Rocked by Him

by Lucy Lambert

  Yeah, I’d be fine. It was Drake who needed to worry. If he ever got that text, at least.

  ***

  The boost I got from that petty little triumph gave me enough to get back to my apartment. I almost didn’t take the elevator up. It reminded me too much of Drake. But I didn’t have the energy to take the stairs.

  My emotional rollercoaster ride had really done me in. I stood in front of the door to my apartment, listening to the buzz of the light bulb in its little sconce by the doorframe, happy that I was alone, and that no one could fix me with their damned accusing eyes.

  I pushed my fingers deeper into my purse, shoving my phone and hairbrush aside, feeling too much satisfaction when keys jingled at my touch.

  I shoved the key into the lock and flipped the deadbolt back, the sharp crack of the steel jarring me. My body cried out for the soft embrace of my bed. Without a job, I knew I had a lot of work to do. Choices to make.

  But they could all wait. At least until I got the satisfaction of knowing Drake’s reaction. Then I could move forward.

  Right after that. And sleep, lots of sleep.

  I kicked off my shoes and shrugged off my jacket, nearly knocking against the wall in my hurry. It was only in my bedroom that I realized my fingers still held onto the strap of my purse.

  I dropped that beside the bed, then belly-flopped down onto the mattress. My feet dangled over the foot of the bed, but I didn’t pull myself up. Instead, I grabbed a pillow and pulled it down, my eyelids already closing inexorably, weighted by exhaustion.

  Sleep would help, I knew. Sleep helps everything, cures all ills. Or was it laughter? I couldn’t remember, and couldn’t care any less.

  I just wanted to slip away from the world for a while.

  My eyes shut; I waited for sleep to snatch me away. But then something interrupted. Muffled music, the buzz of something vibrating. I tried shutting it out, scrunching my eyes harder.

  It didn’t stop.

  “Just shut up!” I moaned, pulling the pillow over my head and jamming it against my ears.

  It helped, but not a lot. The noise dragged me back up into consciousness kicking and screaming. Then I realized it was my cell ringing.

  I sat up so fast I got a head rush.

  “Drake!” I said. He was the only person who could be calling. He must have gotten my message and was now trying to get a hold of me.

  I slid down onto my knees on the floor and dug through my purse. The cell continued buzzing in my hand, screeching out the custom ringtone I’d given Drake (the first few bars to Bad Romance).

  I was about to answer when I hesitated. Sitting back against my bed, I looked at the call display on my cell. Should I answer? I wanted to, I really did. But wouldn’t it be better if I gave Drake a taste of his own medicine? He’d left me hanging all day. Maybe it was his turn to wait for me?

  That was probably the best choice, revenge-wise. But it didn’t turn out to be my choice.

  I hit the answer button and held the phone against my ear, the little device already warm, expecting to hear Drake’s voice.

  Instead, I jerked the phone away. Rock music blasted from my phone’s speaker.

  “Yes?” I said. More like yelled, really.

  Someone on the other end spoke. It was rather like the mumble of the subway driver. Completely incomprehensible.

  So, plugging my other ear, I tried again.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “This Jenn?” another voice yelled back.

  Another voice that wasn’t Drake���s. I took the phone away long enough to check the screen again. It was definitely Drake’s number. Why would someone else be calling me using his phone?

  The music swelled in the background, the heavy bass and drums turned tinny through my phone. I waited for the volume to ebb before continuing.

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “Okay. Get down to Club 54. Drake’s…” the music swelled again “…trouble!”

  “What? What do you mean? Who are you? What kind of trouble?” I said

  “Come… now,” the man said, his voice again lost in the inexorable tide of rock music. Then the line went dead.

  Right away, I tried calling back. The line rang a few times, then went to voicemail. I let my hands, and the phone, drop down into my lap. My ear still buzzed a little from the noise.

  Club 54? I’d never heard of the place. Drake had never mentioned it. Also, if he was in some sort of trouble, why would he call me of all people?

