Shining Sea Page 18

  “You’re a drummer? How come you never told me? Although, it makes total sense.”

  “Really. And why’s that?”

  “Duh,” Mary says. “She knows you love music—”

  “Actually, I was referring to the fact that he likes to hit things.”

  “You kill me, Rush. Shoot me the link, will you? You need a ride, or just a roadie?” He slants a salacious look down at me. “Or a groupie?”

  “All of the above,” I surprise myself by saying.

  Logan grabs me around the waist.

  Mary rolls her eyes. “You two. When’s it gonna happen? Look, I’m taking Arion early, so she can scope the place out.” She jabs a finger at Logan. “You—get to carry her stuff.”

  CLUBBING

  “Does this place have food?” Logan asks as we stand outside the club.

  “Don’t know,” I say, shifting my guitar case from one hand to the other.

  “Just wondering if I’m going to be eating my dinner or drinking it.”

  I look Logan over. He’s tall, maybe he won’t get carded, but Mary and I will. Luckily, we both have fake IDs.

  “Man of many talents,” Logan said with a shrug as he gave them to us earlier.

  He opens the door and the three of us step into a dark, crowded entryway. Immediately, my ears start ringing, but the song thudding against my chest makes me grin.

  “One of your favorites, huh?” Logan asks, eyeing my hips, which have started swaying slightly all on their own. I nod happily.

  There’s a knot of people in front of us arguing with a guy who’s standing with his arms crossed. He’s wearing the coolest shirt—twining lines of color, like a curling road map—and is obviously the bouncer, because now he tells the group that the club is filled to capacity.

  One of the boys argues that they’ve driven from Portland. “C’mon! You gotta let us in—”

  The bouncer takes a step closer to the boy.

  The group leaves.

  About to tell Mary and Logan that we don’t have a chance, that we should go too, my eyes snag on the crowd beyond the bouncer. Waitresses wearing identical short puffed black skirts with black tights are everywhere. Most of them have dark hair. Chestnut brown. Inky black. But no matter the color, the style is the same: every girl has her hair piled up in a beehive. But weirder than that—

  “What the heck,” Mary says, following my gaze. “Would you call those, like, fur accessories?” Every waitress is wearing bits of fur: fur collars, fur cuffs, fur anklets. All of it is a rich-brown color—it might be mink, but I don’t know. It looks real, though. Then there are the waiters, just a few, dressed all in black, and sporting tall turbans, or top hats. One waiter is wearing a toque. “He could be the chef,” Mary says, like she’s hoping such a good-looking guy has an excuse to wear such a bizarre-looking hat.

  More people arrive, squeezing in behind us, and Logan says something to the bouncer, who, I realize now, isn’t wearing a shirt at all, but is bare from the waist up, his skin covered with tattoos. Mr. Tattoo shakes his head.

  “But we’re locals,” Logan says, his mouth set in an impatient line. He and Mary both turn to me and say something at the same time.

  “What?” I shout over the music pouring from the club.

  “He says he can’t let us in.”

  “Why, we don’t have the right clothes?” I nod toward two girls with super high beehives and fur-trimmed poodle skirts who’ve just appeared from behind the doorman. One of the girls is unnaturally pale and leans heavily on the other as they push past us, heading outside.

  “Wasted,” Mary says, looking after the girls.

  But I’m the one who stumbles suddenly as the crowd shoves me from behind.

  “Whoa.” The bouncer catches my elbow—and I catch my breath. His tattoos—they seem to shift, writhing before my eyes. When I look up into his face, I find he’s staring at me too. The entryway seems to spin as my ears fill with dark music that’s definitely not coming from the speakers inside the club.

  His voice too, is music, as he asks, “You here for the open mic?”

  “Let them in, will you?” This voice is soft, but has an edge that cuts through the music and the noise of the crowd like a shark through water.

  My stomach plunges. Bo.

  “Friends of yours?” asks the bouncer.

  “Close enough.”

