I snort. Screw this guy.
"Your half-assed plan was not carefully executed," I say.
"Like hell it wasn't," he retorts, fingers still plucking at the guitar strings, a faint melody issuing forth. "It does take finesse to leave that door almost closed."
"I'm certain you could have found a chunk of cinderblock out here to prop it open if you'd tried," I say, leaning my head back against the concrete wall. "That's a plan."
"There's a trick," he says. "If you leave the door too far open the alarms go off, and then you've got management up your arse when you're just trying to tune an instrument in peace."
"And you'd prefer your ass stay tight as a spinster's," I say without thinking.
He stops tooling around with the guitar and looks at me. I meet his gaze.
He's not smiling, but he's kinda close.
"I'd prefer management at least buy me a few drinks first," he says, his eyes just barely crinkling at the corners.
I raise my eyebrows.
"And you tried to tell me that your life is all knitting, tea, and television," I say. "Not that I believed you."
That was the wrong thing to say, because his face changes. The almost-smile disappears, and he looks down, both hands back on the guitar, half-playing some fast, angry melody that sounds vaguely familiar.
"Nah, of course not," he mutters, half to himself. "It's not as if people can change without a bleeding nanny around to supervise, right?"
I have no idea what he's talking about, but it sounds weird and paranoid, and I'm starting to get nervous. I stand, pain throbbing through my feet, and hoist my briefcase over my shoulder.
"I'm gonna walk around front," I say.
"There's a fence," he says without looking up.
"Then I'll walk around the block."
"Fence both ways," he says.
I frown. That's a pretty serious code violation.
"This is a fire exit," I say, pointing at the door.
He glances at it.
"Indeed," he says.
"You can't have a fire door open onto a blind alley," I say. "What if the building catches fire? People will just be trapped here instead of inside."
"Perhaps you could tattle to the fire marshal as well," he suggests. "Two birds with one stone."
I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. I probably shouldn't get in a yelling match with a stranger who's got a good eight inches and eighty pounds on me in a mostly-dark alley, but today has been stupid.
"What the hell are you talking about?" I finally ask, my voice raising. "I don't know what crawled up your butt and died, but if you've got some prob-"
The door opens, cutting me off, and Brianna teeters out in a tiny dress and sky-high shoes.
"Mare?" she calls.
Thank Christ.
"Bree!" I say. "I'm so sorry, I got weird directions from the bouncer and then this door locked by accident and I-"
She's not even looking at me anymore, she's looking at the British jerk.
"Gavin!" she says, cutting me off. "Jeez, good thing I found you!"
He smiles tightly and stands.
The thought crosses my mind: maybe he's not a roadie.
Brianna would never in a million years know a roadie's first name.
"I do turn up in the strangest places," Gavin says.
"Come on!" Brianna says brightly, stepping back. We both follow her into the Whiskey Room, silently, as I wish I hadn't just lost my cool.
Once inside, Gavin pushes open one of the other doors - apparently it sticks, that's why I thought it was locked - and disappears while Brianna grabs my arm, practically dragging me along.
"You didn't tell me you were out there with Gavin," she says.
I didn't know I was out there with Gavin, I think.
"I was hoping I was important enough to get rescued on my own," I say.
She squeezes my arm and laughs.
"Stop it, you know what I meant," she says, and opens another door, leading me through.
On one side of the room is a gaggle of women dressed to party, all clearly her friends, all holding champagne glasses. On the other is a slightly grungier collection of people who look considerably more at home in the Whiskey Room, all ripped denim and t-shirts.
The two halves aren't interacting.
"Here," Brianna says, pushing a champagne flute into my hands. "They told me the show is starting in ten minutes, so make sure you have a drink!"
We clink our glasses together. I wish her happy birthday. Then I put down the plastic bookstore bag and briefcase and try to join the girl-gaggle conversation.
It could go better. They mostly talk, and I mostly stand there politely, mind elsewhere. I've got a growing, gnawing suspicion that Gavin is someone of note, maybe even someone in the band.