  He must not have gotten my text, I knew. I wondered if he’d been in trouble, or at least away from his phone, at this Club 54 the whole day? Was that why he hadn’t gotten back to me?

  Part of me still thought he was a total asshole for not checking his messages. He should have known I would try to contact him. Otherwise why would he give me his number?

  But then I also felt touched that he would ask me for help. Maybe it was because of how well I’d covered for him when that cop came. He knew I could handle myself, knew that I could be trusted.

  And I still wanted him to trust me. I swallowed heavily, looking around my room for the answer. I still wanted him to want me, like I was not quite ready to admit fully to myself I wanted him.

  Mixed emotions swirled around inside me. Anger at Drake. Lust for Drake. Frightened at being jobless in New York. Glad that I was Drake’s go-to person. If I let it, that vortex of feeling would swallow me up, and the next thing I knew I’d be woken up by the landlord demanding my late rent several weeks from now.

  It was either sit here and feel sorry for myself some more, or go and see what was up.

  So I brushed any loose strands of hair back behind my ears, wiped at the moisture still clinging around my eyes, and pushed myself to my feet.

  Next stop: my laptop. I opened it on the coffee table and waited impatiently for it to boot up. When it did, I opened a Chrome browser and Googled for Club 54.

  It turned out to be a popular club for up and coming indie rock bands a couple blocks from the park. The place had a capacity of almost five hundred, and promised to introduce anyone willing to pay the $30 cover to the best rock bands you’d never heard of. The site had a clean layout to it, and I easily found the address.

  I was about to shut the laptop and see if I could get a cab (it was almost 4pm and rush hour would begin soon) when I saw it.

  The site had a calendar for upcoming shows. I plugged in that day’s date and waited for the info to load.

  Drake had never told me his band’s name. I didn’t know whether that was because he didn’t want me to know, or if it hadn’t come up. Probably the first, I bet. Drake seemed the proud type, the kind of person who wanted a real accomplishment to brag about rather than boasting about nothing.

  An accomplishment like getting a gig at this club.

  I scrolled down past the opening act (which I realized I’d heard over the phone) on to the main show.

  It announced that Club 54 had the great privilege of presenting The Icons live for what they hoped was the first of many shows with this “diamond in the rough of the rock & roll indie scene.”

  The Icons. I liked that. It was short, easy to remember. Full of meaning and promise.

  It had YouTube links to a few of their other gigs, and I felt sorely tempted to watch them all. The “grown up” voice in me said I was turning into a groupie.

  It also reminded me that I’d just spent ten precious minutes doing all this. As I sat there, the already busy streets of Manhattan were clogging with taxis and limos taking people home from work.

  So I rushed to the door, grabbing at my shoes in the shadowy hallway and pulling them on, hoping I’d picked out a matching pair. My purse bounced against my side, and my fingers took their sweet time finding the keys and then locking the apartment behind me.

  Luckily, the elevator door slid open as soon as I hit the down-arrow button. I pulled my hand mirror from my purse and began fixing my hair and checking for any smudges. I didn’t even stop
when the elevator doors opened at the third floor and admitted a tall man in a gray suit and a short, broad woman in a red blouse. They both watched me, sharing a look.

  So when the elevator dinged for the ground floor, I thrust myself between them, beating them through the lobby and front door.

  The noises of the street buffeted me. Hundreds of yellow cabs jockeyed for position, sleek black limos slinking between the lanes all the while. They all seemed to have passengers already.

  The smog tickled at the back of my throat and sent my nose twitching.

  My throat tightened again, and a ten-pound rock began its descent through my stomach.

  All I could do was move through the stream of pedestrians, stand at the curb with all the others, lift my hand, and hope. Taxis passed by, all full.

  I wanted to check my phone for the time, but didn’t want to take my attention from a possible ride.

  Finally, a yellow-clad Crown Victoria squealed to a stop right in front of me. Before anyone else could steal it, I wrenched open the back door and flung myself inside, the top of my head missing the door frame by an inch or so.

