Page 45 of Knot Just A Fan

They’ve barely played in sync all night. The songs have been in a strange order, and the guitar tech has looked pissed the last few times he’s popped out to rearrange shit and hand guitars to Grayson. Once he even said what I’m sure was, “Quit fucking with me, man.”

I’m on our third round of drinks together, and they’re getting stronger as the night goes on. The room bounces around with that vibration and fuzziness of a definite buzz, and as I make my way through the crowd of standing people at the bar back toward our seats, I get an elbow in the side.

“Sorry, mate,” says a man with a thick Scottish accent. Then he does a double-take. “Hey, aren’t you with them?” He points to the stage.

Oh, no.

“Not anymore,” I say. “Gives me time for these.” I hoist the drinks in the air as if to say,And I need to go drink some more, so buh-bye.

He looks at me, then looks up at the stage where Vance is now hovering around Enzo with his stills camera. “Ah, I see. He is.”

“Correct.” I’m still holding my drinks aloft in an attempt to protect them the crowd of swaying barflies. But the man, wholooks a few years older than me, smiles wide, showing a gap between his front teeth.

“I was at the New Year’s show. Me and my girlfriend. We’re off to Nantes, too. Been waiting years to see them play on this side of the Atlantic. This your night off?”

I shake my head. “They let me go.” I don’t know why I admit this. I could’ve given any story and he wouldn’t have known the difference. I’m vaguely aware the drink’s making me not give a shit.

Scottish guy shakes his head, raises a can of lager to his lips, pauses, then says, “You a freelancer? I’ve got a mate in Glasgow who does landscape work. Far cry from gigs and bands and celebrities, but he loves it. Out shooting fuckin’ puffins and guillemots and Highland cats and shit. But he’s on the Munros all the time, catching these gorgeous views. You ever try that?”

I want very much to tell this guy to get a clue, but I realize I’ve been sipping my gin as he’s been talking, and athump-thumpin my heart grabs my attention. It’s almost out-of-body, Grayson’s falsetto bringing the crowd to its knees while I discuss career paths with a total stranger.

“I—I haven’t. I mean. That’s what I’ve always loved to do, shoot nature.” I shrug, but my tone is unavoidably enthusiastic. “Not sure how I’d get paid doing it. Or doing any of it, at this point.” I’m not telling this man I’ve been blacklisted from the Guild. “Does your friend, I mean, doesheget paid?”

“Oh, yeah!” His cheery grin puts me at ease at last, and the muscles in my shoulders relax. An arm slips around my waist and I nearly jump out of my skin then smell Cami’s perfume.

“What we talking about?” She clocks him holding an open bag of Ready Salted crisps. “Ooh, what we munchin’?”

I laugh. Cami always getsmadmunchies when she’s on the verge of having had too much alcohol.

“Oh, Cami, sorry! I’ve got the drinks!” I hand her hers, which she takes gratefully, and gesture to the Scot. “This is?—”

“Alan,” he says. “My girlfriend’s in the ladies’, her name’s Sorsha. Anyhow, I was just telling—ahh—what’s yours?”

“Briella,” I say.

“Briella! Lovely. I was just telling Briella about my photographer mate up in Scotland. He freelances, sells his work as prints, or calendars, and digital companies use it for marketing. He works with the Scottish tourism folk, I think.” His eyebrows raise and he cocks his head. “Not entirely sure, but he gets paid by a ton of different buyers, and sells online. You don’t need to have a boss. Or a Guild. Surely someone’s told you that by now.” He chuckles and clinks his lager can to Cami’s drink then mine. “Get yourself an agent and get your work online. If you’ve been at it for years you’ll have plenty to attract. I’ve probably been looking at your work for years, to be honest.”

“I should try that,” I say numbly, the effects of the alcohol almost wearing off it seems. His words are giving me a hope I’ve never had, floating me on this fantasy of, well, whynotme?

I’ve always believed the Guild was the only way. The only way to safety, to insurance, to a safe life. If I never joined a pack, I could always have the Guild. Cami and me, the Guild—what else did I need?

But Alan’s given me food for thought.

And then I realize, it’s the final song of the set. Enzo’s drum solo is nearing its climax, and Ronan’s driving bass line is twining with the last sustained note Grayson’s put on loop as he takes off his guitar and hands it to his waiting tech. He returns to the mic and the crowd ramps up into a mighty roar.

“Encore time!” Alan gives me a fist bump as a cute ginger girl appears and they run off arm in arm down the back of the venue toward the far aisle back to their own seats.

“Come on, let’s see this thing out,” Cami says.

Grayson is still standing at the mic, right hand wrapped around it, waiting for the crowd to calm down their fever pitch enough for him to say something. Usually he’ll saythank you, goodnight,and all three will walk off for three minutes for a quick bio break and slug of hydration. Enzo tends to shove half an energy bar in his mouth, as their encores are never less than five more songs, usually including one long jam session in the middle.

But the crowd, anticipating this next act in the night’s festivities, simmers down. And Grayson’s still standing there, unblinking, looking out at the crowd, lips pressed tight.

His eyes flick toward where I imagine Willow to still be standing, once, back, twice, back. He shakes his head. The crowd’s still peeling out shouts and praise and applause, but one fan shouts, “Where’s your camera bitch, Grayson?”

The breath hitches in my throat. I whip my gaze around all three guys. Grayson is looking out to see who said this, shielding his eyes. Ronan’s back is to the crowd as he side-steps toward Grayson and shouts something. Grayson covers the mic, leans away and says something back, with a pleading expression, but Ronan bats the air in a dismissive gesture turns back toward his stack.

“No!” Grayson shouts into his mic. He’s pointing in the vague direction of the guy who shouted. “You don’t call her that. You don’t disrespect anyone on our team. Get out of my show!”

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