September Rain Bk 2, Savor The Days Series

by A. R. Rivera

“Wear this, too.” Avery extended a finger, on which rested a long black tank top. It had the bands initials stenciled on the front in red puffy paint. I liked it because the curve of the letters made my boobs look bigger.

  “Thanks.” I grabbed and tossed it on and got busy on hair and makeup.

  Avery watched and critiqued, humming to Soundgarden blasting from the local rock station. The fact that it came in so clearly made me question the usability of the radio in the car since we were short of music nearly the whole way. We listened with hope at hearing the deejay announce anything to do with Analog Controller.

  “There.” I tucked a strand of hair back into the knot that was Avery’s sloppy bun. We each stared into the mirror, examining one another with approval.

  “You’re flawless, but natural.” Avery added, “Like you’re not expecting to run into anyone. But he’ll be happy when you do.”

  We both smiled.

  The local radio station was still playing. I turned it up all the way after they mentioned Anemic Psycho’s show at The Mystic Muse. It was the first time I heard the tour mentioned on the radio. Then again, Tempe had a bigger scene. I wanted to bust into Analog’s room and find my man to tell him, but I promised my friend I’d wait.

  “We drove nearly three-hundred miles to see this band.” Avery mused with a wry look. “Better be worth it.”

  “Only a little while longer,” I was practically hopping with anticipation. “I want Jake to sleep with us, in our room. Is that cool?”

  “Since when have I turned down a chance at having a hot guy in my room?”

  Avery waggled her eyebrows and I laughed.

  33

  —Angel

  By sunset, the movie I’d been watching was rolling credits and I was out of patience. I shot up and off the bed, dusting the popcorn crumbs from my shirt. Avery was in the bathroom, changing or primping—I’m not sure which. Instead of fighting with her for the one sink, I went to the window and peeked out at the parking lot.

  The van was gone.

  “They left!”

  Avery’s head poked out from the bathroom doorway. She was simultaneously raking one brush through her hair and another over her teeth. “They . . . for . . . club. Has . . .”

  I moved closer. “They went to the club?”

  She spit foamy white into the motel sink. “Doors open in two hours and they have sound checks.”

  The thought got me even more pumped. “Sound check!” I checked my hair, brushed my teeth, and combed my top for lint. “Let’s jet.”

  I was almost regretting the stop we made to get burgers when Avery pointed to the long, curving line on the front sidewalk. “It’s getting so long.”

  I didn’t want to wait in it, but it was a great sign!

  The Narc passed, slowing into the back parking lot where there were still a few open spaces. As we pulled into the back lot, I spied the tail end of a trailer hitched to a beat up white van.

  The back of the alley was lined with dumpsters, but in the far corner of the brick building, there was an area cordoned off. Smoke billowed in the night air. Around the half-fenced, circular space, a few patio chairs and a large ashtray had been tossed together to form a smokers patio. Inside, were three guys; two of medium height and build. I’d never seen them before, but the tallest one was gorgeous, lean but muscular, with a short, neat haircut and come hither eyes, even when he rolled them like someone just made a lame joke.

  Avery cut the engine. “Damn. Even being on the guest list, we still have to get in line. We’d better hit it, before it gets any longer.”

  I was already moving: gathering all the trash that had accumulated in the car. Her mom would want us to keep it in decent condition. “Here,” I tossed Avery an empty plastic bag.

  “What’s this for?”

  “We’re going to toss this stuff in the dumpster.”

  Avery smiled wickedly, like she could read my mind. “Because the car will smell like stale fries if we don’t get this trash out.”

  By the time we reached the line of trash containers in the alley, Jake was gone and the other guys he’d stood with were filing into an open doorway. So no one was watching as we flung our garbage into one of the dumpsters and ducked across the alleyway to hop the short fence of the smokers’ patio, undeterred.

  The inside hall was black. I paused and closed my eyes, waiting for them to adjust.

  “Dude, it’s nasty in here.” Avery complained.

