Doll Face(59)
We rejoin the crowd just in time to get a glimpse of a few figures moving across the stage that lines the entire back wall of the club. Just a few minutes ago, it was covered in people, dancing and making out and God only knows what else. Now it's empty but for a few folks in jeans, dragging equipment onstage like the best of roadies, hooking up speakers, setting a microphone center stage. Two guitars and a bass later, and there's a distinct buzz in the crowd, whispered voices and rumors coming faster than a teenage boy with a copy of his mum's Victoria's Secret catalogue.
Ronnie and I exchange a look a split second before a girl in a skintight aqua dress appears, the sparkles on her outfit gleaming like scales under the sudden spotlight that highlights her blonde form, turning her pale hair into a halo that's at complete odds with her wicked smile.
“Evening bitches,” she says and then chuckles, tugging her dress down in the front with one hand and holding her mic with the other. The crowd murmurs appreciatively, like they're excited to see her but not particularly impressed. I guess that's what happens when you perform for celebrity royalty, eh? “My name is Cameron Koons and I'll be entertaining you all for a little while.” Another laugh, one that's as fake as that smile. A band appears from offstage, moving like shadows behind the leading lady. I feel a scowl twist my lips. They might as well be invisible. Nobody cares who they are or why the beat that Cameron's singing to is twisting their soul, shattering their faces, making them bounce and dance across the floor. God, I hate soloists. Music as a solo act? Hah.
I let my head fall back and stare at the exposed ductwork high, high above us.
Ronnie reaches down and squeezes my hand, bending down to whisper in my ear.
“Another drink?” he asks and I groan.
“Oh, hell yes. I don't know if I can continue to have a good time with that bitch onstage otherwise.” I drop my chin back down and watch as a man joins Cameron, his shaved head gleaming in the lights, sunglasses on his face. When they start their first song off rapping together, I know I'm in trouble. Yuck. “Couple rounds of vodka shots never hurt anything, right?” I ask and Ronnie laughs.
I let him keep hold of my hand while we work our way back towards the bar. With Cameron onstage at the opposite end of the room, it doesn't take much effort to work our way back towards Turner who's scowling and shaking his head.
“I swear, I can't get away from this woman,” he growls as Sydney and Dax appear to our left. Sydney helps Dax onto a stool and lets him slump to the counter, wiping a hand across her sweaty brow and pinching her lips with worry.
I got this booty, booty and I'm gonna shake it til you blow your goody goodies. Never drove so fast in the backseat of a car, never danced so hard to such a sick ass beat. I'm gonna move it til you recognize my skill, boy, and I'm gonna fake it til I make it, okay, 'kay?
“This has got to be the worst song I've ever heard,” Sydney says, ordering up a round before I get the chance to. She tosses some cash on the counter and then runs both hands down her face. In the background, the rap finally dies away and the drums start up, shaking the walls and the floor, commanding how high the crowd jumps, how fast it pulses. Doesn't anybody realize here that Cameron Koons isn't making magic all on her own? I fucking hate pop stars.
“Bloody bush pig,” I mumble under my breath, tipping back my shot. Cameron's voice rises to a crescendo just before she breaks off and the guitarist launches into a weak little solo that's actually enough to set the crowd off like a frog in a sock. Hmm. Oh well. Who am I to judge, right? I slam another shot back and take a deep breath. The alcohol's just starting to get into the cracks of my brain, loosen up my muscles, push a slight smile onto my face.
“They're only excited to listen to this crap because they haven't heard a real musician perform live.”
“Oh no,” Ronnie says, reaching out and taking hold of his friend's upper arm. The two of them exchange a look. “Don't you dare do anything that I'll regret come morning. No fucking way. Without Naomi here, it's my job to keep you in line, Arkansas.”
“Fuck off,” Turner says, pushing back at Ronnie and rising to his feet. “I'm just going to pay a visit to the shitter, okay? No big deal.” Ronnie releases Turner reluctantly but watches him carefully as he pushes his way through the crowd with the false bravado of a cocaine high. Lucky bastard. I reach out a hand for Ronnie's and take hold of his warm fingers, dragging him back into the crowd and letting him wrap his body around me. I'm at that tipping point between drunk off my ass and still horribly alert. I just gotta let the alcohol work its way through my blood, just like a good song, something that can be played over and over and over again.