Page 89 of Unspoken Rules

“Whoop! What up, people?” someone shouts into the microphone. I glance up at the stage to see the band fully set up. “I’m Hunt, one third of Tortured Devices. Lead vocals and lead guitar.” He strums it and the crowd goes wild. “On bass, we’ve got Les, and on drums we got Cody!”

The crowd claps and whoops again. The noise is so loud it’s nearly deafening. This place is packed, and it’s already starting to get warm.

“Thank you for being here tonight and supporting bands like us. Without you, we’d be nothing. With that said, let’s get jamming!”

The crowd cheers as the band gets into their first song. It’s heavy. At a few points, he’s screaming and I don’t know what he’s saying, but the crowd is totally into it. Bobbing their heads and holding their drinks high. The atmosphere is alive. The energy is wild, and I bet it’s even better up on stage. Though there is no way in hell anyone could get me up there in front of all these people.

Every time I glance at Tomas, I find him watching the stage with a small smile on his face, bobbing his head to the beat. He looks like he’s having a good time.

Mila was right about him not being my type, which I already knew and already said, but her saying it to me made me feel better. Validated. Like it isn’t just an excuse I’m using. Sometimes I don’t trust myself. Especially not when it comes to men. My experience isn’t a lot and already it’s terrible. Douchebag gaslighter, random hook up, and best friend’s dad.

But now that I sit here, after almost admitting to Mila that I do in fact have a crush on Cole, I’m wondering why I can’t try to date Tomas anyway. Daniel wasn’t my type, and I wasted a year on him. Cole is my type, but he’s off limits.

Tomas isn’t ugly. And maybe sexual attraction would grow once I got to know him better?

Am I really trying to convince myself to be into Tomas? Is this desperation or something else? Whatever it is, it’s definitely fucking weird.

The first band plays for a half hour. Tomas leaves a few times to get new drinks, offering us one each time, but Mila and I always decline. I don’t want to drink around Chris if he can’t.

The second band sets up, which takes about fifteen minutes. They start playing right away. Their music isn’t as heavy, and the singer actually sings with a sultry raspy voice that I’m totally into. It’s like Kurt Cobain and Hozier had a baby. Halfway through their set, Chris plops in the seat across from Mila.

“Hey, babe!” he shouts over the music.

Babe?

“Uh, hi?” she says, looking at him like he’s grown a second head.

Even I know he doesn’t call her babe. And that has my stomach dropping. I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but it makes me wonder if he’s been drinking without me realizing. Tomas glances at him with a frown but turns his attention back to the band.

“Just wanted to come say hi,” Chris adds, grinning at her. He doesn’t look drunk. But he doesn’t have to be drunk. A few drinks make him different. And it seems I’m not the only person thinking it.

“Have you been drinking?” Mila asks carefully.

Good for her. Seriously. I wish I had the confidence Mila does. The confidence Cole does. Hell, any semblance of confidence would be nice because I don’t seem to have even an ounce.

“Just one,” Chris answers with a shrug. Tomas looks at Chris over his shoulder warily. Which makes me think that’s a lie. Maybe I should have asked Tomas to keep an eye on Chriss too, but sharing Chris’s business isn’t fair. “I can have one drink and be fine.”

Maybe he can.

But maybe he can’t.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t, Chris, but I thought you weren’t drinking anything,” Mila says.

His smile falls. “Well, my best friend is playing on stage, and I wanted to celebrate.”

“You can celebrate without alcohol, Christopher,” she says tightly.

He scoffs and gets to his feet. “And you can go a day without being an uptight bitch.”

“Hey!” I shout, getting to my feet so fast my chair falls back. “Don’t talk to her like that.”

Chris raises his brow at me, but not in a shocked way. It’s taunting.

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do, Bryson. You’re not my father.”

“Thank god for that,” I respond.

“What the hell does that mean?” he bellows.

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