  Our shoes crunched over unseen filth as we made our way up the hall. The Mystic Muse looked exactly the same and somehow not at all like I remembered. Outside, it was the normal, dingy looking spot, but as Avery and me made our way around the sticky corridor, we could see where new construction had taken place. The hall was still narrow, only now there was a long, windowed wall where several rooms used to be. The room where Jake invited me to surrender myself to him was now a glass-walled enclosure. Clearly the band hang-out room had been remodeled. The closed door was labeled with a sign that read: ‘We’re already disturbed. Leave us the fuck alone.’ Musicians were draped over sleek, modern furnishings, though none of them were members of Analog Controller. It looked as though the club had taken over an adjoining shop, too—the extra space extending the bar and VIP lounge.

  When Avery and I were outside, we’d heard the signs of a sound check. It wasn’t Analog, we could tell, so we weren’t missing anything. Most bands, at least the ones I’d seen, would do this lame, sort of do-I-really-have-to routine as they went through their checklist. It was all dead voices check-check-checking the levels on the monitors, single blasts to individual drumheads. But when Analog did it, they’d always surprise you.

  As Avery and I made our way through the winding hall, scoping out each room, we heard the deep bluesy riff from a bass ripping into Sweet Home Alabama. We came upon the backstage area just as the drums kicked in.

  They were all there: Max, tapping his symbols over jumping knees that smashed the kick drums—Andrew, thumping the thick strings of his bass, rocking his head, moving his feet. They loved this; they lived and breathed for it. Jake was making a beeline from the back of the club with a mic in one hand and a plastic cup in the other. He leapt onto the stage in one swift move, set his drink on top of someone’s stack and plugged in his microphone.

  Then his voice was booming. His smoky, sweet voice rang, pitch perfect. “The skies are so blue . . . Up—monitor one.”

  Avery and I stayed hidden, watching as he navigated the stage. He looked nervous to me, but I could tell he was working through it the way he always did, swerving around the bodies, members of other bands who were still setting up their equipment, neatly navigating the many cords. Jake stopped periodically, pointing to monitors and giving hand signals to the sound techs in back as he sang and strummed. It looked like chaos to the untrained eye, but it was more like a complex orchestral arrangement. If everyone did to their job, the music would take care of itself.

  An older looking man crossed the stage and spoke into Jakes ear. Jake nodded. The man walked off-stage and reappeared a minute later with a plain white electric guitar and plugged it into a large amp stack. When the guitar sounds picked up the next verse of the song, I made the connection.

  “That’s him?” Avery asked. “He’s like . . . older than dirt.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t be an age-ist. It might just be his clothes.” I examined the baggy khaki pants and black Velcro sneakers. Good-god, what was he thinking when he bought those? His shirt was alright, though. An old Zeppelin tour tee.

  “He probably bought that at the show.” Avery pointed at the vintage shirt.

  “He’s not so bad.”

  “I bet his parents made him shovel dinosaur shit from the yard after school.” She giggled.

  “He’s not that old. It’s the hair, that’s all.” The front looked fine—follicle troops nicely assembled in an orderly, clean line. It was the shiny patch on the crown that aged him—a fray had erupted within the ranks and
the hair soldiers were scattering, seeking shelter in the ears. “Don’t judge. I’m pulling for this guy.”

  Avery rolled her eyes. “So am I. I just wish old Long Tooth didn’t make it so tough.”

  “Who let you in?” The sudden boom of the clubs’ bouncer sounded behind me.

  “Chill,” Avery commanded, sounding so sure of herself. I kept quiet, staring at the very heavy, super sweaty, tattoo-laden hired muscle. “We’re with the band.”

  “Which one? Anemic Psychos? Proselytes? Analog Controller or Playing Doctor?”

  Avery pointed at Jake. “Ask him, he’ll tell you.”

  In the same moment, Jake moved stage left and spotted us. His eyes lingered on me. He winked and waved before turning to direct a very thin, short man with overgrown, filthy hair not to tape the cords down yet.

  The bouncer rolled his eyes and stalked off, yelling for someone to keep the damned doors closed.

  The music changed and Jake began to chant, “My infectious disgrace,” but his heart was not in it. Still, I listened to the melody, leaned into the pull, and let it carry me.

