We turn a sharp corner and I slide toward Gabe. With my chest pressed against his arm and my camera case digging into my stomach, I quickly push away and mumble, “Excuse me.”
As I scoot back to my side of the leather seat, Sam stares at Gabe with narrowed, angry eyes. Gabe laughs. Sam hits the button to lower the glass partition between us and the driver.
“Watch the fuck how you’re driving,” Sam says, then hits the button to send the partition up again. He takes a swig of whiskey then says lazily, staring at me, “ ‘Sunday Bloody Sunday.’ U2.”
Startled, I can only return his stare as memories of the game fill my head. His expression is calm and solemn, even patient. After dipping a toe into the past last night, and being overwhelmed by the memory of our passion, I suddenly flash on our moments of friendship—the extensive conversations about music and lyrics, long hours spent playing our game.
In burying that night, did I submerge everything that happened between us? How much is my brain capable of almost erasing? As our gazes stay locked, I’m starting to wonder.
“You high again?” Gabe asks.
Sam shakes his head. “Well?” he says, looking at me. He pours another glass of whiskey from the glass container, this time for Gabe.
I blink at him. This comment, I’m aware, is an offering of peace even more potent than his sincere apology. I force myself to link the song to another while he stares at me expectantly. “ ‘Zombie.’ Cranberries.”
His full lips form a slow, authentic grin.
I’m caught in the beauty of that grin until Gabe’s voice disrupts the moment. “Cranberries? You have to be joking!” He leans forward and snatches the glass of whiskey and ice from Sam. “Something from Coldplay would be closer to U2 than the pussy Cranberries.”
Still grinning, Sam raises his glass to me. “ ‘Zombie’ is a perfect match.”
Gabe’s brows lower. “How?”
Sam tilts his head toward me, taking a long, slow drink of whiskey.
I consider how to explain our long-forgotten little game. “The match is about the feel and meaning of the song. It’s more complicated than just choosing two bands that sound alike. Both songs are angry about war.”
Gabe still looks confused. “Give me another one.”
“All right.” Sam lowers his drink to one knee as his fingers drum on his other knee. “‘Rush.’ Big Audio Dynamite.”
“That’s too easy,” I say.
“Huh,” Gabe says, swirling the ice in his drink by rotating the glass. “Nothing goes with that weird shit.”
I take a sip of beer and wait, but when Gabe continues to appear lost, I say, “ ‘Story of My Life.’ Social Distortion.”
Sam grins again. “Perfect.”
Gabe’s glance at me is cynical. “What are you, a fucking walking music library?”
A laugh escapes me. “Kind of. I’ve been obsessed with music since my grandpa, who worked at punk clubs in Detroit in the seventies, gave me his record player and albums when I was twelve. Overnight I went from a huge fan of boy bands like the Backstreet Boys to liking the Clash, the Ramones, Devo, the Dead Kennedys . . . anything hardcore punk or rock from about the seventies and after.”
“I think music sounds like shit on old-fashioned records,” Gabe says, still swirling the ice in his glass. “At least on the ones I’ve heard.”
I shake my head. “Not at all. There’s something so raw about old vinyl. All the fast punk stuff sounds better.”
“What about your dad?” Sam asks.
“What about my dad?” I ask back.
“Why didn’t your grandpa give his music to him?”
I smile at the thought. “My dad is pure country. Hank Williams. Johnny Cash. He wouldn’t have listened to the albums. But me . . . Well, my grandpa made up his mind to pass down his taste in music. When my grandma died, he moved in with us, and the music I was playing in my bedroom drove him nuts. Incredibly irritated, he started playing his old favorites, hoping to change my tastes. And he did,” I add, suddenly wishing I were back in Michigan and visiting my family.
I love them all, but my grandfather and I have had a special connection. I know he wouldn’t love me any less if I’d continued with my boy band obsession. He’s not a music snob. He believes whatever music touches you is fine, as long as he doesn’t have to hear it.
Sam laughs, pulling me back from my thoughts. “Just what every twelve-year-old should be listening to.”
“What?” I ask.
“ ‘Too Drunk to Fuck’ by the Dead Kennedys.”
I shrug and smile. “The language may have been part of the allure.”
Sam smiles back at me. “Exactly what I thought.”
The limo slows along the side of a huge building. A huge crowd waits in front of it to get inside. As we pull into the back lot, to an area that is fenced off with orange construction mesh, I set my half-full beer in a cup holder and haul the camera over my head as Sam and Gabe drain their glasses. The driver opens the door and we emerge to see a girl in the shortest shorts in the world—paired with the highest heels—waiting next to a rusted metal door.
She glances over the clipboard in her hand as we step closer. “The last two members of Luminescent Juliet, the indie band?” Her sultry black-lined eyes roam over Sam and Gabe. When Gabe nods, she looks to me. “And you are?”
“She’s our promoter,” Sam says levelly.
“Oh,” she says with a slight frown. “I didn’t know indie bands had those. Well, I’m Kayla from WZIK Rock.” She holds her hand out in a dainty manner. Both Sam and Gabe stare at the hand like it’s a foreign object. The indie comment may have hit a few nerves.
Holding in an offensive giggle, I shake her hand and introduce myself and the guys.
She lets out a small huff. “Okay, follow me. We’re going in the back.”
Sam and Gabe give each other a look, then follow Kayla as she opens the door. We step into a long, dark hall. Kayla’s heels echo on the tile until she stops and opens another door. As Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” blasts at us, Kayla shouts, “This is the VIP area! You have about a half hour before signings and pictures start. Drinks and food are complimentary. The radio station is footing the bill.” Her expression is smug.
Sam and Gabe breeze past her without a glance.
Even though she has a bug up her ass, I say, “Thanks,” as I enter the bar. The decor includes steer horns mounted all over the walls and strange lighting from a mix of disco balls and spotlights. Western chic? More like the seventies on crack on a ranch. The VIP area, located in the back and raised a few steps higher than the front, is half full of people. I recognize some of the other bands’ members and a few roadies. The bar beyond the wooden rail that separates the VIP area is packed. People lean over the rail and point at band members like they’re watching animals at the zoo.
Sam and Gabe are already at the bar. Instead of joining them for a drink or filling a plate with food, I pull out my camera and wander around taking pictures. I catch Romeo talking to a guy dressed in a suit, who I’m guessing is the tour manager, and Justin talking with some of Griff’s members. Then I turn and capture Sam and Gabe doing shots with a couple of scantily clad girls.
Maybe Sam’s girlfriend has a reason to be bitchy.
As Sam leans down and whispers something to one of the girls, a burst of annoyance shoots through me. Perplexed, I lower my camera and let it hang from my neck. What’s my deal? I try to think logically. My frustration has to be confusion. Of course it’s hard to know how to feel now that he’s gone from being a dick to being a nice guy—and back again, judging by the way he’s about to cheat on his girlfriend.