Page 48 of Deliverance

You’re going to overthink everything you do. You can’t let the crowd’s opinion sway your artist.

Of course, that meant that the label had the final word.

Drew’s shoulder knocks mine lightly and something thin, hard, and plastic prods my hand.

“You need this to get in,” she whispers conspiratorially.

Turning to look at her, I grab the object she just assaulted me with. It’s the size of a gambling card with some kind of engraving on one side. “Where?” I slide my fingers against the smooth surface, inspecting it.

Our thighs brush when the car exits the parking structure and yellow light sneaks inside through the tinted windows, illuminating Drew’s face for a moment—the slope of her cheekbones, the mess of her hair framing her face, the sparkle of the excessive eye shadow she’s wearing today. Her lips stretch into a smile, but as we merge with the traffic, darkness consumes us again.

“You’ll see,” she breathes out from the twilight of the back seat. Her scent—a maddening and intoxicating blend of sage and citrus—fans against my cheeks, prompting a small maelstrom to rise somewhere below my stomach.

The couple in the front continues to attack me with questions about my friendship with Justice, and for as long as I’m trapped between Drew and Santiago, I have no way of getting out of this interrogation, so I find myself supplying short answers that can be found in every tabloid.

It’s an unspoken rule. We don’t tell outsiders things about each other in order to avoid scandals like the one Nikki fabricated a few years ago about Justice being a sadistic fuck of a husband.

Funny thing is, the masses are easy to deceive with a few cheap tricks and decent acting skills. They’re always ready to believe a woman who screams abuse without checking all the facts. And the facts are that my best friend is a big fucking softie and would never hurt anyone, not even a fly.

But I don’t go yelling about it from the rooftops. He still has somewhat, however fragile, of a reputation to uphold. After all, women and men have, still, and will masturbate to his purrs on “The Temple of Love.” And that definitely affects the royalties.

“Wait! Is that true?” Santiago joins the questioning. “He really had someone giving him a blow job while he was recording the vocals?” Fingers snap impatiently somewhere near my face. “What’s the name of the song?”

“‘The Temple of Love’,” Bebe helps from the front.

My friend’s dick is the last thing I want to discuss with strangers, but it’s four against one, so I don’t stand a chance in hell.

“Hmmm, didn’t know you were a fan,” Drew drawls to my right, amusement and challenge creeping into her voice.

“I might have looked up some videos,” Santiago babbles to my left. “Since you’ve invited the drummer.” The car jostles, pushing his body closer to mine and he doesn’t make an attempt to distance himself.

“So is it true?” Lion asks, looking at me expectantly.

“Well, since it wasn’t my cock, I’m neither going to deny nor confirm the rumor.”

“You shifty bastard.” Santiago laughs and slaps my thigh.

I freeze for a brief second, then turn to look at Drew. I’m suddenly confused as to why she invited me. We’re driving down a busy street lined with bars and theaters, and colorful neon lights dancing across her face allow me to read her expression.

He’s okay, she mouths at me with a slight shake of her head. No words are said out loud, but the movements of her lips are simple enough for me to understand the meaning. Santiago’s cool. Although I don’t appreciate him groping me, I let it go. For now.

Thank fuck the conversation then veers in a different direction and the topic of the promiscuous lyrics is long forgotten. Drew chooses not to participate in the discussion that follows and I let myself steal occasional glances as we push through a series of gridlocks that cram the narrow one-way downtown roads.

After crossing yet another noisy intersection, the car ducks into a poorly lit alley and continues its crawl until a burst of fluorescence materializes up ahead.

Bebe hits the brakes. A Latino fella in a beanie and lime rain jacket with glowing stripes across its front nears us and she shows him what I assume is some kind of a pass—an all-black gambling-card-size plastic piece similar to the one I’m holding.

They exchange a few sentences in Spanish that I can’t understand, and the guy gestures for us to keep going farther. We drive some more until the alley bleeds into a small lot flanked by tall buildings. The hum saturating the warm air tells me that we’re still in the heart of downtown, minutes, possibly seconds away from its chaos, and whatever this place is, it’s not meant to be found easily.

“We’re here.” Drew touches my wrist and wrenches the door open as another guy in the same lime rain jacket approaches the Hummer.

Everyone unloads, and I notice the second group pulling in behind us. The attendant grabs the keys from Bebe and drives off. The second one rushes toward the Lexus.

“I’m not going to be sacrificed, am I?” I joke, following Drew toward a nondescript door guarded by a Samoan dude decked out in a black suit.

Without slowing her pace, she turns her head and winks at me. “You’ll see.” Her hair bounces against her back and arms as she walks, and wild excitement rolls through my body, the tips of my fingers tingling.

At the entrance, security pats everyone down and scans the passes with a barcode reader, and once we’re inside, we’re greeted by more security, who checks our IDs. The small foyer smells like stale food and cheap beer and has a curling staircase with an intricate mahogany railing that seems out of place. An aggressive electronic beat thrums from somewhere up above, and I feel soft comfort wrapping around me like a blanket. It reminds me of when I was in Bali and befriended a local DJ who invited me to a couple of private events where I spun some tunes with him. It was interesting. Nothing like kicking the shit out of my bass drum, but an eye-opening experience nonetheless.

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