“Nope,” I tell him. “I’d order brisket at the counter at Interstellar with my friends and watch basketball.”
“I’d still be listening to live music, but not this,” Lauren says.
“That’s more what we were hoping for if we’re being honest,” Amber says. “A place that gives you paper towels with your meal and a dive with a local band.”
Lauren nods. “We let the power of the corporate card go to our heads.”
Will smirks. “Trust me, if I can charge the company for a fifty-dollar steak, I’m charging the company for a fifty-dollar steak. We get it.”
Lauren smiles back. “We can’t do dinner over, but I have an idea if you want the Austin indie music experience.”
The other three look at each other, and Amber nods. “Totally.”
“Crimson,” Lauren says, looking at me. “There’s a newer band playing there—Pixie Luna—but I heard them last month at Vito’s, and they’re worth catching again. Kind of indie punk. Really good.”
“Sounds dope,” Will says, and only the laidback way he says it saves him from looking stupid for saying “dope” when he’s a six-figure corporate bot. But I’m beginning to suspect none of them are corporate bots.
“Let’s do it,” I say. A hit of adrenaline surges through my veins. One of the best things about being in Austin is the live music scene. I used to love hitting all kinds of bars and dives to hear new bands. Some would break out in a big way later, and it was cool to hear them before they blew up. I loved the feeling of being in a room with people and sharing the experience of letting music and lyrics wash over us. Mood altering and totally legal.
“We’re going to be overdressed,” Lauren warns. “But you’ll get the real Austin experience.”
We’re in business casual: no suits but all of us are in work slacks, the men in collared button-down shirts, Amber and Lauren in shirts that would look good under blazers.
“Preps who are slumming it,” John says. “Works for me.”
The Crimson is only two blocks down on Congress, so we walk, and it’s the most relaxed vibe we’ve had all evening, like we’ve all agreed to be people now instead of employees.
The sound is leaking out of Crimson before we even get to the door, and I smile when we have to hand over cash and get our hands stamped to go in. There’s a stirring in my blood, the excitement of being on the verge, waiting for the door to open and the sound to boom out. It’s been literal years since I had this rush. Four, at least. I didn’t know how much I missed it until now, standing here with the bass vibrating my sternum.
“Feels like college again,” Amber says, grinning.
“Came at a good time,” the bouncer says. “They just started their set, and they’re good.”
Crimson isn’t the kind of place with mezzanine seats and table service. We press into the crowd, and Lauren calls to me over the hard-driving drums, “Hey, plow through them, big guy.”
I’m not exactly built like a linebacker, but I’m the tallest in our group, so I take the lead, gently bumping people to make a path for us through the crowd. When we reach the middle, Lauren taps on my shoulder to indicate that’s good enough.
“I can’t believe it’s so crowded on a Thursday right after New Year’s.” I have to lean down so she can hear me.
“I can. Listen.”
It’s a five-piece group, a female on vocals, and she has my attention immediately. Her intensity is unreal, like if you could see her energy, it would be five times her actual size. She’s short with a slight frame, her bright pink hair up in two buns, a glittery pink mask covering the top half of her face so we can only see her jaw and full pink lips. Strong feminine vibes, but she’s wearing combat boots and prowling the stage like she’ll stomp the first person who looks at her wrong.
I dig it.
And her voice . . . it’s so much bigger than I’d expect from someone that petite. It’s like watching a surly Tinkerbell open her mouth but a big Kelly Clarkson voice comes out.
“Wow,” I say.
I glance at the rest of the group. Will’s already bouncing, moments away from jumping along with the rest of the crowd as a chorus about little rich boys tears from the speakers, and I laugh. She might as well be singing about me, but the band’s energy is undeniable, and by the end of the chorus, we’re all jumping.
They play an eight-song set, and it doesn’t slow down. We’ve worked our way closer and closer to the front, like we all share the unspoken need to be as inside the sound as possible.
“Last song,” the singer calls out. The crowd groans but she laughs at them. “Shut up and find us on Soundrack,” she says into the mic. “But later. Right now, we rock!” And there’s a new explosion of sound as they surge into their heaviest number yet, and the crowd pulses again.
Her performance is theatrical, and when it builds to the bridge, she turns and flings herself back onto the crowd who catch her and pass her from hand to hand. The guitarist takes center stage and tears it up as the lead singer crowd surfs, gesturing to the crowd to return her as they near the next verse. She’s just gotten to us, and John, Will, and I reach up to help her along, but I freeze in shock.
She’s wearing a shirt with thin straps, and one of them crosses a tattoo on her shoulder blade.