  Souls entwined, binding you, reminding you.

  I’m in your head, patiently churning, secretly burning.

  Dear sick love, your berry lips are sweet decay.

  You are my infectious disgrace.

  Souls entwined, binding you, reminding you

  Write your letters and say goodbye.

  I’ll tape your mouth and watch you cry.

  Dear sick love, we’re sinking souls. Anchored.

  Going down.

  We are infected with disgrace.

  “Is that?” Avery asked, recognizing the tune.

  I’d been singing it to myself since Jake played it for me. The new song—well, the tune that used to belong to my song. But that was different now, too.

  “Yeah, it sounds really different.”

  “Old-timer plays it well.” She pressed her lips together as if surprised. “The arthritis can’t be too bad.”

  They didn’t play the whole song, and though I loved it, I was glad. It felt a little like a stranger peeking into my diary.

  “I have to go to the bathroom.” Avery shrank back. “They better be clean.”

  Jake approached, sitting on the stage, letting his legs dangle in front of me. “I thought I might see you soon.” He opened his arms, inviting me in. He felt so soft and safe. I melted into him.

  “You’re really hot. You come here often? What are you doing after the show?”

  I played along. “Nope, never been here. I was just gonna watch a few bands, maybe pick up a cute guy.”

  “My girlfriend says I’m cute.”

  Jakes’ shy smile made me want to lick his delicious face—“She’s right.”—just lap up all his sexy goodness.

  “I could ditch her after the show tonight. That is, if you’re a sure thing. Are you opposed to random sex with strangers?” His eyebrows shot up and I could tell he was trying to look serious.

  “Yes, filthy boy.”

  “Filthy is right.” Jakes sweet smile, the one he saved for me broke through, growing wide with an uncontainable energy. “We’re doin’ it, baby! There’s a local TV station in the back, filming.”

  “Jake, that’s great!” I set my nose to his chest and inhaled, letting his scent wash through me.

  “You want to talk to them?”

  My stomach balled up. Tight. “Hell no! Me? Why?” I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.

  The contours of his smooth face . . . his perfect lips, sharp jaw, silken eyes . . . they smiled at me, stealing my breath. He was beautiful even without the uncontrollable hair that I loved. Its’ absence made him look older. I touched the thick silky stubble on the back of his head. He felt like a velvet teddy bear.

  “No reason. Just thought I’d ask. Pierce got them here.”

  “He’s been very busy. Is he here, now?” I looked around the dim club. “I don’t see any triangular fins.”

  Jake swung his legs unconsciously at the excitement. “Not yet, but he should be here, soon. So, Lou—the guy with the camera—” he hooked my neck and turned my body as he pointed at a short guy near the bar that appeared to be flirting with a lady bartender. “That’s him. You avoid him and you’ll be fine.”

  “How ‘bout you interview me? One on one?” I teased, “We could talk in my room. It’s really easy to find. It’s the one you’ll be sleeping in tonight. Three doors down from the rest of your band of lunatics.”

  Jake laughed. “You pickin’ me up, Stalker?”

  “How do you know I wasn’t there first? Maybe you’re the one stalking me.”

  He jumped from the stage and pulled me against him, wrapping his long arms around my head and shoulders. “Yeah, I can see myself stalking you.” Every word, every syllable flittered in my chest.

  Beneath the edge of his embrace, I saw Avery’s feet. She said something—I couldn’t understand because my ears were buried in biceps—and Jake’s chest rumbled with laughter. Then he was staring me straight in the face, our noses touching. “I should get back to work.” He feigned a grimace before resting his lips on mine.

  My body burst into flames at his subtle, sweet touch that never lasted long enough. I threaded my fingers behind his neck, but he pulled away, looking back to the stage where a whining guitar riff plumed.

  “What’s his name, again?” I asked, leaning in so he could hear me.

  The electric pulse of him thrummed beside me and I fought the urge to wrap myself around him, to bury my nose in his neck and draw in his scent again. There’d be time for that, later.

  “Gary,” he scowled.

