Bad Boy Rock Star

By: Candy J. Starr

I’d arrived at the bar about a half hour earlier expecting there to some kind of office or room where we could speak in private.

"The band room’s at the back," the girl on the door had said. "But you still have to pay the cover charge if you aren’t on the list."

How could I be on a list? If I’d known any other way to contact the band, I wouldn’t have come here at all. This place reeked of stale beer and cheap cologne.

I pushed my through the mass of people, most of them sweaty and gross and drunk enough to be annoying.

A horrible grating sound came from the stage and I assumed that was them. Storm. No matter. I didn’t have to like their music. The man at the front, Jack Colt, strutted around the stage like some kind of fancy man and the way he touched that guitar, it bordered on obscene. How could these people watch that? It was like looking through someone’s bedroom window and catching them in an act of disturbing intimacy.

And how did carpet get so sticky and gross? Didn’t these people ever clean? As I noticed a guy stumble from the bar trying to balance four beers in his hands, that question was answered.

He tottered near me and split some of it on my shoes. My very fabulous, very expensive shoes.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?" I yelled at him but my voice got lost in the screech of guitar from onstage and the idiot merged back into the crowd.

Someone shoved me in the back and cold liquid touched my skin. Then someone trod on my foot and didn’t even apologise. I tried to push through the crowd but most of them just pushed me back. Elbows pierced my side, whole bodies slammed into me.

And seriously, could they turn the music down a bit? The world must be full of deaf people if they listened to music like this. I’d been to concerts before but they were nothing like this. This was a hundred or so people packed into a tiny room that pretty much resembled hell.

I could see the doorway leading to the back of the stage. I kept my eyes on it and tried to move in that direction.

Another foot thumped onto mine so I thumped back making good use of my stiletto heels.

Then, without any apparent reason apart from some herd mentality, they all surged forward, trying to squeeze into the already crowded space. A can flew out of nowhere and bashed me on the head. It stung like hell and might have even cut me.

I wanted to flee from this room to a place where sweat and beer didn’t exist but I needed to talk to that man.

As the crowd surged further forward, I slipped around the back of them.

I finally got to the band room, well, the space outside the band room, sort of at the back of the stage. An area full of black cases and boxes with "Marshall" written on them. Who was Marshall and why did he get personalized boxes? To the right, large doors lead outside. To the other, a graffiti covered door that I assumed was the band room.

I tried to get to the back room to wait for the band to come off stage but a huge guy with his arms folded and a "don't mess with me" look on his face blocked my way. He stood in front of the door as though guarding something valuable.

"I'm here to talk to the band." I put on my best bitchface and squared up to him but it just ricocheted right off him.

"Are you on the list?"

"Look at me. Do I look like I’m not important?"

He glanced over my outfit then grunted.

"Hard to know. Chicks do all kinds of shit to get in the back room."

"Well I don’t. I have a meeting. A business meeting."

"Maybe you do but I wasn’t told about it. Wait over there with the rest of ‘em." He nodded his head at a group of five girls.

"But you don't understand…"

"Either wait there or get out!"

That didn't give me a lot of choice. Then a woman in leather pants and long black hair breezed past the bouncer.

"How come she's allowed –"

The big guy snarled and pointed at the exit. He'd be sorry when he found out who I was. Then he'd apologise because I had more right to access that room than any chick in leather pants. I held my Vuitton bag tight by side and hoped none of these drunken people had bad intentions and huddled as close to the door as I could.

One girl said hello but I ignored her. I could barely hear her over that insane noise on stage anyway.

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