  Mr. Tattoo grabs my hand and slaps a gold plastic band on my wrist. Blinking, I squint at the wristband. Although the bouncer has let go of my hand, I haven’t quite claimed it, and it floats at the end of my arm, hovering between us.

  The bouncer looks amused. Bo does not. Logan really does not, and Mary just looks as confused as I feel.

  “C’mon,” Logan says. “Let’s go in.”

  But I don’t move, just look back and forth between Bo and the bouncer, then down to my wrist, where letters seem to undulate across the band until finally, they come into focus.

  HIVEHIVEHIVEHIVEHIVEHIVEHIVEHIVEHIVEHIVEHIVE

  There are more words, but I can’t quite make out what they—

  Logan snatches my hand, lightly twisting my arm until a blush spreads up my neck as I read the words that had been upside down. MINOR—NO SERVICE. He pulls me into the throng where Bo vanishes as suddenly as he appeared. Mentally, I probe my emotions the way someone might touch a bruise to see if it still hurts. It does. And my head feels . . . cloudy. As if I’d just gained a little extra space in there but it’s filled up with undesirable weather.

  “Maybe you need to get one of those.” Logan nods to a door on our right with a neon sign above it that reads, TATTOOS. “Since you suddenly seem so enamored with them. Plus, those sharp needles might wake you up enough to, you know, hop out of that rabbit hole Summers just knocked you down. How’d he know about tonight? You told him, didn’t you? I should’ve known you would.”

  Watching the waitresses hurrying back and forth, I shake my head. “I didn’t.” They’re very attentive to each customer and very . . . beautiful. In fact, everyone in the club is beautiful, and . . . vibrant. There’s a buzz about the place, about the people here. Maybe this is why the club’s called Hive.

  A waitress passes wearing a fur choker and Logan glances at the deep V of her neckline. Mary shoves him. I refrain from rolling my eyes, continue looking around.

  The walls are black, striped here and there with the same cyber yellow that trims the outside of the club. The ceiling is gold. The floor, littered with glitter and flower petals. Everything shines, including the song that plays now, a pop confection that pulses through the club, luring quite a few people onto the dance floor. There, poodle skirts and beehives give way to T-shirts and torn jeans, combat boots and piercings. Fishnets, flannel, bare chests, loaded smiles, and enough black eyeliner for everyone.

  People stand three deep at the bar, a polished slab of wood that runs along one side of the room. It looks like someone has cut down one of the grand evergreens, split it, and sealed it. Despite the high-gloss finish on the bar, the whole place reeks of pine. I inhale deeply—the air smells fresh, even though there has to be a couple hundred people in this front room alone. Where did they all come from?

  Opposite the bar, a stage is set for a full band. So where do they hold the open mic?

  I find out when one of the fur-studded waitresses beckons us to a second room and gestures to the only table that isn’t taken. Here, the stage is smaller, backed into a corner.

  The room is packed with musicians; they easily outnumber the audience. The majority of them appear to be guitarists—who are probably also singers—although there are a couple of people with hand drums, and one boy who’s struggling to set up a synthesizer onstage while his friend plays around with a laptop. A girl who’d been at the back of the room a minute ago talking to the guy behind the soundboard is passing a bucket around.

  Logan leans back in his chair, hands linked behind his head. A poorly angled ceiling spot above the next table shines straight into his light
eyes, and they glint as he studies me.

  “Better put your name in the hat.”

  “There are so many people here,” Mary says, looking around. “Are you nervous?”

  “No, but—”

  A burst of applause comes from behind a closed door just beyond our table. Apparently the club has a third room where a private party is going on. Now the door opens and Bo comes through, carrying four champagne glasses. His cheeks are hectic with color, and he’s smiling uncharacteristically.

  “Ever been here before?” Bo asks Logan as he puts down the drinks, pulls up a chair.

  “That the best line you’ve got?”

  Bo lifts a glass. “Touché.” He hasn’t even said hello to me, though now he nods at the guitar case and asks, “Are you going to play?” He’s wearing a black T-shirt that hugs the contours of his chest, and when he speaks, the desire to put my hands on him stuns me into silence for a second.