  “Not very rock and roll. How old is he?”

  Jake took out the mic he’d stuffed in his back pocket. Staring at it, he answered. “We could call him ‘G’? And it doesn’t matter how old he is, he just needs to kill it tonight.” He merely winked before walking back to the sound board.

  I watched him talk to the guys back there for a few minutes before making his way back to me on his return to the stage. He smacked my butt as he passed but didn’t meet my eyes, not until he was back on stage, back in the persona of the lead singer.

  Looking at him, raised up the way he was, my chest swelled. “I’m your biggest fan.”

  Jake’s sexy face cracked into a goofy grin. The hand that wasn’t holding the microphone rested over his heart. “You better be.” He wiped his hand on his jeans and stalked stage right to talk to Andrew.

  34

  —Angel

  Analog Controller was playing third—second to last in a line-up of four bands. Huge improvement from the last time they played at The Mystic Muse. I wondered if that guy, Pierce, had anything to do with it, or if Analog was bumped up because he got a local TV and radio station to mention the show. Either way it was his doing. He wanted them bad.

  Once the sound checks were all done, the loitering band members began to disappear. Night rolled in as the club filled up. Noise and body heat increased, wrapping me in anticipation. Avery and I stood in the back, watching the first band come and go. They were pretty good, but lingered a little too long in between songs. They’d have to work on that or the bands they played with would get ticked off. No one wants to cut their set short to keep the show running on time.

  The next group was the Proselytes. They were a five man band I’d heard of, but never heard their stuff. When it came time for them to take the stage, the crowd pressed forward. I was pleasantly surprised when they started to play. They were pretty good. Gritty guitar and catchy hooks, but the drummer was definitely the star of that band. I didn’t know anyone’s names or the style they usually played, but when the sixth or seventh song started, it had a familiar guitar riff. The notes lingered clear and long, rippling through the joint. I was surprised that a hardcore punk band would cover an Aerosmith song—especially a slower one. They added a nice twist to it, sped it up a little, too.

  The singer, a skinny and shirtless twenty-s
omething dude sporting a black and white Mohawk and an anarchy symbol tattooed on his left pectoral, addressed the crowd. “Thank you all for coming out tonight. Give it up for Anemic Psychos!” The crowd cheered for the headlining band. “This is our last song. One we’re playing by special request for a friend. Everybody, give a shout for the next band, Analog Controller! Here’s Jake Haddon!”

  I stopped breathing.

  People cackled and clapped while others screamed. Cheesy smiles and lighters littered the crowd as the punk-infused ballad played. Small flames waved in the smoky club, as Jake took center stage. Clad in my favorite black leather pants and grey wife-beater tank top, Jake was without the usual guitar when he put a microphone to his lips and belted out the first three words of a song that bore my name.

  My heart stopped. What the hell is he doing?

  He kept singing—brilliantly, giving Steven Tyler a run for his money—as his eyes searched for something.

  I glanced at Avery, whose mouth was hanging open. She shoved me forward. “Go, go, go!” We were still in the back, leaning against a pillar.

  “What?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Since I was always front and center when Jake played, I figured that was where I should be right now and began wading into the cramped crowd. Voices sang along to every word of the sweet, sad, love song, encircling me. I moved forward, looking through a parade of raised hands and small licking flames, swaying to the song.

  It was all so surreal. My feet were stumbling, eyes glued to the crooning figure commanding center-stage. Then Jake found me. His face outshined the spotlight he was in. He pointed at me, mischievously grinning. A very cat meets canary type of smirk. The crowd held together in compacted layers. We were all caught in Jakes spell and as he locked his hazel eyes on me, beckoning me forward with a curling finger, the entire audience answered, forging toward the stage. Stances tightened as I snaked my way between shoulders, around pushy females and irritated guys. No one wanted to give an inch to let me by fearing they may not get it back.

  Then, there was a hulking body beside me. It moved in between me and the bodies that blocked my path. The bouncer cleared the way, dividing the restless natives to the right and left. Once he reached the edge of the stage, he stepped aside and waved me forward.