I gazed down at the white knee socks. The rusty brownish smears looked particularly awful in the harsh fluorescent lighting. My left hand clenched instinctively, and I felt the familiar sting of raw flesh on my palm. “Looks real, doesn’t it?”
“Is it?” Edgar asked, raising his dark eyes to scrutinize my face.
There was a knock on the door, and Robbie poked his head inside. “Guys — I want you to meet someone.”
A tall man followed him into the room, and I disliked him on sight. He was probably in his fifties, with a small pointed nose and half-lidded eyes that indicated to me he was drunk, and likely had been for most of his life. His hair stood up in bleached-blond clumps, giving him a sort of aging surfer look. He wore what was clearly an expensive grey suit, but the black shirt underneath was unbuttoned low, to reveal cobwebby white chest hair.
“This is Tom Manic. He’s the owner of Recordead Records,” Robbie announced.
“Love your band,” Tom said in a sleepy-sounding voice, holding a hand out towards me. All of us took a turn shaking it. We introduced ourselves. He continued. “Glad to be here tonight. You got a great turnout.”
“Thanks for coming out,” Socks said. “The show tonight’s going to be great.”
“Yes,” Tom agreed. His gaze moved to Fern, and then to me. “You know, I’ve never been a fan of girls in bands.”
My smile froze.
“Well, look at her!” he laughed to the others, widening his eyes with amusement. “Relax, darling! You’ve proved me wrong. Honestly when I heard that story about you throwing up all over that poor kid, I thought, ‘I have to meet this girl.’”
For some reason everyone laughed at his comment, so with effort I turned up the sides of my mouth. I understood we were supposed to try to impress this guy, but really. Tom Manic with his pointy weasel nose? Really? This was the guy who owned one of the biggest metal labels? This sleazy-looking moron?
“It’s nice of you to come all this way,” I said, with some effort.
“Oh, I absolutely love coming out to these smaller cities,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s so rare I get the chance to really get into these salt of the earth communities. Los Angeles can be so tiring. And some of the biggest bands really do come from these sort of nowhere cities, you know?”
We heard the crowd roar as Torn Bowel finished their last song, and then the house music came back up again.
“We’re up,” Edgar said.
“Great. Right. Well, break a leg, you know?” Tom chuckled lazily, as though he’d just made a witty comment, and then he gazed at me for a moment. “It’ll be interesting to see the performance. We’ll talk after, right?”
He left the room, and Robbie trailed him, pausing before he closed the door to wiggle his eyebrows and give us a thumbs-up.
“He seemed nice,” Socks said.
“He seemed like a sleazeball,” I said.
“We can talk about it later,” Edgar said. “Right now, we have a sold-out crowd waiting for us.”
Socks and Edgar left the room, and Fern picked up her guitar. “Planning anything insane?” she asked.
I shook my head shortly, following her out into the dark hallway. I didn’t have any idea. I was angry, knowing that everyone and this Tom guy, even Fern, expected something from me.
xXx