Is that an actual universal truth, or merely a lie we like to tell ourselves, so we can be content with the geeks and wash-outs that normally find their way to our beds? I’m certain there has to be a few playboys out there who know how to drive a woman demented in bed, and also manage to be refined, loaded and handsome, and not just sleazy. Hell, I know at least one—sadly now attached.
“I’m not going to fuck him, Jessie. I told you that. I was checking you’d hung our poster straight.”
She gives me a look designed to melt flesh. “You think I don’t know what’s in your head. Post show, you’re a cocktail of hot emotions, and screwing is normally your top priority. All it takes is a whiff of testosterone and you’re glued to whoever is offering.”
“He’s not offering.”
“Yeah,” she concedes. “Make sure it stays that way. When I said we were coming tonight to screw with Paradise Kiss, you and Nathaniel Darke doing a horizontal mosh wasn’t what I meant.”
I nod and sigh, but there’s no point escalating this into any sort of an argument. Darke hasn’t even noticed me, and I imagine after the barney between Jessie and his brother earlier, he’s perfectly happy to keep things that way.
“They’re the official competition, Lowdy, try not to forget that.” She drums two fingers against the side of my head.
Jessie does believe in labouring the point. If I’m not eyes front and one hundred per cent engaged on the pocketful of fans we have approaching for the next twenty minutes, then she’s going to be berating me with a frying pan, or some other equally hard metal object that’s close to hand.
Staying engaged isn’t as easy as it might seem. After our five true fans disperse, the second wave of people consists mostly of drunks who paw through our stuff like they might the leaflet stand at the local G.U.M. clinic. It doesn’t matter how hard I try, I can’t pretend I’m interested in their opinions about anything, least of all our set. In any case, all our name recognition is now associated with Ivy’s antics. Anyone who walks away from here tonight is going to associate Bitch Slap with the mad woman who flashed her pubes, not the rocking anthems we played them.
We’re doomed to perpetual obscurity.
I want to sneak back into the auditorium and watch Bulldozer on stage, just to prove to myself we have a chance in hell of making it. Their tunes aren’t nearly as hot as ours. I can’t believe that the audience are rocking out with anything approaching the same gusto.
I’m still attempting to convince myself of that fact, when a gargantuan man blocks the entire front of our trestle table. When he sticks out his hand, I’m tempted to ignore his attempt to shake, but the choice become irrelevant, as Jessie barges in and clasps his great big mitt like he’s an old friend.
“Nice performance, ladies,” the dude says. He has a quiet confidence about him, and I notice he’s wearing a Black Halo Requiem for the Damned tour shirt. “Do you have time for a little chat?”
“Of course.” Jessie flashes him her wonderful smile. Clearly, she knows who he is. I wish she’d clue Ivy and me in. Actually, Ivy has her back to us, and is on the phone to Nightshift again.
“Is here a good enough place for a chat, or do you want to find somewhere we can sit down?” Jessie asks.
“There’s nothing terribly extensive I need to say right away. You girls just stick around after the show is over. I think I have a proposal that might interest you.”
Oh a proposal, is it? Dear God, it shows what this industry is that every time I hear those words my toes curl. Actually, everything that can curl up and hide does so. I swear every creep in a forty mile radius has honed in on us and laid out their propositions. Ivy’s had at least twelve marriage proposals since we came off stage and a lot more unsavoury offers.
That said, this guy doesn’t sound local, but maybe they’re just shipping in from farther afield.
“What sort of proposal?” Jessie asks.
He shakes his head, refusing to say anything. “In there, once the punters are gone.” He points a thumb towards the function room that houses the stage. “Mind you’re punctual. I don’t hang around.”
He turns and leaves.
“Who is that?” I ask, staring at his retreating back. “Do we really want to meet him?”
“You’re kidding, yeah?” Jessie stares at me as if I’m insane.
“He’s Graham Callahan,” Ivy answers from behind me. When I turn, she’s still looking at the screen of her phone.
“And who the heck is he?” I need a little more to go on than a name.
“Black Halo’s manager,” says the girl manning Paradise Kiss’s stall. “Haven’t you heard, since they’re taking a short hiatus, their manager is looking to pick up someone new to take under his wing.”
Jess looks sceptical. Ivy is tapping on the phone, but not to Nightshift. She shows me the Metalworks News page, there are certainly rumours to that effect, and that the right band will be expected to open for Black Halo once their tour resumes.
“That’s not what he’s about to offer us,” I say.
“Yeah, but imagine if it is?” Jessie squees and hugs me.
“I’m not sure I’d like that,” Ivy says squashing both our dreams with six unbelievable words.
