I don't say anything, just let my lips twitch in amusement as we pause near the bouncer and he studies us carefully, pausing on Ronnie like he's the straw that broke the camel's back, and pulling aside the chain to let us in. I glance over my shoulder and catch sight of Sydney and Dax. Amatory Riot's drummer doesn't look so good. He's got dark bags under his eyes, drooping lips, twitching fingers. I hope to hell Sydney really is interested in him as a man because he could sure use a woman in his life.
I turn back to the crowd and allow Ronnie to act as my shield, wrapping his arms over my shoulders, draping his big body across mine to keep gyrating hips and pointy elbows away from my injuries. It's kinda cute, ya know? Having him protect me like that. Last guy I was with was more inclined to actually cause serious injury rather than defend me from it. Fuck you, Cohen. I hope you rot in hell, get resurrected, and have it happen all over again.
“For the first time in my life, I'm not irritated that I'm so small or that the guys around me are so fucking big.” I lean my head back, letting Ronnie's chin scrape across my scalp. He leans into me as we work our way to the bar. “You are drinking with me tonight, right?” I ask as he helps me onto a stool and turns to glance over his shoulder. His muscles remain tense until he spots Turner, fighting towards us and slamming his side into the bar with a deep breath. It takes a second but once people start to realize who we are, the stares begin. Granted, nobody tries to molest us, and the stares are coming from famous faces, but still. Even here …
“You hear that gnarly shit?” Turner asks, pointing up at the ceiling. I notice Ronnie visibly relaxes when his friend's in sight. “Not as good as our stuff, but still impressive.” Turner spins and puts his back to the bar, facing out at the crowd. Most of the rubberneckers turn away, but I see a few girls biting their lips, exchanging glances, wondering if they can get the famous bad boy into bed. I wrap my fingers around Ronnie's bicep. He might not be the lead singer, but I know he's never had trouble filling his bed before. If I have to, I will piss all over him and mark my territory.
“Ronnie,” I repeat and he turns to me, stepping closer, putting his hands possessively on my hips. “You are drinking with me, right?” His brown eyes find mine, searching them for a moment before he nods. I let a grin split my face and turn to the bartender. “Do you know what a Cherry Tootsie Pop is?” I ask and then decide to add, “and I ain't talkin' about the lollies.” I've done my fair share of partying in the past, and I know how localized and scattered drink recipes can be. At this point in my life, I'm more than happy to grab the fucking bottles and mix it myself. The woman behind the bar leans in towards me, eyes sparkling. She's excited to see us here. That's good. Maybe we'll actually be able to get some good service tonight.
“I don't, but I can look it up,” she shouts, tapping her pink nails on the countertop.
“Don't bother. It's all up here.” I point at my head and then hold up a hand, lifting fingers as I name ingredients. “Chocolate vodka, Red Bull, grenadine. Give us a couple rounds to start, babe.” I gesture absently at Ronnie and Turner and reach for my pocket, to grab the cash I stuffed there earlier. I might've gotten the pink slip from Ice and Glass, but I still made heaps of cash while I was at it. Ronnie grabs my wrist gently, drawing my fingers from my pocket and tossing some green on the counter next to me.
A moment later, he pulls me back, letting me turn in his arms until we're chest to chest.
The music switches to a jumpy pop song, from that blonde bitch, Cameron Koons.
Never bite the hand that feeds, baby. I got all you need to eat. I'm a glorious feast, so hop to this beat and BANG. BANG. BANG. With me. BANG, baby. BANG. BANG. BANG.
“I fucking hate her bloody songs, but they are catchy, yeah?” Ronnie chuckles and then pauses, looking at Turner over my shoulder. I pause and follow his line of sight, certain that he's never going to relax if he's this worried about his friend. Oh. Holy shit. Turner slams all three of the red shots lining the counter, faster than our poor bartender can make more. He coughs and leans over the bar, slumping onto my abandoned stool like the weight of his body's too much for him to hold up.
“You alright, bro?” Ronnie asks, but Turner just gives him this look of sheer misery. We scoot back a bit, trying to see if it's even possible to talk to one another with Cameron Koon's song pounding in our ears.
This is. Your time. To BANG. BANG. BANG. With me, baby.
Bass pulses through the concrete floor, shooting straight up my heels and making my entire body twitch as my muscles tighten and my spine twists, desperate to get moving. But poor Turner, poor fucking Turner.