  “Do you know Club 54?” I said, my brain too frazzled to relay the nearest intersection.

  The driver wore a bowler cap not quite as black as his skin. He glanced back in his rear-view mirror at me as he forced his way back into traffic, giving his horn a few liberal taps and waving one arm out the window at the taxi he’d cut off.

  “Sure do,” he said.

  My heart slammed against my ribs, and my foot pushed down into the floorboard as though I could force the taxi to go faster.

  The flow of cars moved lazily forward. Engines backfired and coughed and roared, brakes squealed, horns howled out warnings. How was I ever going to get to Club 54?

  “You gonna see a show?”

  “No. Yes. I mean… maybe?” I said.

  The driver snorted and shook his head. Then he gunned the engine to speed through a yellow light, flinging me back against the seat. Normally, this type of aggression might have made me nervous. But I welcomed it. Each light we made it past was one we didn’t have to wait at.

  “Girl doesn’t know if she’s going to see a show at a music club,” the driver said.

  “Well, there is a show, but I’m not really there to see it,” I replied, thinking of the opening act still playing. Would I stay to watch Drake and his band? Was this even a good idea to go?

  Drake needed help, and he (well, the guy who’d used his phone) had contacted me. So yeah, I guess it was a good idea if I wanted to see where this thing between Drake and me was going. I mean, if I wanted it to go anywhere.

  I was thinking myself into a knot. The driver glanced at me again and shook his head, his lips curved into a half smile that reminded me of Drake.

  God, I just couldn’t get this guy out of my head!

  I felt the need to defend myself. Everyone seemed to be throwing me accusatory glances, glares, and stares all day.

  Then he slammed on the brakes as another cab cut him off coming out of a side street. I watched in wonder as he thrust half his body out the driver side window and screamed at the other cabbie, who replied in kind. The cars behind us honked at us to get going, and my foot stamped at the imaginary gas pedal on the floor.

  I leaned forward, ready to tell him to get going, when he fell back into his seat and sped around the offending taxi into oncoming traffic, then back into the proper lane.

  “The nerve on some people!” he said, looking at me in the rear-view mirror far longer than was safe, “The nerve! Right, miss?”

  It took my heart a little while to force itself back down my throat. I knew that I’d be thinking about the look on the face of the elderly Chinese man who we’d almost gotten into a head-on collision with in my future quiet moments.

  I don’t think such an accident could have been any worse than what had already happened to me today.

  I bit back the first thing that came to my mind about hypocrisy, choosing instead to nod. Then I launched into my own little bit of self defense.

  “I’m not going to the club to see the show, okay? I’m going to see my… a guy. I think he’s in trouble.”

  What did I call Drake? Friend? Acquaintance?

  Boyfriend?

  Definitely not the last one. Even though I’m pretty sure that’s what I was originally going to describe him as.

  “Oh, oh! Caught your man with another lady, yeah? Don’t you worry; I’ll get you there real soon, got it?”

  I started to defend myself again, but by the cabbie’s big grin (probably delighting in fantasies of helping a young lady go harangue her man) I knew it would get me nowhere.

  So I breathed a, “Yeah,” and relaxed back against the seat. I debated whether or not closing my eyes during this ride would help at all, but the sudden jerks of stops and starts would likely be even more terrifying if I couldn’t see them.

  I’m not sure how much longer it took to get to Club 54. I spent the remaining time in the cab going over all the possibilities of what might have happened to Drake, and, more importantly, why I got the call to come in and help him.

  These ranged from mild things like some sort of trick to get me to see his band all the way to identifying his body. As usual, my mind was a jumble when it came to that guy.

  As we pulled up to the curb, I decided that I would in fact stay if this really was just a ruse to get me to see his band in action. And I even promised myself to try hard to not become a groupie.

  “That’ll be twelve bucks even,” he said, looking back over his shoulder at me. He still wore a big grin.

  I shoved $15 into the cash drawer, told him to keep the change (regretting it right away since I knew how constricted money was about to become) and climbed out onto the sidewalk.

