While I work on Nikki’s shirt—yet another totally new and custom design—I learn the girls both met Van two years ago and that they usually follow Cutting the Line to most of their US shows. They get free tickets, backstage passes, and invites to all the parties. They don’t seem to get much respect, I noticed, but they seem happy to be doing what they’re doing. I guess Van’s attention and the envy of other girls is what matters most to them, and I shudder when I realize that there was a time when I wasn’t so different.
The girls ask me where I’m from, how I met Joel, if I’m in school. When I tell them I am, they ask what I’m majoring in, and I assure them I haven’t the slightest clue.
They grumble about homework and wasted youth, and Nikki summarizes our collective sentiment. “That sounds miserable.”
“It is,” I agree, tying pieces of her shirt into knots.
“Do you know what you should go to school for?” Molly squeals, hopping off the counter and spinning around in the center of the kitchen. “You should go for fashion design!”
I chuckle. “I’m pretty sure ‘T-shirt cutter’ isn’t an actual job.”
I put the finishing touches on Nikki’s shirt and hand it to her, and she marvels at the alterations. “Maybe it should be,” she says, pulling the shirt over her head.
“Oh, wait!” Molly squeaks, yanking her own shirt back off. She roots through the junk drawer and thrusts a Sharpie at me. “You have to sign my tag! When you’re a big famous fashion designer, I want people to be able to tell that my shirt is an authentic Dee creation.”
I laugh and sign her tag, surprised when Nikki hands me her shirt and asks me to do the same.
Outside, we’re nearly back at Van’s circle when Nikki’s hand clamps around my arm and jerks me to a stop. She nods her head toward the fire and says, “You want to find out if you’re a groupie or a girlfriend?”
I follow her gaze to a trio of girls with Joel in their sights. He’s sitting across the circle from Van, a beer hanging between his knees and an easy smile on his face as he talks to Mike sitting next to him.
Molly squeals and claps her hands, and Nikki pulls us farther into the shadows. I know what’s going to happen—I could walk over and sit myself on his lap to stop it—but I do want to see it for myself, so I stand in silence between Nikki and Molly and watch as one of the girls by the fire separates herself from the herd to make her move on Joel.
When she steps in close, he gazes up at her. She says something to him, he says something back. They talk for what feels like forever, and then the girl nods her head toward what I don’t doubt is a dark corner fit for blow jobs and quickies.
“She’s going in for the kill,” Molly whispers with far too much excitement. I resist the urge to smack her.
Joel says something back, and she reaches for his hand. My breath catches.
And then he pulls his hand away and shakes his head. He immediately follows by turning back toward Mike and brushing her off by talking to him instead. Molly skips wildly around me, chirping, “Girlfriend, girlfriend, girlfriend!”
If only they knew he told me just last night that I was not his girlfriend and that he was not asking me out . . .
Still, seeing that girl walk away from him gives me a little sort of thrill, and when I walk up to him and he tugs me into his lap, my heart skips just as gleefully as Molly had. The girls shoot me secret smiles, and they make a spectacle of showing off their shirts.
“What do you think, Van?” Nikki asks, spinning in front of him and practically trampling Ashley or Veronica or whatever the hell the blonde’s name is.
Van traces his fingers intimately down her exposed back. “I like it.”
Nikki’s face lights up, and Van rewards her with a smile, but the moment is lost when the girl at his feet asks, “Can I have one?”
“Nope!” Molly chirps, tossing herself on Van’s lap and draping her legs over the arm of his chair. “Dee has to keep production low to keep demand high. These are Dee originals. Besides, you don’t even know her and you’re just going to ask for a favor like that?”
I see Rowan give me a look, no doubt wondering when these girls got to know me, but the only answer I have is a noncommittal shrug.
“Can I pay you for one?” the blonde offers, standing up when Molly swings her legs around and nearly kicks her in the face.
I’m about to tell the girl no, since I really don’t feel like missing any more of the party, but Shawn pipes in before I have the chance. “How much would you pay?”
“What do you charge?” she asks me.
T-shirts at the festival today were selling for twenty bucks. Curious to see if she’d pay it, I throw out twice that amount. “Forty bucks a shirt.”
Nikki scoffs. “No way. At least fifty.”
Molly nods in agreement, and before I can answer, Shawn says, “Keep an eye on our website.”
Shawn is like the unofficial manager of the band. He’s the one who books the shows, who keeps everyone in line, who networks with the right people. By the glint in his eye and the smile he gives me, I have an odd feeling I just became one of those people.
“Shit, that’s a good idea,” Van says, and my world stops spinning. “I’ll talk to merch and have them get in touch with you.”