When she sees me, she knows. Even the hoodie dripping over my face can't keep her from locking gazes with me, from holding me with that stare as I'm shuffled through the crowd, pushed forward by unseen hands. I don't know if it's just chance or fate, but I end up at the front with my body pressed against the metal fence that separates the crowd from the bouncers who guard the stage. Girls press up against me, and for the first time ever, I don't really notice them. Right now, Naomi's got my full attention, drowning me in melodic mind fucks and rampaging riffs. I stop being Turner Campbell, frontman for Indecency, and start just being. Can't even tell you how good that feels.
“No, I won't let you ruin me; I won't let you win. Pushing me down only lifted me up, and now I'm here to stay, and it's your turn to feel this way, this broken, bloody, shattered way.”
There's this charge in the air, and it takes me awhile to get it at first, to really put it all together. It's melancholy.
I never stop to wonder if it has anything to do with me.
By the time I get around back, Milo is having one of his customary panic attacks, pacing back and forth and bitching to anyone that'll listen. When I glance at my phone on the way in, I see that I have several missed calls and a couple of texts. In a jovial fucking mood from watching Naomi, I snap a friendly shot of my ass and message that to him, smiling when I see his face register the photo.
“Miss me?” I ask as I slip into the darkness stage left and toss him a nasty smirk. Milo's blonde hair is sticking up every which way, and his eyes are round as marbles in his pale face. I stare at him for a moment and try not to let him ruin my good mood. “Dude, you need to chill the fuck out.”
“Turner,” he says, but that's all he can get out because I'm walking on stage and grabbing the mic, pulling the band out behind me without using a single word. That's the way I like it. I lead, and they follow. I've lived too long with life being the other way around, and I'm done with that shit. In fact, today, I don't even pick a girl out in the crowd like usual. I just smile into the mic and say what I'm feeling. If the crowd doesn't like it, they can go fuck themselves.
“Hey there, Tucson,” I growl, and I watch as they ripple with shudders and gasps. God, I'm on top of the fucking world right now. Maybe it's a false high, but that's really all anything ever is. Temporary. Fleeting. “I hope you enjoyed Amatory Riot,” I say and cheers go up, violent ones, like a horde of howling fucking demons. My eyes flicker to stage right, and there she is, standing there, watching me with those stupid fucking shades on, arms crossed over her tits, sweat sticking her shirt to her skin. “Because I've got a big ass crush on their guitarist.” I pause and listen to the collective voice of the room. It stretches out before me into the darkness, eyes and cells winking at me from the balconies, from beneath the chandelier that hangs precariously above them all, heavy and drooping with glass teardrops.
I smile.
“And I'm going to try to fuck her tonight.” More cheering, hissing, some whoops. “But first,” I continue, eyes sliding to the side. Good sign. Naomi's still standing there; if she hasn't left, good things could be in store for me. I slide the mic out of the stand. “First, I'm going to fuck the shit out of you.”
I open my mouth and I take a deep breath, drawing air into my lungs for that first scream, the one that breaks down the sound barriers and opens up the souls of the people below me. Usually, when I'm up here, all I do is drink in the attention, soak it up like a sponge, revel in the worship. Tonight, my focus is a bit different, and it scares the shit out of me. Yeah, I still like to be looked at, idolized, who doesn't? But there's one person that refuses to participate, and she's the only one tonight that I care about.
“If you leave me for dead then you're making a mistake again,” I sing the words, and I try to charge them up with all the sexual tension that I'm feeling in my fucking bones right now. Naomi isn't just under my skin anymore; she's in my blood and my brain and all sorts of strange friggin' places that ache for her. I want to feel her body beneath mine, run my fingers through her hair, taste her lips again. I use my fingers in a subtle cue, invite her onstage with me. Somehow, I guess that if I can recapture that tension we had before, that excitement, that maybe I can breathe easier, better, but when I glance her way again, she's gone.
I suck up my irritation, and I face the crowd again, belting out the next words to the song, wondering why I'm so worked up on this girl and this kid and this weird fairytale fantasy that's been growing in my head ever since I heard her tell me what happened between us.
“And a mistake made twice isn't really a mistake at all.”