by Nico Rosso
He held out his arm, showing how the intricate scrollwork from his wrist to his shoulder was dimming on his dark brown skin. Trevor and Lee checked their own tattoos. Along Trevor’s forearm was a flintlock pistol. It was less than a year old and already looked as washed out as an ancient fresco.
Trevor clinked his bottle against his drummer’s. “There are a few artists around here we can hit.”
Wolfgang took a long drink. “And kebab. The girls say they know a couple good places.”
Girls. Kebab. Beer. Music. Simple. But the thunder still rang through Trevor’s mind, distant warning. Something was coming. Death perhaps, by the hands of the Philosophers. Or something other than death. The unknown. The one with green eyes. Impossible. Thousands of years had shown Trevor that there was no more unknown. That truth sank deep, a worn ax through the heart. He felt more alone than ever. And starving.
An hour and a half later, he and the rest of the band prepared to feed. The hunger always peaked highest right before a show. Trevor was hollow and eager. Like Lee and Wolfgang, he only absorbed from the audience what he gave out. Energy grew in him. He bounced on his toes, standing at the base of a small set of bent stairs at the back of the stage. His electric guitar hung over his shoulder. Slang from the middle of last century called it an ax. If he was born of other legends, it truly would be his weapon, slaying the enemy to keep alive. Trevor, though, used it to form a connection with the audience.
And in turn, they helped him live. His soul was ready, like thousands of chomping mouths. The void within howled with icy wind. If it wasn’t filled, he could wither and collapse, crushed by a world that didn’t listen. The mysterious darkness at the edges of his thoughts hadn’t lifted, but the hunger overpowered any doubt now.
Lee stood just behind Trevor’s shoulder. “Good crowd.”
Upstairs and on the other side of the stage, a couple hundred people packed into the room, cheering for the band. Their collective voice was a steady current cutting through stormy seas.
Wolfgang whooped behind Trevor and Lee. “Fucking killer crowd.”
Lee nudged Trevor’s shoulder. “Quit licking it. Let’s get in there.”
A few hundred years ago, they’d entered through gilt doors to play harpsichords and violas for handfuls of aristos. Even that applause fed them. Singing love songs from a back of a wagon to the peasants always gave the demons more life. Then rock and roll brought music to everyone.
Trevor charged the stage. The stairs shook under their feet. The wooden stage was perfectly seasoned by years of rock and roll. Like a whiskey barrel. The crowd’s cheers rose to meet Trevor and the band as they stepped out onto the stage. He waved back, already feeling the energy flowing between him and the people.
Wolfgang took a lap around the stage, waving his arms to incite the audience. They met his intensity, shaking the walls with their voices. Lee slung on his bass, giving the people his wanton grin. They loved it, shouting for more.
Red and yellow stage lights flared like rising and setting suns. The crowd stood in shadow, a single, eager mass. Wolfgang mounted up behind the drums. Lee made a final adjustment to his bass and nodded to Trevor.
He had filled amphitheaters with just his voice. He’d entertained pastoral revelers who never knew his name. He had witnessed the birth of rock and roll and learned that language to stay alive.
Trevor stepped up to the mic. The metal screen was dented and scraped. There were traces of blood and booze. Just as it should be for this room. “You all ready to be rascals tonight?” The audience cheered agreement. He dropped his voice, rumbling, “Let’s be fucking bad.”
Wolfgang drove the beat out. It washed over Trevor’s back and crashed into the crowd. When Trevor hit the first grinding chord of the song and Lee came in with the bass, the people cheered themselves hoarse and jumped where they stood. The song was a swirling typhoon, distortion on the guitar like rusted debris caught up in the wind.
To Trevor’s right, Lee stood at the edge of the stage, his long hair over his face as he played close to the crowd. His smile was gone, face concentrated on the music. The song was alive.
Trevor returned to the mic, filled his lungs and gave all his breath to the audience, singing “Infernal”:
Burn the town
Burn the gallows down
He didn’t need to remember the words. Like the sequence of guitar chords, they came as naturally as the pounding of his heart. But this was no rote performance. Not when his life truly depended on it.
As his voice and music swept over the audience, it gathered their vitality. The small venue concentrated the power, winding it tight as it returned to the stage. Only Trevor, Lee and Wolfgang could see it. The energy glowed gold on the edges, like the pure ore from the earth. Veins of white marble streaked through the swirling mass, ringed with the foam of the sea. The center of the power was thick dark red. Deeply polished wood. Or the most primal blood of humanity.
All of these elements coalesced above the crowd. The music drove it in faster spirals, then directed it toward Trevor and his band. The energy slammed into him. He consumed it, opening himself. The hollow ache diminished, but it wasn’t enough. Not yet. Maybe by the end of the night, when the band and the audience were exhausted, spent by performing and participating. The power of human revelry. Free from the constraints of logic.
In his body burned the flames of altars. And fires from secret midnight festivals. He felt the wood of the protecting trees. His blood ran through the stone of temples. Beneath his feet lay the packed earth where the first Bacchae had danced.
The song continued. As Lee moved to his mic to sing the chorus, he shot a look to Trevor. His grin was ravenous. Instead of feasting on the wine and charred meat of those first revels, the band consumed the energy of the crowd.
