“You know that song is totally about how he screws a new chick in every town, right?” I hear a woman say in what sounds to be an interruption mid-conversation. “He doesn’t care about any of them. Just uses his fame to seduce them. Once he sleeps with them, he just moves on like nothing ever happened.”
“You’re so bad, Mil. You don’t know that.” Another woman. This one I like a little better than the first.
“I do if one’s supposed to believe all the shit his ex has been posting online. Plus, it’s so obvious. I mean, the lyrics are almost literally saying that,” the first one argues.
“Actually,” a third voice interjects, “all writing is always up for interpretation. It doesn’t really matter how literal you think it is. I once wrote a poem titledMy Favorite Umbrellaand people had all kinds of theories on what it meant. Was it a metaphor for setting emotional boundaries? A tribute to my father? Or, you guessed it, literally about my favorite umbrella? Well, it was none of those things. My Favorite Umbrella was actually about my love for rainy days, which I thought was pretty obvious, to be honest. Can’t say it didn’t sting a little when no one got it. But there it is. The moral of my story. Unless the writer specificallytells you the intended message of their words, it’s anyone’s guess. Which, if you think about it, with songs especially, is kind of the point.”
“I’m sorry, who are you?” The first voice just got even snottier.
“I’m no one,” the third voice says calmly. “Just a fellow writer sharing some behind the scenes info with someone who was either misinformed or just flat out ignorant.” By the time she’s done talking, I know she’s smiling just from her tone. Hell, I’m smiling too. In all the years of putting myself out there, I’ve never had someone see me so clearly and accept that I am hidden at the same time.
Footsteps follow their chat, and someone hisses, ‘What a bitch’. Though, I can’t for the life of me figure out which one of the three women it was.
KENLEY
“She totally was,” I hiss back, trying not to giggle. I’m having flashbacks of high school, scurrying off with Arizona, arms hooked, like we’re teenagers. Except we didn’t meet until after graduation, so this is more imaginary than memory.
“I can’t believe you barged right into their little gossip sesh. That’s so not like you,” Arizona points out, dragging me to a stop at the back bar where she proceeds to climb up onto the nearest stool.
“I just hope they weren’t friends of Tara’s.” I make a face. I’d hate to think I stirred shit up and got us in trouble before we even had a chance to see Knox Marley walk on stage.
“Definitely not friends of mine,” a tall blonde chimes in, pulling up a stool beside Arizona. “I’m Tara, by the way.” She smiles at us briefly before her gaze drifts back toward the two women. “The really catty one is dating one of the bouncers. Itold my boyfriend, I’m sure he’ll handle her. Not exactly good for business when the staff has people hanging around during soundcheck insulting the main talent.” She nods in my direction. “You on the other hand should get a spot right up by the stage. I’m sure Knox Marley wouldn’t mind having the likes of you around defending him and his work.”
“So, I guess that means you heard the whole thing,” I cover my face with my hands to hide the red sting of embarrassment tinting my cheeks. Hell, probably my entire face. It’s not so much that I mind being caught calling someone out, but at my age, there’s something slightly humiliating about being painted a fan girl worthy of the front row. Also, I don’t care where I’m at, I don’t want a front row seat to anything. I like the back. Preferably in the shadows. If possible, beside a large plant or oversized vase that will hide me while I observe the world from a comfortable distance.
“I did,” she confirms, grinning and pointing at an empty stool, gesturing for me to have a seat as well. “So, you’re a writer.”
It’s a statement, but I gather she’s asking more than affirming what’s already been hinted at in my previous rant about the many ways to interpret the written word.
“I am.” I finally have a seat at the bar. It’s not a bad spot actually. We’re at a comfortable distance from the stage while still having the perfect view without having to squint or crane our necks in any way. “Though I gave up writing poetry and moved on to blogging.”
“No way! That’s so cool!” Tara seems genuinely impressed. If only she knew how much of my life is spent in pajama bottoms and coffee-stained t-shirts. “So, what kind of a blog? Cooking? Gossip? Travel?”
Arizona snorts. “Only if you count walking from her desk to the coffee maker as travel.”
“It’s a lifestyle blog,” I explain, sounding pleasant while still shooting Arizona a dirty look.
“What’s it called? I wanna check it out.”
“Oh, you’d probably think it was boring.” I always feel weird telling people what it’s called. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s an introvert thing and I’m just naturally prone to diverting attention away from myself and everything I do. Maybe I just don’t want people to know I wear lemon juice for deodorant. And they’d know that if they read my blog. Shit like that’s on there.
“They’re starting,” Arizona hisses. Instantly, all three of us go silent. And that conversation dies. Thank God.
Knox Marley, Matthias Benning, Jason Karlo and Cassady Graham have all stepped onto the stage and are casually chatting as they pick up their instruments and get settled in their new space.
It doesn’t take long before they start to play their first song and I melt into the moment. Hearing and seeing Knox Marley in person is a whole new level of magic I wasn’t prepared for. Even from across the room, I can feel the energy he gives off. It’s raw and real and friggin’ intoxicating.
Before I know it, three songs have passed and they’re clearing the stage again.
“That was it?”
“No.” Arizona grins. “That was soundcheck. There’s still the entire concert.”
“Right.”
“Speaking of, we should probably hit the little girls’ room before they open the doors to everyone else,” Tara whispers, sliding out of her stool. “And after, we can go to our official seats. My boyfriend made sure we got the best spot in the whole house.” Then she points her finger overhead.
“The loft?”