  “Hope so,” I say just long enough after he asked to make the moment completely awkward. Choosing a glass, I take a sip of the slightly cloudy amber liquid, mostly so I won’t reach over and touch him. The drink is delicious, tastes like honey, and melons. “What is this?”

  “Hive’s Honeywater,” he says. “Specialty of the house.”

  “It’s great,” Mary agrees. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Bo replies.

  Logan makes a disparaging sound. “Whatever, let’s get to the important shit. Why is this place such a twisted retro nightmare? What’s with the hair and the hats?” He empties his glass and waves at one of the waitresses.

  Marveling at the height of her hair, I unlatch the guitar case and pull out my Martin, walking my fingers through a few chord progressions and a couple of scales. Not that I can hear anything over the punk anthem that blares from the speakers now, but it feels good. At least my hands will be ready.

  The waitress comes by and takes Logan’s order. Glancing at Bo, he pushes some bills into her hand, then picks up the square of paper she’s left on the table and passes it to me.

  “What’s your lucky number, Rush?”

  Flipping it over, I suck in a breath. Bo’s gaze turns hard.

  “One.”

  Mary hoots. “Yes! Because, man, there’s no way I want to hang out here all night.”

  “Drink your Honeywater,” Logan says to her, raising his glass in an exaggerated imitation of Bo’s earlier gesture. “It’ll make you feel like you’re part of the freak show.”

  But Hive doesn’t feel like a freak show to me. With the Martin in my hands, I feel almost fine. An atmospheric song—all keyboard pads and soft vocals—floats through the speakers. The sound guy gets up onstage, adjusting cables, setting up a mic stand.

  My hands are warmed up. In a minute I’ll be singing. The hard part is over.

  Continuing to run my fingers over the fret board, I watch Bo get up and move to the back of the room. Inside, a sharp little knife comes to rest at the top of my rib cage. The way he’s acting, it’s like he doesn’t even know me. Like he doesn’t want to know me. The two of us, standing together in the ocean, communicating telepathically . . . it’s like it never happened.

  Mary gives me a sympathetic look. I shrug. It’s better this way.

  The atmospheric song fades away until the only sound is the clinking of glasses and the whispering voices of waiting musicians.

  Somebody closes the door to the front room of the club and the lights go down.

  Two warm spots light the stage, then a low voice comes through the speakers.

  “Good evening. Welcome to Hive . . .”

  PLAYER

  Guitar. Cable. Strap. Tuner. Drink. Capo. Pick.

  Bo’s leaning against the far wall back by the soundboard—staring at me.

  Double-check tuning. Adjust mic stand.

  Mary leans over and says something to Logan. He laughs, but keeps his eyes on me.

  Ground feet. Soft knees. Lips. Breathe.

  Strumming a percussive pattern on the Martin, I whisper sing into the mic—

  “I wanted to know you, but you always had your secrets.

  Like airplanes, tall buildings, the mysteries that you kept . . .”

  I sing lies that tell truths.

  “I wanted to have you, but you always kept your lips shut.

  Like veils, dark nighttime, the split of the skin when it’s cut . . .”

  Leaving the room behind I lean into the chorus, opening up, bleeding out—

  “So I slept . . . I slept . . .”

  Storyteller. Bottom dweller. Digging in the dirt.

  Fingers. Frets. Lights. Him.

  Ripping. Stars. Regret.

  Dark hallways, tilting floors, unexpected steps, taking me down . . . down . . .

  In front of everyone, in front of no one, I soar through the mansion of my voice . . .

  DANCE FLOOR

  “Arion, you were great!” Mary says, coming up to the side of the stage as I jump down. A smattering of applause comes from the people standing nearby, the denouement of the wild clapping and shouts of approval that followed my final song.

  “Yeah? You think it went okay?” Adrenaline courses through me. I try to see past the crowd that’s blocking the soundboard now.

  “More than okay,” she assures me. “Everybody was totally listening. They loved you.”

  “Six songs, not bad for an open mic,” Logan says, coming up and taking my guitar. “And, hey, you’re kinda hot with a six string in your hands, Rush. Buy you a drink?”

