“Upside down like that?”
He rolled the pant leg back down and resumed sitting normally. “I just worked from the picture upside down.” As if that was so easy.
“Well, you’re amazing,” I told him. I know I was gushing a bit, but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t wrap my head around how talented my old friend was, how anyone that I knew could go on to make such beautiful art. Everyone I knew tended to be as shifty as I was.
After we had breached the seemingly harder topic in Camden’s life, the rest of our conversation was a breeze. In fact, we were so engrossed with each other, talking about our favorite music and travel spots, that we didn’t see his band until they were standing in front of us.
“Hey, man,” a guy said from the head of the table.
We looked up, and in one smooth move, Camden slipped his arm around my shoulder and squeezed me closer to him. I knew what that said: she’s mine, buddies. Back off.
I didn’t know how I felt about that. Part of me wanted him to like me; after all, I needed to get close to him to at least get inside his shop and house again to figure out how I was going to pull off the robbery. The other part of me—the moral one—didn’t want him to fall too hard. I didn’t want to break his heart again. And I guess there was a third part. One that wanted him to like me because I was starting to like him. One that loved the fact that he put his arm around me in a possessive way.
Oh boy.
“Guys, this is Ellie,” Camden said, nodding at me.
I gave them a flirtatious smile while checking them out. The one who spoke was a beanpole shaped man-boy with shoulder-length red hair and a 70s mustache that looked ridiculously out of place on his baby face. The second guy was broad-shouldered and stocky with a toothy grin, paint-splattered jeans and a grey wife beater that showed off his tats. The third was wearing sunglasses, with black hair smoothed into a tight ponytail, a long black leather jacket coating his thin form. From his tight-lipped smile and air of superiority, I guessed he was the singer. From the Matrix.
Everyone except snooty Neo said hello in that “someone’s getting lucky tonight” way and squeezed into the booth with us. Snooty Neo left to get a pitcher of beer, while I learned mustache man-boy was called Randy and Pete was the wife beater. I didn’t remember Neo’s name, which was fine because I preferred my name for him anyway.
We talked for about an hour, all the way until it was time for them to set up. By then the joint was hopping with people and I was getting tipsy. Two bands had already screamed their way through mediocrity and I couldn’t wait to see what Kettle Black was really made of. The Cramps had a way of brightening up any scene.
The whole time we sat there, Camden kept his arm around me. Occasionally it would drift down to my waist where he would thumb the hem of my shirt. Once, he brushed it against my bare skin and I had to keep my body from shivering at his touch. Even with all the people around us, the smoke that lay in sheets in the air, and the loud music that rattled my teeth, it felt like we were the only two people alive.
“Well we better go get ready,” he said to me as they slid out of the booth. Thank god, I had to piss like a racehorse.
I followed him out and he grabbed my hand to help me up, giving it a quick squeeze.
“Will you try and watch from the front?” he asked. Fuck his dimples and his boyish charm. How could I say no to that?
“I’ll be your biggest fan,” I told him.
For a second there I thought he was going to kiss me. Or at least do something with the intensity that he was giving off. But he just nodded and disappeared into the crowd, following the band backstage.
What the hell was going on with me? I needed to think. I took off to the bathroom, finding it just as pleasant as I thought, with no toilet paper, used pads and tampons hanging out of the sanitary container, and sticky stains on the ground. I washed my hands thoroughly and tried to splash water on my face without ruining my makeup.
A girl with smeared red lipstick and death-by-platforms was looking at me askew as she leaned against the smudged mirror.
“Trying to sober up? Here.”
She rummaged through her warehouse-sized purse and brought out an unmarked spray bottle. She thrust it in my wet hands.
“Mist your face with this. It won’t smudge your makeup.”
I gave her a shy smile and did as she asked. It wasn’t as bracing as the cold tap water but it was refreshing enough to bring my thoughts around.
“Thanks,” I said, giving it back to her. “I hope you don’t get that mixed up with your mace.”
She looked at me blankly for a second then mused on. “I had to mace my boyfriend once.”