When the song ended with the final line, And bury us in the ashes, the audience roared with applause and cheers. Trevor tossed his pick into the mass of people, soaking in their attention. Lee prowled the front of the stage, pointing at the fans pressed to the front, paying the most attention to the hot women.
Breath and bodies surged like sex. Trevor had to keep the blood pumping. These people came for a rock-and-roll show. He called to them through the mic. “Tonight, this room is our temple. Our sanctuary. All we need is a sacrifice.”
The next song on the set list was “Coming Down.” It started with a guitar riff like a buzz saw, jagged and spinning forward. He pulled a pick from the row a roadie had taped onto the mic stand and moved his fret hand into position.
But he couldn’t play. The music was out of reach.
A light deep in the audience drew his attention. It flashed green. Magic from the Philosophers? A siren, enticing a sailor to doom? Or a beacon, calling him to safety?
He focused past the stage lights, drawing outlines of the people in the crowd. The light moved among them. A human shape became clear around the luminosity.
It was a woman.
She was tall. Hair in a simple ponytail. Shoulders straight with confidence. The rest of her body was blocked by the crowd. But her eyes were green, gleaming with light. No one else seemed to notice as she picked her way into the thick of the masses. There was magic here. In her. The sense of the unknown thundered back through him. She was part of it.
Only when he tore his gaze off the woman did he see the questioning look on Lee’s face.
“You okay, dude?”
There were hundreds of people in the room, but he only felt her eyes on him. “Changing it up.”
Wolfgang stood from his drums to hear what was next.
Logic didn’t tell him what to play. The fire in his mind burned with the song. It was the only choice. “The Disappear.”
He’d been making music with Lee and Wolfgang for hundreds of years. Neither questioned him. They nodded and prepared to pl
ay.
Trevor leaned close to the mic, his lips almost touching it. The room took a breath with him, quieting. They waited, balanced on the edge of his guitar string. They’d come along on wherever this journey was heading. But he only sang to the woman:
Cut me open, Green Eyes
* * *
Holy God, the place was a rock inferno. And of course Trevor was singing “Infernal.” The song crackled and roared like a forest fire sweeping through a town built of dry wood. The crowd jumped with the rhythm; no way she could get closer to the stage without throwing elbows. After the crosstown battle, Misty almost wanted to start a fight to vent the aggression that had built in traffic. But seeing Trevor’s band and feeling their music pound through her chest was all the release she needed.
The guy at the door said the show had just started, so she hadn’t missed much. She wished she’d seen Trevor and the others take the stage in the small venue. The few other times she’d seen them live were in places filled with thousands of people. On those stages, Trevor had been no bigger than a doll, distant and not quite real.
But here at the Rascal Room, he was less than a hundred yards away from her. Trevor Sand was a man. His lyrics had been the first thing to capture her, but the way his band played, like a single beast, instinctual, always impressed her. She’d watched their videos, seen the concert footage of their perfect ease playing together. Tonight, though, her focus was completely on Trevor.
Dark jeans, heavy boots. A black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal the lean muscles of his forearms, covered in tattoos. The collar was open enough to show a glisten of sweat on the cords of his neck and chest.
He worked his guitar and sang with abandon. A conductor of fire, controlling the blazes to his whim. And she was so close to him. It made the hellish day and fucked-up traffic worth it. Trevor’s passion in the music burned away all those memories. The beaten-down weariness she felt from the long hours was gone. Life started right then.
There’d be no getting through the jumping mass of people between her and the stage, so she took in the scene from the back of the club. The smell of spilled beer and men’s cheap cologne and women’s hair conditioner told her all she needed to know about the young and totally carefree audience. They all moved as one, a single rocking beast. And beyond them, Trevor cracked the whip of fire.
Sex fucking god. She was tempted to pull out her phone and take some video of him on the stage, moving his hips along with his guitar. Wild eyes and a snarling mouth biting down on the words. But this moment wasn’t about making memories or telling stories to Kim later. This was about now.
Burn the gallows down
He sang the last line and she added her voice to the crowd’s cheers. The last chord of the song rumbled through her, electricity along her veins. She moved without thought, snaking her way into the audience and toward the stage. It was the closest she’d ever been to him. It still wasn’t enough. She might not be able to fight her way to the front. The stage would separate her from the band. But just to hear Trevor’s unamplified voice, his footsteps, would make the rock star real. A man and a performer. And if he was as real as she was, it meant her life didn’t have to be limited to the same bone-crunching grind.
She was tall enough not to be bothered by standing-room-only clubs, but wearing the high heels Kim insisted she strap on gave her a distinct advantage. Some people moved out of her way. Others succumbed to gentle pressure on their backs or shoulders. All the while, her eyes were focused on Trevor.
Was he looking at her? He couldn’t be. She glanced at the audience around her. They gave their attention to the stage, but they weren’t frozen in the same intensity she felt. Some of the people even sent quizzical looks her way. Good God, Trevor really was staring directly at her.
He was motionless. A complete contrast to the man who had been stomping fire with the last song. Now just his eyes blazed. He peered into the audience. She felt his gaze, white-hot on her skin.
