The band house, a narrow two-story home in the older, artsy part of town, was lit up like a pack of matches. White Christmas lights outlined every plane and angle of the gabled roof, as well as edged the gingerbread-house windows. Cars lined the street for blocks in either direction. Music blasted from every gap in the weather-stripping drifting on the cool air, begging the neighbors to call the cops.
These guys knew how to throw a party.
Shrieks of laughter and gusts of ear-splitting tuneage greeted us as Roach opened the door without knocking. Sloping piles of coats and heaping mounds of boots lined the porch. We dumped ours on top in a game of random garment Jenga.
Roach easily navigated the tight halls, made tighter by music equipment plunked down in the most inconvenient places. We soon entered what would have been a more open space, and on any other day might have been a living room, but now served as a kind of mini-concert venue, with masses of people occupying every square inch.
The décor was inspired by your friendly neighborhood Ikea catalogue, but not inspirational. No crosses, crucifixes or other religious objects were displayed anywhere, unless you counted a bong propped up in the corner of an armchair. Someone had etched “holy grail” into the smoke-stained glass.
Preston, Rory, and Bram stood in a semi-circular formation, dead center of the room. They were surrounded by a gaggle of their Brothers and Sisters. At first I thought they were praying, and began to bow my head out of respect, but then I realized, nope, not praying - they were shot-gunning beer.
“Chug, chug, chug…” The congregation Gregorian chanted as the three guzzled the amber liquid of the gods.
I know the concert should have been enlightening enough, but this little shindig wasn’t the hand-holding, kumbaya-singing after party I expected. Somehow I didn’t think it was what Mr. and Mrs. Dunmore expected when they’d agreed to extend Roach’s curfew to midnight so she could “partake in youth ministry activities.”
Roach stepped into the throng to congratulate her man for holding back his vomit and planted a long kiss on his lips. Preston pulled her in close, inciting catcalls. Yeesh, hail the victorious hero.
After the power smooch, Roach bent and dug out two cans from one of the many coolers around the room, all overflowing with booze and ice.
“Catch,” Roach called and I extended my arms out as a reflex. I caught the beer in what had to be an act of God. “Everybody, meet my best friend, Charlie!” Another cheer from the crowd and then Roach cracked a can open for herself. Had we followed an albino rodent down a laundry shoot to another dimension without my noticing? Who was this girl?
Preston dipped his chin in acknowledgement of my existence, and that, as they say, was that. The couple soon got swallowed by the crowd and I stood alone in a sea of the self-righteous and highly intoxicated. Catastrophe was imminent.
With my introduction to Roach’s new band of merry gentlemen complete, it was time to fend for myself. Sucking back glugs of beer, I made for the back wall where I’d seen a free butt’s worth of couch. Since the locals had revealed their true colors I determined the night would flow like any other night at a house party. Sex, drugs, and – I tilted my head, straining to hear the lyrics of the current tune – Christian rock and roll.
What a freaking tragedy.
But there I was with the rest of them, rolling in the hypocrisy, because while I had enjoyed Divine Wrath’s live show, their CD just didn’t do it for me. Polished, without a hint of mosh pit. The fact that they had it playing on an endless loop at the party?
Pure purgatory.
Finally arriving at my destination, I sat, and immediately sunk much lower that the girl on the couch beside me. In fact, my sinking sucked her down as well. Her tall girly drink pitched backward, drenching her Divine Wrath tee. She screeched and bolted for the washroom, holding her dripping shirt away from her body.
No wonder such prime real estate had been free.
“Sorry,” I called after her, smacking the offending couch. “No springs.”
A slow clap from the far end of the couch, the springy end. “Charlie, you just managed to do what I’ve been trying to do for the last fifteen minutes,” an amazingly attractive guy said.
And he knew my name. Then I remembered Roach had introduced me to the world a few minutes ago.
“You called Stephanie Cohen off her prey.” Mr. Tall, Dark and Hot held out his hand. “I thank you.”
I shook his hand, what else was I supposed to do, lick it? Believe me, I was tempted. I set my empty can aside. What was in that stuff? Pheromones? I gestured to the difference in our heights. “You have me at a disadvantage.”
He gave a tug and I landed practically in his lap. “I’m Gavin and I’ve been watching you all night.”
“Really?” Butterflies filled my stomach as his hand slid to my hip. “’Cause I just got here.”
“Right.” Gavin gave a low laugh, followed by an over the top leer. “But from the moment I saw you, time stood still.” He wagged his eyebrows. Grinned.
Cocky bastard.
This was one I wasn’t sure I wanted to tangle with. I was sick of players. Sick of playing, really. I shifted, about to slip away, but as I moved a curious expression slipped across Gavin’s features. His grin had turned to a self-deprecating smirk. He gave me a salute like he’d suspected I was bailing, and conceded it was his loss.
Definitely not the actions of guy sure of his success.
That I could relate to. Instead of standing, I bent forward. Placed my fingers over his mouth, let his breath warm my skin. The drone of music and scattered conversations faded. I traced the line of his lower lip, watching Gavin’s pulse throb in his throat.
He was a bit dazed, waiting to see what I did next. And what was that going to be? I shook my head at the hint of doubt skirting the edge of my mind. I wasn’t committing, just testing the waters. In a fluid move, I straddled his hips and ignored the roar of approval from the crowd of kids around us.
“Don’t talk, just do.” I leaned in and kissed him.