of them home-grown I might add, the ROCK CHAMBER BOYS! Take it away, boys!”
There’s another roaring cheer, this time SO loud; I almost drop my bag as I try to cover my ears. There’s a surge from behind and we all move a few feet forward. I can’t help but get caught up in the excitement (and trust me, I’m trying). I crane my neck as the lights go down; there’s the sound of a few strings being plucked, then nothing.
And then, like an explosion, there’s a burst of sound. Through the gaps of the heads instantly bobbing to life in front of me, I can just make out the four figures on the stage. They’re all males and playing string instruments; two cellos, a violin and a viola, playing something you probably wouldn’t expect from a string quartet.
“If you know the lyrics, sing along, ‘cos I sure as hell don’t remember them!” A loud voice rings out, causing everyone to raise their hands and shout the words. Everyone knows them, of course.
“I can’t get NO. Satisfaction!”
There’s a thumping of three or four hundred feet on the bar’s floor to go with the hands raising in the air and the voices singing at the top of their lungs.
The band’s strings pounding out the tune, filling up all the empty space. I find my own foot tapping, and I glare at it, telling it to stop. Somehow, I’ve found myself inching closer and closer to the front of the crowd and out to the side.
Out of frustration, one of my elbows jabs into the guy next to me, but he just turns and grins at me, giving me a wink and moving to let me through. Something about the music is putting everyone in a good mood.
Everyone but me that is.
I get to the front and look up.
And the fucker is smiling at me. Standing to the right side of the tiny stage, pulling his bow across his viola at an almost imperceptible speed, kicking his left leg out to the beat of the song, and fucking grinning at me. It’s humid in the bar; three hundred people crowded around a tiny space, dancing and singing and breathing their alcohol-riddled air will do that. It’s made my hair damp and I run a hand through it, pushing it away from my face.
He watches me as I do it, the smile fading a little, but something grows deeper in his eyes. They move to mine, and I narrow them, switching them on to death-glare mode.
His grin comes back and the he throws his head back in a laugh. He fucking LAUGHS. The violinist standing next to him kicks him in the shin to get his attention, and I half wish he’d broken his leg. He finally looks away from me as they all move to form a tight circle on the stage, the beat increasing and their playing gets louder. They’re building to an ending.
“SING IT FUCKERS!”
“SATISFACTION! SATISFACTION! SATISFACTION!” The happy hoards shout over and over, and it’s a cacophony of voices and stomping and music.
And then it’s over.
The cheers are louder than the claps, and I slink back a little, my back pressing against the wall. It’s darker here, and I’m glad for it. I don’t want to be seen trying to catch my breath. Breath lost in the excitement of it all.
They really do put on a good show.
***
The rest of the set is no different.
Song after song, they build the crowd into a frenzy. Even ones that start like a ballad, or a well-known classical piece that would you would think would be better suited for a church or chamber hall, just when it might get boring for some, they glide effortlessly into a popular rock or pop song and it’s like there was no transition. And everyone is on their feet.
It does NOT bode well for my growing hatred of him.
The way he flirts with the crowd. Not just the women, but the crowd as a whole. Never taking a moment to still his bow on his viola but interacting through his movements and his expressions. He doesn’t say much, so I don’t have to hiss at the sound of his voice, but he doesn’t need to.
They’re all masters at manipulating the crowd.
And as much as I want to leave. I don’t. I find myself wondering what else they’re going to play and lamenting the idea of missing it.
When their short set is up, the disappointment is palpable, mine included. But no amount of begging seems to convince them of an encore.
When I see them putting down their instruments, I push away from my hidden spot against the wall and make for the exit. I hear footsteps behind me, and then his voice.
“What did you think of the show?” he asks. And I turn before I know what I’m doing.
“What show?” my mouth forms the words before I can think of something else to say. Something cleverer. Something scathing. Something to make him feel like he’d made me feel before.
“Aw come on now. I saw you watching us. All of it. It’s okay to admit you liked it.”
“I have no problem admitting things that are true. I just don’t make up long speeches full of lies to rattle off to complete strangers though,” I say.
For some reason, that amuses the asshole. And he grins and brushes the sweaty hair from his face in a way that I imagine would send most women into a horny frenzy.
“Guess what?”
I just look at him, willing my shoulders not to shrug and my mouth not to ask.
“Neither do I.”
“Then what do you call that little lame-o soliloquy you gave me back there?” I gesture with my head to the table at the back.
“That wasn’t a soliloquy, or a speech of lies. It was… a display. Of how to win an argument. You said I could never surprise you. So, I thought I’d show you the importance of never saying never.”
“Ah, well, my initial speechlessness, did not necessarily imply surprise.”
“Then what, what did it?”
“Ridicule.”
“Nice try.”
“Is it your turn to be surprised?”
