Page 2 of Siren's Call

I gave her a level look. “Thanks. Times likethis I remember that friendship is masochism.”

Her grin widened as shestrolled to the door, curls bouncing with her walk. “That’s why youlove me, Liz!”

I followed her out andlocked up. As we walked down the corridor, our footsteps echoed allaround us like the marching of a thousand angry men.

****

One of the pluses andminuses of living in a small town was … well, how small everythingwas. Of course, there was one place that featured real musicoutside of the banjo and twangy crap played in barns.

The Red Door was our onedecent music venue and most times of the year, local bandsclustered there looking for ever-elusive fame. Like any talentscouts would be out our way.

A bright-red door markedthe place and the wide windows displayed their café, which wasswarmed by the teenagers of this town on a regular basis. Onweekend nights, some tart would be wailing away on her acousticguitar, but on rare occasions—and I meanrare—there’d be a variation to themusic, like a metal or punk rock band.

With the umber streaks offading sunset mingling with ashy clouds, the night was dark. Darkerthan usual, at least. I, for one, was glad I’d chosen pants afterwatching a gaggle of girls giggle as they clicked across the streetin their heels.

Viola strolled with me,looking poodle-tastic as we marched our way to see which one ofthese bands dabbled in fae business.

Viola strode in first andthe overhanging bell clanged with our entrance. A couple of slimguys sat at one of the tables, books out but no one reading. Onelook at the titles and I snickered. Of course—Hemingway, Salinger,and the sort. These were wannabe elites who, once they popped onbig-boy pants, would be infiltrating New York with theirpretentiousness.

The floorboards vibratedto the beats pulsing downstairs. Jamie sat behind the counter,hunching over in his seat and not paying attention. He stared atsomething below the countertop with the same intensity a librarianwould read their favorite book. “Hey, jack off on your own time,”Viola called out.

His head whipped up, longstrands of hair covering his face. The reddening of his cheeksincriminated him.Ugh.And Viola wondered why I hadn’t gotten laid in so long. Withchampions like this all across town, I had slimpickings.

Once every month or so,Viola made the hour-long trip to the city, widening her dating-pooloptions, but for me—well, I’d moved to the middle of nowhere toavoid cities. Cities bred strange sights that led to counselingsessions and padded rooms.

“The show going on in thebasement, Jamie?” I palmed a couple of crinkled dollar bills andshoved them his way.

Still trying to recoverhis shredded dignity, he chewed on the filter of his cigarette ashe gave me change. No eye contact, of course. Viola wasn’t so keenon letting him off the hook.

“Anygood spreads at least? Please don’t tell me you’re jerking ittoPlayboy, because that’d be a disappointment.”

I bit down on my lip tohide my smile. Jamie gritted his teeth, took her money, and ignoredher. We walked toward the music pulsing from thebasement.

“You didn’t have totorment him like that.” I nudged her shoulder once we were out ofsight.

“Oh, but I did. Who couldwaste the opportunity?” The dark steps down to the basement casther face in shadows, but there was still enough light to glimpsethe mischievous gleam in her eyes. At least with a friend like herI was never bored.

Voices threaded raw withhalf-screams and shouts to the audience assaulted my ears thesecond we hit the final steps. Jamie must’ve pulled out thedark-red lights for ambiance, coloring the rusty basement the colorof old blood. I blinked in surprise once I turned the corner toface the crowd.

Packed.Was that possible in this town? All young folkstoo, not the normal smattering of old drunks lining the bar and thefew people my age halfheartedly fist-pumping to themusic.

Shows in this town rangedfrom awkward to just pathetic. Unless the band was country, inwhich case most families turned up and stupid broads lip-synchedall the words.

The smell of Old Spicemingled with body odor and bourbon, creating one confusing inhale.Babykiller was the opener and this much of a crowd had alreadyshown up? I’d thought I’d caught a whiff of messed-up juju from theflyer and many of these people backed up my theory.

Viola and I snuck in,elbowing past a couple of people to lean against the wall. Folkswith armbands, good leather jackets, and neon-dyed hair crowdedmost of this place.

I could guarantee half thecrowd wasn’t from here. The townies stood out like sore thumbs withtheir rolled-up flannel shirts and torn jeans. Even better still, areal live mosh pit had formed, filled with thrashing guys andflying fists. My heart skipped a beat with the excitement ofviolence, of anything new. All my pent-up anger and frustrationpulsed in my chest, throbbing with the music and rising with thecrescendo of the guitars.

I ordered a beer andpopped the tab, knocking back the watered-down sludge as if it werenectar. This,thiswas what I needed tonight, regardless of what generalweirdness was going on around here. Viola stood there with a smirkon her face as the general populace gave her a wideberth.

The punk rock communitycouldn’t process her pink poodle-y self.

The air was heavy, humid.It reeked in the perfect way, giving the atmosphere much-neededgravity amidst the chaos. The door shut again as a couple more guyswandered in.

I scanned the audience,surprised by the amount of eye candy in here tonight. A normal walkaround town gave me a scope of long-haired hick guys, oldertoothless jerks, and overweight or over-muscled slouchers. Tonight,however, I spotted lanky limbs, shaggy hair, and intelligent eyeseverywhere I went. All the things that sparked myinterest.

Babykiller wrapped uptheir set with one final blaze of the guitar and the crowd roared,fists flying in the air and shrill whistles piercing through thenoise.

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