Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 117415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
“How much later?” she asks, but I’m already out the door.
My car is barreling down the highway. It’s anyone’s guess who is at the wheel, because I sure as fuck am not. Dark clouds fill the sky behind me like a crowd of threatening onlookers, covering the afternoon sun, but no rain touches my windshield yet.
One hour turns into two.
The first drops tap on my car. Then many.
Only dull light remains in the sky when I’m parked, as if the daylight is fighting not to make room for the night. I get out of the car with zero umbrella in sight—only the autographed hat for any protection—as I hurry across the parking lot. I reach the front of a building called the House of Thunder, soaked. I pull out my phone and thumb to that notification I ignored. Scanned. I head inside.
I fly past the merchandise table, where two cute male vendors are sitting on stools behind the counter, pretending to be scrolling on their phones while sneaking glances at each other. It’s clear a whole secret love story thing is playing out between the two—a Chase Holt merch seller and his Soul Biter rival.
But I don’t have time for that.
I’m about a half hour late, well after the music’s started, when I head inside the concert hall. Tiny spotlights poke holes through the otherwise dark and crowded room, now and then lighting up a face. I keep my eyes peeled. Everyone’s focus is on the stage where Soul Biter is jamming out. I keep seeing cowboy hats and baseball caps, but every face beneath them is either completely shadowed or not familiar at all. It’s standing room only in here, just like at the Horseshoe, so I spend the entirety of the opening act wiggling through the crowds.
When the last song finishes and the lights come on, it isn’t his familiar face I nearly crash into.
“What the actual fuck?!” she screams, recognizing me. “I can’t believe you’re here! My precious savior! Dude, you’re all wet.”
Her black hair is twisted atop her head, held there by a set of purple chopsticks, neon green tips flared out. I thought I’d never see her again. Now isn’t the best time for a reunion. “Sorry, I’m—”
“I still hate Chase Holt,” she says, “but I’m pretty sure one of the guitarists of Soul Biter—Did you see it? The opening act? I’m in love—I’m pretty sure he eye-fucks me the whole show. It started at the Horseshoe, that show you got me into, the one with the scam artist scalper fucker,” she reminds me—I didn’t need the reminder—and then bites her lip and shakes her head. “I owe you so much. I owe you so much and I don’t even know you.”
“I’m TJ,” I tell her, then realize I forgot to say Timothy.
“Miranda, I’m fucking Miranda, it is so great to actually meet you officially.” Then she throws her arms around me and pulls me into a hug that literally squishes my soul out of my body. “Wait, is that a Chase Holt hat you’re wearing? I didn’t think you were a big fan. Anyway, can I buy you a shirt or something? I never got to say thanks! The Soul Biter ones are so bad-ass. I have money now.”
I glance off to the left, then the right, watching as everyone shuffles around forming their social clusters, several leaving for the restrooms or to maybe buy something from the table outside. Even with the room lit up, I don’t see Austin. Did he even come?
“Whatever, I’m getting you a fucking shirt,” she decides with a happy giggle, hooking her arm into mine and dragging me off.
My foot’s bouncing all over the place in the one line they have open. It’s long and slow. Guess they’re short-staffed, only the two not-lovebirds working. Miranda, whose presence I remind myself to appreciate since she’s helping me feel less alone tonight, won’t stop talking about Skeleton, the literal and actual name of the hot guitarist in Soul Biter. I’m sure it’s a stage name, but she insists it’s not. “Look, I know you’re probably here for Chase …” she says.
“Actually, I’m here for someone else,” I tell her.
“… but I’m gonna get you a Soul Biter shirt anyway. Oh, and maybe a CD, too. Do you collect CDs? Or do you prefer vinyl? You need to get your head fucked now and then, y’know what I mean? I recommend their second album. Hits way harder than the first.”
My eyes are all over the lobby, on the hunt for someone I’m becoming increasingly sure I won’t find.
What am I doing, really? What am I expecting?
The more I stand in this line and think about it—and witness the vendors sneaking glances at each other while they’re working, appearing increasingly frustrated and horny for each other—the more I worry I have this whole thing wrong.