I couldn’t control what other people did with their scents and auras, but I could at least be courteous of those around me and let them enjoy the show without the distraction of my scent.
The cashier handed me the shirt and a packet of pills. I paid, and walked to a private corner of the venue to change into my new tank. I turned to face the concrete wall, pulled off my old Scent of the Senseless t-shirt and pulled on my new crop top. It came down just below my ribs and showed off my flat stomach. I nicked the scoop neck a little, and tore a vertical slit about an inch down, to really show off my chest. I shook out my pink and violet hair to give it some volume and craze, finger-combed it, and let it fall down past my shoulders.
At the bar, I once again stood in a cluster of people, waiting to get a beer. I was surrounded by scents and auras. I could feel them creeping along the naked skin of my arms, and getting caught in my hair. I’d need a hell of a shower when I got home.
But none of that mattered right now.
I finally got my beer in its sticky, flimsy plastic cup. It had too much foam and was a little warm, especially for the price, but it was all part of the experience.
Some people choose to go on cruises, some people want to go to theme parks, my escape is concerts.
I put my cup down on a ledge and opened the packet of scent dampeners. I popped one out of the blister pack, placed it on my tongue, and drowned it in a deluge of over-priced beer. Half way through drinking, the lights went down. Scent of the Senseless was taking the stage. How long had I been in the lineup for a drink?
I slithered through the crowd, shouldering and shimmying my way as close to the stage as I could manage. If I was lucky maybe the lead singer would notice me. Maybe I could swindle my waybackstage. Maybe I could party with the band. It wouldn’t be the first time I got a free invitation to enjoy what goes on behind the curtain. I’d ridden my share of musicians for the fun of it. But Teryn Ross would be the notch to end all notches. The trophy of trophies.
His long, strong thighs in his tight torn jeans. His rippling muscles lacing through his stomach and wrapping like snakes around his bones. Broad shoulders, long silver hair just begging for me to pull it as he kisses me hard enough to bring blood to the surface of my pouting lips, swelling them, making them beg for him.
A girl can’t help what she wants.
The riot of the instruments invaded my body, the intense vibrations kicking at my stomach and thrumming under my skin. Nothing gets me as slick as feeling a powerful baseline hum deep in my core and the violent growls of a metalhead front man’s voice in the air.
The band was halfway through the second song when it hit me. At first I didn’t know what it was, what had distracted me from the show? Weed? There was plenty going around, permeating the oxygen like we had all agreed to hotbox together.
No.
It wasn’t the weed.
There was another smell.
Something out of place. Something that shouldn’t be here but none the less was. The sweet, tart scent that drifted into my nose and across my tongue. Cool, refreshing strawberry-lemonade. I could practically taste the cold, sour sweetness. And there was a note of caramelized sugar. Like a creme brulee with lemon zest on top. I imagined the crystalized sugar snapping on the tip of my tongue.
It was all I wanted now.
It was mine.
You know those cartoons where there’s a trail of scent? That’s what it felt like, like the scent was so strong I could almost see it, and it had a mind of its own, a personality, awareness, sapience.
It was… my scent match.
I turned away from the stage and shoved my way through the ocean of bodies all vying to get as up close and personal as possible to the band. That had no real draw to me anymore. Strawberry-lemonade and sugar did.
I smelled him. Did he smell me?
I nearly tripped as I stumbled to a stop. Oh shit. The scent blockers I had taken.
How long had it been since I had taken them? It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. They were fast-acting though and were probably in my system by now, dampening my natural scent. Soon I’d smell as basic as a beta.
I had to purge my system, exorcize the drugs from my body if I had any chance of my scent match finding me.
I shoved my way through the crowd, struggling to the edge of the throng of sweat-drenched bodies. I bent over the first barrel-drum carved trashcan I found, stuck my fingers in my mouth, and retched out beer, foam, and hopefully pills.
Shaking, I spat the last of the mess into the garbage. The things we do for lust.
I was keenly aware of the fact that puke-breath might overpower my tamped-down scent. The world was a cruel and unfair place.
Well Caira, you’ve really done it now.
Maybe I could drown the smell with more beer? I spared a gaze at the refreshment stalls and while the customers had thinned out somewhat, fighting the crowd of concert goers between me and the taps was futile.
