I DON’T call Luke. I wait until Friday, three days later, and then because I’m a glutton for punishment, I decide to do something far worse.
I’m going to the D.M.F gig.
I shouldn’t be going to the gig. I should be studying. I should be watching The Price is Right. I should be doing a thousand ab crunches or listening to Morgan extol the benefits of coffee enemas. Basically, I should be doing anything but going to see Luke Reid play in his band. Our history seems insurmountable: he kept information from me about my father, and I slept with him and then ducked out of his apartment like some cheap hooker. But the problem with feeling the way I feel about Luke is a proverbial catch twenty two: The sheer magnitude of this emotion, this secret feeling I own and refuse to share, it threatens to destroy me. But then, the prospect of losing that hidden emotion promises the same violent outcome. This is why, despite everything, I find myself walking down 8th Ave, Chuck Taylors ankle deep in snow, with Morgan whittering away into my ear.
“Can’t you text him to let him know we’re coming? He could put us on a list or something, I bet. There’s probably free booze backstage.”
“Dude! You’re not allowed alcohol. Your body is recovering from an overdose, remember? Or have you forgotten all about your recent stint in hospital? I’m not letting you out of my sight. And as for trying to get on a door list, that kinda ruins the whole I-don’t-want-him-to-know-I’m-there vibe. So no, I’m not texting Luke.”
Morgan grumbles into her scarf, shooting daggers at me. “It’s freezing cold, Ave. I am still recovering from a drug overdose and you’re going to make me queue on the side of the street in Hells Kitchen to preserve your weird sense of pride.”
I resist rolling my eyes (another point to Amanda St. French) and I thread my arm through hers. “Papa Joe’s is a dive bar. I strongly doubt there’s ever been a queue to get in. And if there is, you can share my body heat. It’s either that or we go home.”
“Fine,” Morgan pouts. “But I’m not standing at the back of a dingy bar, lurking in the fricken shadows like the phantom of the opera so you can get your stalker-gal rocks off without a damn beer in my hand. I still don’t get why you don’t just fuck this guy and get it over with. Luke is just so…”
Luke is just Luke. If only she knew what that really meant. How amazing and beautiful and fucking hot the guy was in bed. She would die a death. I try not to think about that as I drag her reluctantly down the street, where we take the third left and then a neon yellow and blue sign—Papa Joe’s! Papa Joe’s! Papa Joes!—blinks on and off, lighting up the street no more than twenty feet away.
No queue. I pull a face at Morgan. “Told you.”
“Yeah, yeah, bitch. Just get me through the door or I’m going to seize up. It’s like, minus ten out here.”
It really is about minus ten; she doesn’t need to tell me twice. We head for the unmanned door, shivering against each other as we hurry. On the other side of the door, the overwhelming sound of chatter, laughter and grinding bass music hits us immediately. A long, narrow stairway descends into shady darkness, momentarily brightened by stabs of red and green and blue lights. It’s busy down there. A crackle of static and a high pitch squeal cuts through the hubbub below as I swallow and take the first step down, assisted by a pointy elbow in my back.
“Are you ready, ladies? Are you ready for the special gift your Papa Joe has been saving for you?” A deep, gravelly voice calls out. A chorus of whoo-ing and omigodomigodomigod! answers the mystery voice. It sounds like bedlam down there, and by the time we arrive at the bottom of the stairs, surveying the packed basement bar, we see it really is. The place is madness. A sea of people stand between me and Morgan and a large, raised stage at the far end of the bar. It’s more of a club actually, with a service bar running the length of the right hand wall. A portly guy in a fedora—Papa Joe, I’m guessing—stands on the stage, grinning and sweating as he takes in the hoard of excited women, all of whom have glasses in their hands. Right now, I’m seeing a bobbing mass of women, but I’m pretty sure Papa Joe is seeing dollar signs.
“Ladies, I hope you brought a spare pair of panties ‘cause tonight we got some boys who wanna get you all wild and wet. Papa Joe thinks it’s time to welcome on stage your favourite rockers…D…M…F!” He hollers out the letters, punching his fist into the air with each one, and the girls go nuts. It’s kind of pathetic that they’re losing their shit over a band in a basement, considering most of them look pretty respectable. Some of them even look sober. Morgan raises her eyebrows at me.
