Page 21 of The Suite Life
‘Great, let’s go,’ Kane says, leading the way with the confidence of someone who knows he can go anywhere he wants here. I suppose I forget that he’s famous because I haven’t heard of him before.
Kane flashes a backstage pass, which I guess he’s had stashed in his pocket, like a magician holding an ace up his sleeve, and as if by magic the burly bouncer steps aside to let us past.
I step into the backstage room, and instantly, it’s like I’ve wandered into an alternate universe where everyone is considerably more metal than I could ever be. Leather, spikes, and tattoos as far as the eye can see, and I’m here in my mum’s old Madonna costume, and a fur coat that I’m starting to worry might be real, in which case I deserve to have blood cannons shot at me.
‘Back in a minute,’ Kane says over the music.
‘Okay,’ I say, feeling a little bit like a lamb to the slaughter (which might actually be a good thing here?) standing on my own.
The room is a sensory overload of pure metal. It’s dimly lit, but I can see that the walls are plastered with faded concert posters and graffiti that tell the tales of countless bands that have been here before. The air is thick with the scent of sweat, adrenaline, and all of the other smells you might expect to smell in a room full of musicians and their friends.
A worn-out leather sofa, patched with duct tape, is apparently the perfect surface for snorting things off, if you’re ever wondering. It hadn’t ever crossed my mind but now you know.
I’m not entirely sure what to do with myself, standing here alone, although I am mentally writing a list of what I don’t want to do.
I decide not to move, or talk to anyone, or eat or drink any of the food lying around, because these all sound like ways for me to get myself in trouble.
Time crawls by (although probably only a couple of minutes go by), and eventually, Kane reappears.
‘Come on, this way,’ he instructs, a mischievous glint in his eyes. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you.’
I smile nervously, following him into the next door.
I stop in my tracks at the sight of a naked man with long, sleek black hair, his hands on the hips of the also naked woman in front of him, thrusting away at her – to the beat of the music, I think, which is undeniably impressive. The woman screams with delight as she runs her hands through her short pink hair.
‘I thought we could join them,’ Kane says with a hopeful smile.
Why on earth would he think that?
‘When you said your favourite track was Fourgie, and why you loved it…’
My ears stop working, refusing to listen to another word Kane says, as I realise my mistake. The song isn’t called 4G, it’s called Fourgie, and I can’t say I’m familiar with the term but, now that I know what I’m hearing – and what I’m seeing – I think I can guess.
‘Oh, that’s so sweet,’ I say, as though he just gave me a bunch of flowers, because of course I do. ‘But I’ve just had a call from my mum, to say my auntie isn’t well, and that I need to go see her ASAP.’
Yep, I’m resurrecting my dead auntie (the one who gave me the fake ring) who never actually existed to begin with.
‘Oh, shit,’ Kane says. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’
‘No, no,’ I insist, a little too quickly. ‘Stay here, have a nice Threegie.’
I cringe. I don’t think that’s a thing.
‘I’ll see you later,’ I tell him before I make a dash for it.
Honestly, just when it’s starting to feel like progress, and that I might be able to bag myself a date for the wedding, it turns out I’ve actually secured myself three. Three would be too many. It wouldn’t be the vibe I was going for.
Ah well, back to the drawing board.
12
Tom stares at me blankly. I stare back at him. I don’t know what to say any more than he does.
I’ve just spent the past few minutes filling Tom and Zoe in on my date with Kane last night and, unsurprisingly, they are in a state of shock.
‘Wait, what?’ Zoe eventually breaks the stunned silence. She leans closer, as though she might have misheard me.
‘Oh, you heard me right,’ I reply.
