Page 9 of Down Beat

FOUR

Tabitha

“Zero” – The Smashing Pumpkins

“You did what?” Kendall slides a latte in front of me, and then promptly drops into the seat on the opposite side of the table.

“What the hell are you sitting down for? You’re working, buddy.”

She rests her chin on the back of one hand. “Yeah, and you have gossip. So make it quick before I’m busted.”

I take a sip of the caffeine goodness, and then lick the foam off my lip before I explain. “I figured if they want to jerk my dreams out from under me, then they may as well see the very real, very human face behind the name they fucked over.”

“So you stormed in the venue to play the guilt card?”

“I retrieved my equipment,” I say primly.

Kendall hooks an eyebrow. “You didn’t have anything there.”

“Yeah I did.” I pat the box at my feet. “This trusty old case here. Gave me reason to walk in when they arrived.”

Kendall leans back in her seat, eyes narrow. “Is this why you left the apartment early?”

I nod.

“You stalked them?”

“I studied them.”

“You’re a nutter, you know that?” She smiles. “So, what did they do?”

“Kendall!”

“Fuck.” She jolts from the seat, standing at my side as though she takes my order. “Give the rundown to me in ten seconds or less, otherwise I’ll be sharing your noodles.”

“What do you think the guys did?” I scoff. “They acted like the stuck-up assholes they are.”

“Jesus, baby.” I freeze at the husky voice behind me. “That’s a bit harsh.”

Kendall stands with her notepad in hand, eyes wide. The nib draws a squiggly line across the paper as her arm drops, along with her jaw.

I extend my leg under the table to kick her shin. “He’s behind me, isn’t he?”

“You’re on your own with this one, babe; I have to get back to work.” She pulls her jaw back, lips tight with an “oh shit” grimace, and then darts across the shop to serve an old couple in the back corner.

“You started without us.” The dark-haired cocky bastard from before makes a show of moving my road case so he can sit in the seat adjacent to mine.

The quiet guy who offered to help me carry it heads for the counter, and is immediately assailed by some desperate woman with a napkin.

“You’re really something, huh?” I muse as I lift my coffee to take a sip.

“I like to think so.” His gaze bores into mine despite the fact the horn bag with the napkin is lining him up in her sights. “What kind of music do you play?”

“What do you care?”

We enter what appears to be a staring contest while he formulates his answer; piercing eyes fix firmly on me as I hold my coffee to my chest. His black hair is spiked haphazardly, yet a few loose tendrils across his face give him the mysterious edge that I imagine his groupies love. The T-shirt he wears is torn, fashionably so, and just enough that I can get a glimpse as the ink he hides below.

I sip my coffee with a smirk.

---