  “Um—” Quickly I scan the crowd, trying to look like I’m not.

  “He left,” Mary whispers in my ear. “I thought he was going to melt your clothes off with that stare of his—personally, I think I’d combust if I looked into those eyes—then he just left.”

  Nodding to her, I cast one more glance toward the back of the room, surprised at how angry I am. No hello. No goodbye. What the hell?

  “What do you say, Rock Star?” Logan continues as we head for the table. “Drink?”

  “No. Dance.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Mary, will you watch my stuff?” Grabbing his hand, I drag Logan into the front room where a full band is burning down the house and the dance floor is mosh-pit packed. We merge into the crowd as the singer’s voice does a backbend, then sinks to a whisper, an urgent bass line throbbing beneath it. His voice makes me think of Bo’s voice, the way it seems to . . . enter me. Why did he leave?

  Closing my eyes, I focus on the music, inviting it in, willing it to fill me so I don’t have to wonder anymore, don’t have to care. Imagining the music flooding my veins, I open my eyes and grin at Logan, who looks like he’s feeling the music too—and the Hive’s Honeywater.

  The next song starts. I lift my hair up off my damp neck. Logan comes closer, putting his hands in my hair, making a ponytail for me with his fist. His own hair hangs dark around his face. His pale eyes are moonlight. A smile plays on his lips as he lets go of my hair and grasps my waist. Lifting my arms overhead I toss my head back, feeling my lips part. His hands move to my hips. Then he turns me around, pulling me against him.

  Shutting my eyes again, I listen to his body talking to mine, my body talking back. It’s only getting stronger, this something-happens-when-we’re-in-the-same-room-together thing, this under-the-friendship-and-the-joking-we’re-connected thing.

  The song ends and I open my eyes, peeling away from him.

  “Pull back all you want,” he says. “It’s not going to change the way you feel.”

  “We have to get back to Mary,” I say a little breathlessly.

  “We will in a second.” He reaches for me.

  “There she is—” I wave over the crowd.

  “My turn to dance yet?” she shouts.

  The next song starts, and I take my guitar case and backpack from her, setting them down against the side of the stage. She body-slams Logan, then grabs both my hands.

  Laughing, I whirl her
around—“Now you know what it feels like to be me!”

  CAGE

  Much later, as the three of us shamble across the parking lot, Logan announces he’s driving me home.

  “You’ve been drinking,” Mary says.

  Logan waves a hand dismissively. “Sugar water.”

  “Honeywater,” Mary corrects. “And it’s got alcohol in it.”

  “You would know.” They grin at each other.

  Headlights wash over us. Mary waves.

  “You guys can come with,” she says, as the Eatons’ Prius stops alongside us and she opens the passenger door. “Dependable, fast service,” she adds, waggling her eyebrows. “Roomy backseat.” She climbs in and kisses Kevin in the middle of his hello.

  “Yeah, I don’t think so,” Logan says.

  Kevin waves and says something to Mary about picking up her car tomorrow. She kisses him again, then says, “And one for you—” and blows me a kiss as the Prius rolls away, red taillights and dust. Logan shakes his head and I laugh. We walk over to his truck.

  “Hang on,” he says. “I need to take a—”

  “Spare me the details.”

  “Be right back.” He disappears into the pines.

  As soon as he does, the door of the club opens and two people stagger out, arms wound around each other.

  Jordan.

  The other stumbling figure is a tall, leather-clad girl with long dark hair. The two are a tangle of limbs and lips as they trip toward the edge of the woods on the far side of the parking lot where Jordan pins the girl against a tree.

  She clenches the material of his shirt, pulling him closer, her hands disappearing between the two of them. But then she cries out—and Jordan rocks slightly, as if he’s been pushed. Her muffled cry comes again, and I start toward them.

  Suddenly he pulls the girl away from the towering pine, his body bent over hers, kissing her hard. She kicks—her feet scuffing the sandy ground—as he pulls her around the side of the tree.

  “Hey!” I shout, breaking into a run.