"Have you been using your powers to steal Samson's drinks?"
"All night."
"That's so petty of you." I high-fived him but, of course, he left me hanging. Jerk. I was tempted to make a Speedy Gonzales crack because the comparison turned him a particularly rich shade of "Nava Red" but then I'd have to listen to him go off on the difference between short bursts of super speed and the ridiculousness of anyone racing around the planet at the speed of light.
We arrived at the much smaller bar in the back corner. A handwritten menu propped on a stand listed a number of different absinthe drinks.
"I've always wanted to try this stuff." I pushed close for a better view as the bartender made two drinks for the couple ahead of us and set the alcohol on fire.
"Way to waste booze." Drio's American accent was back.
"A good show though." When it was our turn, I ordered an absinthe mojito.
"No. Old school," he told the bartender.
The bartender pulled out a green glass bottle from under the bar and showed it to us. Drio read the label, nodding in approval. The bartender poured a generous slug of pale yellow liquid into two glasses, then he placed a slotted spoon with a sugar cube on top of each.
"This is what got all those artists and writers tripping balls, isn't it?"
Drio rolled his eyes.
The bartender put an old fashioned water fountain with two spigots on the bar. Sliding the glasses under the spigots, he turned them on, water dripping into the absinthe, before dropping dry ice into the fountain at the top. Smoke billowed out, curling around the entire apparatus.
"Unnecessary," Drio said. I, however, appreciated the theatricality. Our glasses filled with water, turning the absinthe cloudy. The bartender handed them over.
I raised mine to Drio. "L'chaim."
"Salut." We clinked. "Sip, don't chug," he ordered.
"Mmm. Licorice."
The music cut out to boos. Forrest stepped onto the stage which I noticed had been outfitted with a drum kit. Also a drummer, a bassist, a guitarist, and a keyboard player. It wasn't actually Fugue State Five, but it was the same set up.
The director held up his hand for silence but people kept talking until someone in the crowd let out an ear-piercing whistle. "Thank you, Anya," he said. "Tonight, I have a treat for you. Rohan Mitra, lead singer of Fugue State Five, is here to perform a few numbers for you, including a bit of the theme song for Hard Knock Strife."
The room erupted into cheers and applause.
I edged my way forward to be closer to the stage, making sure to stay on the opposite side from Lily. I just couldn't.
"Without further ado, let's get him out here. Rohan!"
Rohan came out and man-hugged Forrest. Then the director stepped off the stage, leaving Rohan to take the mic.
Hel-lo, rock god.
23
Rohan wore a slim-fitting black velvet jacket, cut to precision to show off the broad line of his shoulders. It tapered down the V of his torso over a partially unbuttoned black shirt with Hindi script in metallic silver across the front. A silver chain hung low around his neck, the braided leather and silver circle hanging from it drawing the eye down to his black leather pants. His ass was going to look incredible when he turned.
He'd forgone spikes for his natural curl, messed enough that he'd been raking his fingers through his locks. He looked like he'd rolled out of bed, and given the dreamy stares cast up at him, plenty of people here would be very happy to roll back into it with him. His eyes burned deep amber, his smoky eyeliner causing them to pop with a fiery intensity.
I was really going to miss getting a piece of that. I sagged against the wall, the movement putting Lily directly in my eyeline, my slug of absinthe bracing me as much as my hip. I rubbed the heel of my palm against my chest. Seems I wasn't the only one watching Lily. Poppy stood off to her left, glaring daggers.
Rohan's leather strap and silver bracelet slid up his arm as he adjusted the mic stand, his rings glinting off the stage lights. "For my first song, I thought I'd sing something I wrote here in this incredible city." The crowd loved that.
The music kicked in, my pulse kicked up, and Rohan kicked off "Slumber." He started off slow, working the crowd up to the chorus. A lot of people sang along. There was something intensely compelling about him. Stage presence on steroids. I'd never seen Fugue State Five live in concert and as good as he must have been then, this was cult-leader charismatic.
His next number "Falling Sideways" was more upbeat. A bass-heavy number.
Rohan slunk across the stage like a panther. Jim Morrison was a toddler compared to the sinuous sexuality that Rohan exuded. He revved the audience into a frenzy with small ass shakes and hip shimmies, like the music lived inside him. The melody poured out of his blood and his heart.