Someone Brianna would prefer that I not have been an asshole to.
Thankfully, after five minutes Brianna waves her arms for attention.
"Hey, the show's gonna start soon so we should all head upstairs!" she says brightly. "We're in the vee-eye-pee section."
She pronounces each letter loudly and thoroughly, as if to make sure that we all fully understand that we're VIPs tonight. I grab my briefcase from where it's leaning against the wall and join the troupe of sequined blonde girls as we parade out of that room, through the maze backstage, and then up a staircase to the balcony.
Half of it's roped off, filled with couches and chairs and tables. There's more champagne in ice buckets up here, and when she sees it, Brianna squeals and claps her hands together.
I try not to think mean thoughts. It's her birthday, she's drunk, and we're friends.
I lean against the balcony railing, hoping I look casual, like I'm a totally cool, hip person who goes to secret rock shows all the time. Even though I can't actually remember the band's name right now.
Floor polish? I think. Sparkle... something. Sparklehorse? Mudhoney?
Nope.
A girl leans on the railing next to me. She's less blonde than the rest, but not by a lot.
"I am so excited," she says, carefully pushing her hair behind one ear, champagne in her other hand. "Earlier Gavin said my dress was brilliant and I just can't believe it!"
So he's definitely not a roadie. My stomach flutters a little.
"That's great!" I say with all the enthusiasm I can muster.
"Right?!" she says. "I was totally - ooooooh!"
The lights over the audience dim, and a huge cheer goes up from the crowd. I take the opportunity to slip my feet out of my shoes, because right now I don't care if this floor is covered in a mixture of saliva, old beer, and drugs, I cannot wear them anymore.
Lights go on at the back of the stage. Now I can make out the big drum that says DIRTSHINE in ornate-but-grungy letters.
The name sounds vaguely familiar.
The other girls gather around me, clustering at the railing. For once, I'm glad I'm short so the blondes in heels can see over my head.
The crowd cheers. The girls squeal. Even though I don't know a thing about the band, my heart starts to beat faster, because there's something exciting about being with people this amped up - I can't help but feel it, too.
A guy comes out, backlit so I can't see his face. The crowd cheers louder, and he sits behind the drums and waves. Another guy walks out and picks up a guitar, then a woman who also grabs a bass.
I think one of them might be Gavin, but I can't tell.
Now everyone is screaming, stomping, and clapping. I'm clapping. The floor below my feet is vibrating with the noise.
Another guy comes out, and now everyone in the entire place loses their minds. It's so loud I nearly cover my ears, only I don't want to seem like an even bigger dork than I already am.
He's backlit, and I can't see his face. He's got the right haircut and the right build, but mostly, it's the churning in my stomach that tells me it's Gavin.
Okay, so he's the singer of some band, I think. Who cares?
Probably-Gavin grabs a guitar. He steps up to the microphone. The drummer raises his sticks in the air, and they all pause.
Then the drummer counts off one-two-three-four and all at once, a wall of sound crashes over the audience and the stage lights go on.
It's Gavin, his head thrown back, the muscles in his forearms knotting as he plays hard and loud, the same thing he was half-playing out in the alleyway only now they're all together, playing as one on stage even as he seems like he doesn't notice that the crowd is there, going crazy.
And it's loud, but it's good, nothing like the dissonant noise of the opening band. I can almost feel the heavy guitar surround me in the air, like it's lifting me up, taking me somewhere that's not this grungy club or this balcony full of screaming girls.
I think I recognize the song. I think I've heard it before, somewhere.
The guitar stops, leaving nothing but a scant drumbeat and a bass line. The audience holds its breath as one, like a monster with hundreds of throats. I hold my breath.
Gavin steps forward. He takes the microphone in one hand and leans into it, like he's whispering to a lover. It's so intense that I can almost feel his breath on my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.
Then he starts singing.
Wrap me in sunrise...
His voice is deep and melodic and rough in exactly the right ways, and I realize: I've heard this song at least a million times.