I’ve loved music ever since I can remember, and though my first small collection of musical purchases as a kid was pretty embarrassing, I now have an impressive record collection amassed in the basement at my parents’ place and can make a killer playlist for any mood, including something really specific like ‘Haven’t Slept in Two Days and Need to Eat Chocolate,’ or the more generalized ‘Sleepy Sunday Mornings.’
Wolf Head is sort of an extension of the music fanatic in me, because it opened five years ago with a legendary acoustic concert by Little Sandwiches, one of my favorite obscure bands. Since then, the venue has hosted concerts by everyone from indie bands to legendary ‘80s rockers looking for a few extra bucks to spend on getting their skinny clothes tailored to something bigger and more comfortable. It’s the sort of place where music lovers of all types—goths, rockers, indie hipsters, pop lovers—can come together to dance, mingle, and drink cool, expensive drinks, and look incredible while doing it. I’ve watched enough documentaries and concert DVDs from various bands playing at Wolf Head to feel like I know the layout even with my eyes closed.
Even Alexander Flan, when he was temporarily separated from Fourth Squid Movement, went there once. Or so legend says.
When we return to the hotel, I dig through all the clothes we bought Griffin and find that lovely black jacket with the epaulets. Thankfully, Griffin’s shoulders are about the same size as mine and the jacket mostly fits. “I’m borrowing this!” I say, running into the bathroom with my purse for some emergency makeup application.
You don’t just go to Wolf Head without preparing.
Griffin appears at my side as I lean over the sink, dotting blush onto my cheeks with my fingertips. I have no idea if he walked into the bathroom or if he teleported or something, but either way, I just glance at him in the reflection of the mirror and cock an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“Is that the Orgasm blusher color by Nars?”
“Uh, no. I can’t afford Nars.”
He continues to peer at me. “But you want to create the appearance of female pleasure?”
“It’s… it’s just something we wear. It puts color in our face.”
“Why do you use blusher to do that? Wouldn’t it be easier to just experience pleasure?”
I laugh without really meaning to. “Women could never achieve any sort of pleasure that would last as long or look as good as makeup. Welcome to my planet.”
Griffin’s eyes narrow. “On my planet, a proper mating ritual would leave both beings in a state of pleasure for days, no paint needed.”
I’m fairly certain the bathroom lights flicker and that he’s the one causing it, so I attempt to turn my focus back to the task at hand. It’s not as easy as you might imagine.
As soon as I’ve applied an abundance of black eyeliner and mascara, I rough up my thick hair and blast it with the hairspray bottle provided by our hotel. It smells great and feels heavenly; it’s certainly the kind of thing used by rich people. Splurging on hairspray for me usually means buying the six-dollar can.
“You don’t go to Wolf Head looking like a bum,” I say, and then catch Griffin still staring at me. Hmmm. “You know; you could use a little rock edge.”
“Rock edge?”
“Yeah, we’re gonna make you look like a proper pop star.” I tug him close and inspect his eyes; that odd blue color would look quite enchanting with the right amount of eyeliner. “Hold still, okay? Close your eyes and trust me.”
He squirms when I apply pressure with the pencil at the middle of his top lash-line, fighting me as if I’m going to hurt him.
“Hey! Stop it! I told you to trust me.” I wait until he’s still. “Now let’s try this again.” With a little work, I’m able to apply a steady line of kohl around his eyes, and then step back to admire my work. “Open your eyes; I’m done.”
Griffin blinks a few times, his eyes focusing on me. Judging by his tense body language and how tight his lips are pressed together, he didn’t particularly enjoy the experience, but I have a feeling he’ll get over it when he sees the results.
“Go look in the mirror.”
Whatever funk he’s in disappears as soon as he’s caught his reflection, replaced by a delighted smile. “I look bloody amazing, Wanda—like a proper pop star!”
I nod, quite proud of myself, but before he can leave the room, I say, “Why were you so nervous about me touching your eyes? Are your eyes sensitive?”
Griffin pauses just in front of the door, thinking for a few seconds. “No. They tried to blind me once, that’s all.”
“Wait, what? Who did?”
“The ones who killed my mother.” With that, he’s out the door and off to show Devon, loudly proclaiming what a great stylist I am and how Devon needs to wear some eyeliner, too, really, because that’s how you get ‘rock edge.’
A few minutes later, we’re all herded out the door to get dinner before we head to the club, and no one mentions anything more about what Griffin revealed to me in the bathroom.
Dating an Alien Pop Star Page 9