“DMF? That your boy?”
“Not my boy,” I snap, wrestling my way out of my jacket, stomping over to the bored-looking coat check attendant. I slap the jacket down onto the counter and unwind the scarf from around my neck, ignoring the fact that Morgan is gawping at me—at the sheer silk green dress I’ve been hiding under my coat.
“What the hell is that?” she demands.
“It’s called a dress, Morgan. I know you’ve got one on under that fugly fur thing you’re wrapped up in too, so you might as well ditch it.”
She pokes her tongue out at me. She loses her fake fur coat to reveal a little black number that clings in all the right places but has edgy rips and tears everywhere else. She looks like a rock goddess with her teased out hair and killer outfit. Especially with the leather biker boots she’s chosen to wear. I mean, yes, my Chucks do kind of clash with my dress, but whatever. It’s a look I’m comfortable with.
The cheering rips higher over the sound of the thumping music, and I know from the prickling on the back of my neck and the stupefied look on Morgan’s face that Luke and his band mates have just walked on stage. I can’t turn around. I just can’t. I’m still mad at him, and horrified by what happened between us. I’m scared of whatever he found while he was in Breakwater, too. I lace my fingers through Morgan’s and pull her backwards through the ever-growing crowd towards the bar.
“You can have one drink, right? One. And we have to stay here by the bar, okay?”
“Whatever, toots. I’m fine with whatever so long as I can stand and witness that.” She points at the stage behind me, but again I don’t turn around. She licks her lips, tracing her fingertips over the base of her neck, and I feel like slapping her. Instead, I order two beers and slam her bottle down on the bar next to her, secretly wishing a little of the foam would explode all over her dress. That would definitely wipe the sex-starved look off her face.
“How can you not be looking at this right now, Ave?” she mumbles, still oblivious to my murderous gaze.
“I just came to hear what they sound like. I can do that without drooling all over myself like a depraved hussy.”
“Depraved hussy?” Morgan chokes back laughter. “Okay, I may be drooling. But damn, girl! All four of them are smoking hot! That bass player—his tattoos are just…they’re…they’re everywhere. I need to lick them.”
She must be talking about Cole. And she would lick his ink, too, given half a chance. I shake my head and drink my beer, tapping my foot nervously against the rail at the foot of the bar.
“Hi, guys! How’s everyone feelin’ this evening?” My heart leaps into my throat as the microphone echoes around the club. It’s Luke’s voice. He’s nowhere near as cheesy an MC as Papa Joe was; he’s just talking to us, welcoming us, saying hello. The fact that he doesn’t talk about himself in the third person also really helps. Morgan whoops, clapping her hands together, already sucked in by the atmosphere. I feel like I’m standing in a furnace. God, this was such a bad idea.
It’s okay. You’re only here to listen, he’s never even going to know you were here. And yet, it feels like his eyes are already travelling across my skin.
“We’re grateful to you for coming out on such a cold night. We’d like to repay your kindness by sharing some of our music with you. How’d you feel about that?”
A thunderous roar lights up around us, and Morgan is cheering and screaming along with everyo
ne else while I pull on my beer, staring straight at myself in the mirror behind the bar. I can also see a weaving tangle of bodies reflected in it, but thankfully not the stage. Luke starts laughing.
“In that case, we’ll hit things off with a song that’ll hopefully help warm you guys up. Don’t be fooled by the title, okay? This one’s called Cold Hands, Cold Heart.
A light, fast intro rips out of the speakers, and the audience literally goes wild. A heavy drumbeat follows and a few bars later and Luke is singing. It’s nothing like his performance at O’Flanagan’s, however. This is fire and arrogance all rolled into one. And it’s pouring straight out of him like liquid sex.
Luke tears through the song, whipping the audience into a frenzy.
The coolest girl
thought I’d ever seen.
Eighteen
And still, a kid that haunts my dreams.
Hard as glass, quick to bite
ice queen
heart as black as night
but you and me,
we’ll be okay
‘cause when you’re with me,
you melt away.
Got cold hands, got cold heart
woulda never kissed you
If I’d ‘a’ known from the start,
You’ve frozen me cold,
You’ve frozen me dead,
Now I’m leaving you here,
Unfinished in my bed.