It had to be the heat of the club. Or the excitement of escaping her routine for a night. But the sensation of his attention felt so real. Maybe he looked at all the girls at his shows like this. But for now, his eyes were only on her. If this was what it was like to be in the same small venue with him, what would happen if she got closer? She’d fought her way through too much digital puppy bullshit and LA traffic not to find out.
Moving through the people, she didn’t take her eyes from Trevor. And he stared down at her. There was a look of longing in his eyes, and the edge of confusion. The same darkness she saw in the still she’d taken from his TV interview.
Then his eyes blinked. He turned to Lee Rome and exchanged some words. The blaze on her skin had barely diminished when he brought his gaze back to her. Intimate and unnerving, it was undressing her. Her chest and face flushed. A short gasp caught in her throat. The heat even spread lower on her chest, coaxing a sensuous tingle around her nipples.
His chest rose with a breath. He stepped to the mic. Her heart pounded faster with anticipation. She was close enough to hear him sing before the speakers amplified his voice.
Cut me open, Green Eyes
The audience cheered, but they were a thousand miles away. There was only her and Trevor. He sang “The Disappear.” The slow, mournful song stretched out between them, giant ribbons of silk. Tied around her wrists, her ankles. Binding her with him.
Let you know
I don’t care
Feed my hunger
Murder my fear
Until there’s nothing left
She whispered the words with him, as if they were sharing breath. As if he was in her mouth. His gaze didn’t move from hers. Their lips shaped the same syllables, moving in a kiss she could almost feel.
Nothing left
Until I’m
Feeling the disappear
Inside you
The blushing heat shot further down her chest. Along her belly as if his fingers trailed there. Then centered between her legs. As if he was touching her there too. The strong fingers that mastered the guitar slicked into the wet that gathered quickly in her sex.
Just from one fucking song.
She was no virgin. There was one boy in high school, then a few others through college and beyond. Sex wasn’t a mystery. But this kind of intimacy was entirely new. Ridiculous, she thought. He was a rock star and she was just a fan. But she couldn’t shake the depth of the moment. The spell couldn’t be broken. He sang, somehow knowing how the words and music resonated deep in her. And she sang back, a whisper only he could hear.
He continued searching through her with his eyes. She saw more of him than she’d ever known. No longer a rock star on a screen or on a distant stage, Trevor was flesh and sweat. Veins showed where his blood pumped.
The final chord of the song rumbled through the ground. She was out of breath. Her limbs shook. The roar of the audience was barely audible. Trevor stood, looking at her, lips parted. He was poised. Could he step off the stage? Everything seemed balanced on a knife edge.
He gathered himself and spoke, his deep voice filling the small club. “That’s for you, Green Eyes.”
Her. It was for her. It didn’t matter if she felt like a swooning teen—she held on to his words like a torch in the darkest caves.
Trevor pulled himself away from the mic and picked up a bottle of whiskey. The crowd cheered. He downed a long gulp and set the bottle back by the drums. When he turned to the audience, she saw the mask of the showman. He motioned for the crowd to get louder.
Taking the mic from the stand, he leaned close to the people. “Los Angeles sits on a spiderweb of fault lines. It’s just a matter of time before this whole town sinks to hell.” He nodded and strutted along the front edge of the stage. He was the rock star again, but there was still a glimmer of the spell between them. Quick glances, like f
araway lightning. He’d look at her, then tear his eyes away before the moment thickened. “And if Mother Nature doesn’t do it, you fuckers will take yourselves down there on your own.”
He returned the mic to the stand and chopped into the beginning chords of “Fight Night.” The people went wild, jumping and pumping their fists. The energy of the music hit her, but couldn’t move her like the others. The hot glow from the last song persisted, like the slow movement of the sun after daytime sex. She kept trying to convince herself it was just her needy dirty fantasy created with a rock idol. But the harder she tried, the deeper it sank. Was it real? And if was, what the hell was the crazy sexy connection she just felt with him? Whatever had happened between her and Trevor in that song, it wouldn’t go away.
The new song was a raucous brawl. He shouted more than sang the opening:
Bloody knuckles
And a broken grin
Pounding and pulsing, the music shook the building. Trevor’s growling voice alone might set off all those fault lines under the city. She already questioned the stability of the once reliable world. Let it go, she thought. Let the ground crumble. Fall through. Find new footing.
Song after song, Trevor and his band whipped the crowd into a frenzy. He didn’t slow down, playing all fast, grinding metal. The progress of the show was marked by the level of whiskey in his bottle. It was empty before the end of the night. She moved to the edge of the club, avoiding the wild press of bodies. Trevor skipped the more mournful songs she’d always felt attached to. But they weren’t missed this night. The glow of “The Disappear” remained in her. Like a tattoo, the moment between them would never be forgotten.
After two encores and a warning they’d already surpassed all weeknight noise regulations, the house lights came on. Trevor gave one last bow. He straightened and scanned the crowd. Even in the harsh glare of the house lights, the spell hadn’t been broken. His gaze caught hers, electric with potential. Then he was gone, slipping away at the back of the stage.