  Right as I closed the door, he sped away. I found myself in an older looking neighborhood. Low buildings no bigger than ten floors or so, the ground level often being some sort of store or bar, dominated both sides of the street.

  Despite the noise of the pedestrians sharing the sidewalk with me and the cars clogging the street, I had no trouble locating Club 54. The reverberation of the rock music spewing from it vibrated in my chest.

  With the gridlock the way it was, I crossed the street scurrying between cars. A big sign above a bank of new glass doors spelled out CLUB 54 in huge block letters, with the silhouette of some vocalist screaming into the mic. At the center of the doors was a ticket window. And inside that sat a young guy in a leather jacket, his lank, black hair falling past his ears.

  The little speaker set into the window meant he wouldn’t have to yell for customers to hear him.

  He looked up at me when my shadow fell across him. From this position, I saw his thumbs tapping out a message on his phone, partially hidden in his lap.

  “Look, I don’t really want to buy a ticket. I just got this message to come and see Drake… He’s the singer with The Icons. Think I could just go in?”

  “Cover’s $20 before six,” he said, pointing up at the little sign in the corner of his booth outlining the prices.

  I glanced over at the doors again. Squinting against the sheen of reflected street, I could see some sort of big foyer. Lights flashed from somewhere deeper within.

  I could see myself then, making a run for it. I’d get through the doors and dash towards those flashing lights. Then a beefy security guarding wearing a black t-shirt two sizes too small would snatch me up and deposit me back outside. If I tried hard enough, I could even see the smug smile on the ticket seller’s stubbly face.

  My thoughts must have flashed across my face (or he saw something funny on his cell) because he sort of snorted and then shook his head, the tips of his black locks flailing against his cheeks.

  “Look man, $20’s a good price. I saw The Icons last week. They rock. I mean, they really do. Drake’s voice is music to my ears,” he said, smiling at his bad pun.

  Grudgingly, I handed him a crisp $20 from my wall
et, snatched my ticket stub, shoved that into my pocket, and went in.

  Before I could even open the door, the guy already buried his thoughts in his phone, ignoring me.

  Inside the foyer, the heavy bass and drums assaulted me. And it felt like they had the air on full blast. I pulled my work jacket more tightly around myself, trying not to think of how wrongly dressed I was. I could imagine the main room, crowds of people in leather jackets, torn jeans, and tattoos milling about in front of the stage…

  Maybe I wouldn’t stay for the show, after all.

  It felt like my heart kept trying to match the thumping of the bass.

  But first I had to see what the hell Drake wanted. And to give him a piece of my mind. And also to get reimbursed for my $20.

  I looked around the foyer. There was a bar (closed) along one wall, the mirror reflecting the myriad bottles of liquor. A coat-check window, also closed, stood opposite the bar.

  I realized then, as I stood still trying to figure out my next move, that I could hear the gentle tinkling of all those glass bottles as they vibrated against each other and their shelf.

  The room narrowed near the hall that led deeper into the building. The flashing lights I could see came from this direction. It was rather like a funnel designed to lead people to the show.

  I almost didn’t notice the door set into the wall a few feet down from the entrance to the hall. It read: Backstage.

  So I went over and tried the door, hoping it would be unlocked, hoping I wouldn’t have to make my way through the crowds.

  It opened onto a narrow hall illuminated by a straight line of buzzing fluorescent tubes. When I went in the door shut behind me, further muffling the sound of the music.

  Not far in, the hall made a hard right. In this new section, closed doors lined the walls. Some had plates on them reading stuff like “Pyro #1” and “Storage B” while still others had nothing at all.

  I thought maybe I could try to listen to see if anyone waited inside, but the thrum of the bass drowned out that plan.

  So I kept walking, one hand clutching my purse hard against my ribs as though a mugger might jump out of a closet at me.

  The hall made another sharp turn. I began to round it when I almost ran into a big guy’s broad back. He wore a denim jacket with an enormous patch of a bald eagle spreading its wings.