Page 3 of Crazy Love
“Sure we are,” I agree, though I throw a look of dismay in Ivy’s direction. Not that she notices. As usual, she’s glued to her phone, typing missives to nightshift man. “We’re going to go out there and bring the house down, show these fellas how it’s done.”
“So I can take my knickers off,” Ivy pipes up.
“Uh, no!” I know Bitch Slap were formed out of rage, but that doesn’t mean we’re not a hundred per cent geared towards making it big, and we’re never going to get a foot in the door if Ivy insists on undressing on stage. The audience don’t need to be seeing her muff while she’s tinkling the keys. I think Ivy sometimes forgets we’re not a political protest collective, and that we are actually in this for the money and at least a shot at the limelight. One of these days, I expect her not to show up, and to discover she’s bought a yak and gone to live in a Tibetan commune with Nightshift.
“Maybe another time,” Jessie suggests. “I’m not sure the guys here are worthy.”
“Who was that girl that Dane was with?” Jessie asks a moment later, having straightened out her face and layered on an extra inch of lash extending mascara.
“No idea.”
“I hate her.”
“You don’t hate her. You hate him. Let it go, Jess. Why would you let yourself get hung up on this creep?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I just…I should keep on hating him, right?”
“Forgetting he ever existed might be a better plan.”
I say it, but I know she won’t. Same as I know she’ll mention him again within five minutes. In fact, every five minutes for the rest of the night, and that includes the time we’ll be on stage. All she’s done since Bitch Slap formed three months ago is warble on about how big a prick Daniel…Dan…Dane…Darke or whatever the fuck his name happens to be is. Prior to ten minutes ago, I only had her word to go on, having never met Paradise Kiss’s lead guitarist. My opinion hasn’t been elevated any by the experience, but I do want to call her over one particular detail she failed to mention in her various renditions of his prickitude, and that was how good he looks, because the devil’s always in the detail, and it explains a lot about her inability to let go. There’s no denying Dane’s a ridiculously good looking man. Not that I’m interested. Pricks don’t do it for me. All right, sometimes they do. Not for the long term, obviously, but sometimes you get an itch that needs scratching, and one thing I’ve learned about jerks is that they’re easy to pull and easy to let go once the itch is scratched. Not that I’d ever go where a friend has been before. I have principles, and there are enough men in the world that it is unnecessary to complicate friendships. As luck would have it, in this case, Dane doesn’t provide any sort of risk, especially when his equally scrumptious clone exists and isn’t Jessie’s ex.
“What’s Dane’s brother’s name?” I ask, as if it’s of no genuine consequence, merely a point of passing interest.
I’m assuming it was his brother standing back and staying out of our earlier spat, because there’s no way two men can look that similar and not be related. They’re so blasted identical, they might even be twins. Same collar-length dark brown hair, that falls exactly so, same chartreuse green eyes as if he’s walked right out of a Poppy Z. Brite novel, and the same hard wiry, physique that makes me tingly inside.
“Nat,” she replies, squinting in a way that furrows her brows. “Nathan…Nathaniel.”
Nat—Nathaniel definitely gets my knickers wet. Though obviously, I’m not about to announce that fact, his band and mine being mortal enemies at the mo, but it won’t always be this way. One day, Jessie and Dane will get over themselves, and either hook up again or move on. Meanwhile, having a little late night fantasy material never did a girl any harm.
My thoughts of back stage diving with Paradise Kiss’s guitarist come vocalist are disrupted by Ivy’s raucous cackling.
“Nathaniel and Daniel,” she says when I look at her. “They have rhyming names. That’s so fucking cute.”
It’s something, but cute wasn’t the word I’d use. I bet they hate it, which would explain why Daniel appears to be known as Dane. I reckon their folks must have been crazed hippies or else screw-ups who didn’t give a fuck about the hellish nonsense they’d inflicted on their offspring. I bet they have stupid middle names too.
“You don’t think it’s cute?”
I shake my head, lips pursed into a sour smile, and hope to God it hasn’t inspired names of the next generation of Dalton’s. Ivy’s already confessed a rabid desire for quintuplets, with names like Marigold, Moonflower and Lotus. The poor unfortunates are probably morphing into Hob, Nob, Bob, Job and Sob right about now.
“Why do you want to know about Nate?” Jessie narrows her eyes suspiciously. “You’d better not be thinking of mucking around with him, Loveday Trevaskis. You realise we’re at war, right?”
“As if. What do you take me for?” It’s not like I’m planning on handing him my number. Sins like Nathaniel Darke are strictly one time affairs, and like dark chocolate, best savoured in itty bitty bites.
Jessie’s glower doesn’t disperse.
“Chill, Lynchpin,” I say tossing out her high school nickname. “I was just curious. I like to know the names of the fuckwits I might have to sue.”
She laughs at that notion, and immediately she’s back to being the fun loving Jessie, who lived next door to me when we were five.
“In which case, I’d better give you the full Paradise Kiss run down, because they’re all worthy of that label. The Darke brothers you’ve already met, then there’s Teddy Knox on bass and Joel Aston on drums.”
“Um hm,” I nod, not really caring about the rest of the band. I mean they’re irrelevant in terms of my idle fantasies. Gangbanging isn’t a big turn on for me. I’m content with the concept of Nathaniel Darke with his shirt pushed up and his tight trousers down.
“Is it true they’re on the verge of going large?” Ivy asks. “I heard some rumbles to that effect on the way in.”
“It’s probably just their fans mouthing off. They’re not going anywhere. They haven’t the talent or the looks.”
She’s definitely mistaken about the latter point, and I’m reserving judgement on the former until after I’ve heard them play. If it does turn out they’re on the cusp of breaking through, then this vendetta against them might not be in our best interests, but Jessie’s too hung up on sticking up two fingers at her ex to care about that, and Ivy has the ambition of a wet noodle when it comes to anything that doesn’t involve making mini-mes with Nightshift. That leaves me as the sole force steering us towards the limelight.