“Oh, I’m in a rock band, I’ve seen it all, babe. There’s no way you can surprise me.” He says. And it’s so arrogant I can’t even stop myself laughing.
He laughs as well and I hold a hand out, stopping him.
“No, please, stop. I’m not laughing with you, I’m definitely laughing at you.”
“So? I can laugh alongside. I’m a happy, laughing type of guy.”
“You’re an arrogant ass, is what you are.”
“There’s no reason I can’t be both. My parents always said I was an overachiever. I bet yours said the same.”
I stop laughing. And I don’t mean to, but my face freezes for a second, and then falls. Shit. After all this time, I still can’t control it.
He notices. Damn, he fucking notices, and asks, “What’s wrong?”
The last thing I’m worried about, though, is sparing his feelings, so I don’t bother.
“I don’t have parents, hotshot. But thanks for reminding me that I had no one to care if I
was achieving or not. See you ‘round. Try not to depress anyone else tonight.” I hoist the strap of my handbag higher on my shoulder and spin to leave.
His hand on my arm stops me, and I fight with myself to tear it away, ignore him. But I know I can’t.
“Hey, hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” There’s something genuine in his voice. Probably the first I’ve heard out of everything he’s said to me. I inwardly roll my eyes, knowing I might’ve gone too far and face him again.
My shoulders rise in a quick shrug, like I’ve brushed it up. “It’s fine.”
“No, really, um,” he lets out a short laugh exhale. “fuck, I feel really bad. Let me make it up to you, buy you a drink, prove I’m not really an asshole… unless you’re a recovering alcoholic, in which case I’ve stepped in it again and am just going to go stab myself with a breadstick.”
“Make it an ice pick and I might consider giving up alcohol for life.”
“Come on, one drink. It can be orange juice, just to prove I’m not trying to get you plastered and into bed.”
“I’d rather not, Lothario. But fine, I’ll accept your apology. Good night.”
“I’m not a Lothario.”
“You had me fooled with your speech and all. Do you roll that out for every woman you meet or is it just for weekends and public holidays? Because, either way, it needs work.”
“Seemed to work on you.”
“You seem to have mistaken my politeness for some sort of implication that you had any effect on me.”
“Oh, so your silence…”
“I was trying to think of something to let you down easy, buddy. You know, because you were so taken with me. I realize now that you actually do liiiike me, and all that tosh about it just being to win an argument is to spare your poor playboy rejected feelings.”
“Hmmm, one does seem to be feeling a sense of nostalgia for that silence.”
“You got it.”
“Surely you can’t let me have the last word.”
“You don’t.”
“Fine, good night.”
“No, I said good night first!”
“Well, I said it second. And last. Good night, silent girl.”
“NO!” I suddenly realize I’m chasing after him. “Hey, come back here!”
He spoons around, with that shit. Eating. Fucking. Grin. Again. “Hey, if you want me so bad, you just had to say.”
“Say what?”
“Say I win.”
“Like hell. Like you could ever win, you manwhore!”
“Anca?”
I spin around and come face to face with one of the cellists from the band. I’d hoped to sneak out of here tonight without being spotted. But the manwhore foiled even that plan.
“Jez!”
“How come you didn’t come over to talk to me?”
“Oh, I was busy, trying to get rid of a creepy stalker.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the manwhore come closer, with his mouth open about to say something. Jez eyes him and then looks back at me.
“What? Who is it? I’ll get rid of him.”
“It’s okay, I can take care of it, geez.”
“Anyway, I’m so glad you’re here. Come say hi to everyone.”
“Wait, you know Jez?” The manwhore asks.
“Yeah, of course.” I roll my eyes.
“Yeah, man, duh. She’s Anca.” Jez replies, looking at the manwhore, confused.
Manwhore’s mouth drops open, and it’s almost worth all of the night’s aggravation to see how he’s going to react to what’s about to be said.
“You’re… Anca?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh my god. You’re Jez’s…” He starts.
“Sister,” I finish for him.
He stares at me, unblinking.
I lean in, stretch up on my tip toes and whisper into his ear, “Surprise.”
Chapter Four
Marius
“Wait. You’re really Anca?” I repeat, trying to make sense of what’s going on.
She rolls her eyes and turns to Jez. “Did his mother drop him on his head when he was a baby?” she asks him.
Jez finds it hilarious, of course. “Oh, you heard about that?” he says to her but grinning at me. Then he frowns. “Dude, you’ve met Anca before, surely.”
It takes me a moment to rifle through my memory. It finally comes to me, “Yeah, like 8 years ago, at Guildhall. She was a freshman when we were seniors.”
“Yeah.” He nods, rummaging around his memory as well.
“Well, anyway, you, er… she, er. You look. Um. Different.” I stammer, trying to find the right word. Fuckable doesn’t seem like it would be appropriate, nor appreciated by either of the brother or sister staring me down.
She scowls, her expression of choice all night, and mumbles something that sounds like “Ugh, different. Asshole.”
“What?” Jez asks.
“Um, nothing.” She waves her hand. He frowns at her and she stares him down, daring him to ask her again. She wins.
“Er, yeah, anyway, come on, everyone’s waiting. You too, manwhore,” he emphasizes the word, obviously overhearing the end of my conversation with his sister.
They walk ahead of me, and I’m trying to reconcile the feisty, mouthy woman with the shy 13-year-old I met almost a decade ago. I can’t say that I recognized her at all.
Jez’s sister.
Damn.
Shit on a hotdog stick.
Well, whatever I was considering, which is nothing, is going to have to be forgotten. Not that I was considering anything, I tell myself. Just that talking to her was infuriating. But interesting. In its infuriatingness, that’s all. Nothing else.
Jez is introducing her or re-introducing her to everyone when I catch up with them at the bar.
“Guys, this is Anca. Anca, this is Cadence and Hailey. You remember the band, of course.”
“Of course! Hi Sebastian, Brad.” She smiles at each of them as she says their name.
Then she turns around and stares me in the eyes, definitely not smiling. “And Marius.”
Fuck. She’s known who I am this whole time? Why didn’t she say anything? There’s something, like a challenge in her eyes and I can’t help but want to aggravate her.
I hold out my hand, “Yeah, hi, Anca. We’ve met before. But you probably don’t remember. It’s ok.”
“Wha? I...” she splutters. “I know we’ve met, you’re the one who didn’t remember!”
“Now, does that really seem true to you? A pretty girl like yourself, not likely I would forget you.”
“Yeah, that really doesn’t sound like Marius at all,” Brad chimes in, not realizing what he’s getting in the middle of. “He might forget to shower or the right end of a toothbrush, but he wouldn’t forget a woman.”
I grin at her. “See?”
The look she gives me is pure venom.
“Who you calling a pretty girl?” Jez cuts in, ruining the fun. And he gives me a look that will keep me up in the coming weeks. Loaded. Warning.
“Sorry.” I say backing away from her. “Just being nice. I didn’t mean it.” Her head whips around and she searches my face for meaning. “I mean, I didn’t mean anything by it.” I say, my voice lowered, but loud enough for her to hear. A hardness in her eyes softens and feel a sense of relief that she hasn’t misunderstood me. Not that it matters to me, of course.
“Anyway, guys, we’ve talked about it, and Anca is happy to be given a shot to see if she fits in with the band.” Jez explains.
Wait. What did he say?
“Wait, what?” My mouth verbalizes my thoughts.
“Dude, what is wrong with you today?” He frowns at me before continuing, “I said that Anca is the person I was talking about yesterday, about coming to play with us. Anyway, we thought, maybe tomorrow, we’ll have a bit of a jam session, and if Cadence and you guys are okay with how it goes, Anca would like to play with us on tour.”
“Oh wow
! That’s great!” Brad says, coming over and giving Jez a friendly punch on the shoulder.
“I knew it!” Sebastian says, “didn’t I say it was going to be Anca, babe?” he looks to Cadence.
“He sure did. And he said that you’d be great,” Cadence confirms and walks over to give Anca a hug. “I’m sure you will fit right in. And give these guys a run for their too-much-money,” she says, winking at Jez’s sister.
Anca smiles at her, looking instantly relaxed. It’s the exact opposite of what I’m feeling.
“Marius?” Cadence looks at me. “What do you think?” She’s giving me a weird look. And her eyebrows are doing something weird. Like, a ‘this is fate’ look.
I shoot her a look back. One that I hope tells her, between the guys in the band, it will always be, “misters before each others’ sisters.”
“Er, well, I guess we’ll see tomorrow.” I answer, hoping that’ll get them off my back for now and wonder what excuse I’ll have to come up with tomorrow to make sure this infuriating woman does not come with us on tour.
Chapter Five
Anca
3 years ago
“Stop.”
“But…”
“I said, stop.” His voice is quiet but firm. There’s no room for argument. I drop my hands and lower my eyes, not wanting to see his disappointment. I focus on the vase of dahlias on the coffee table instead.
“Anca, where is the soul?” He asks.
“I’m sorry?”
“Where is it?” He gestures his hands in front of him, seemingly to nothing.
“The soul?” I repeat, trying to make sense of what he’s asking me.
“Your soul, my soul, the world’s soul?”
I bite my tongue. I never have an answer for his questions. His questions that make no sense to me, until he gives the answer. Then they mean everything.
“Is it in your head?” He waves his hand, as if pulling the words from the air.
“I, er-…”
“Is it in your chest? Or, in your stomach, floating around with the chicken sandwich you had for lunch?”
“Um…No.” That’s as much of an answer as I can commit to.
