Someone Like You

[veronica]

Humiliation burns on my cheeks and ears as Hailey scrapes me up off the floor. I can’t fucking believe that Caroline pushed me. Scratch that, I can believe that. What I can’t believe is that I was so stupid. Obviously he was reaching for Caroline in the first place. They supposedly came here together, after all.

I vaguely hear Hailey ask me if I’m okay. Oh, yes. I’m fucking okay. Right. I shrug her hand off my shoulder and begin to push my way out of the mosh. I don’t know if Hailey is following or not. I can hear Dying Breed continuing their set behind me.

But suddenly I want to get very, very drunk.

I march up to a random, reasonably attractive guy sitting on a bar stool. I stop in front of him, very close. Stick my boobs out like Caroline. Jut out my bottom lip in what I hope is a sexy pout. “Buy me a drink.” It is a demand, but I put emphasis on the last syllable so that it sounds like a question. He snakes an arm around my waist and pulls me towards the bar. He asks what I want, and I say something stiff. He raises his eyebrows at the double entendre and orders.

After he hands me my drink, and before he can question said innuendo I turn and walk away. Hailey locates me as I swallow a mouthful of whatever the guy ordered me. Boy, was it strong. I’d swear it was straight vodka if not for the slight fruity taste.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting fucking wasted, what does it look like?” I snap, and immediately regret it, “Want some?” I offer.

“I’ll go get my own.”

Fantastic. We should be hammered in about twenty minutes, and will no ride home. I hadn’t planned this as well as I’d thought. But, at the moment, I didn’t really give a shit. I downed the rest of my drink and went in search of another.

My self-control completely gone with the numerous drinks I had ingested, I found myself wandering back towards the guy who bought the first drink.

“Hey, you,” I slur, leaning forward. He looks at me like I’m some kind of back-alley whore. “Sorry I ditched, I had to go find my friend.” He looks sceptical at first, but seems to accept my excuse.

“Riley.”

“Ronnie,” I giggle, “Come dance.”

I grab his hand and drag him back into the mosh pit. Instantaneously, Riley’s body pushes flush against mine. In my intoxication, the sensations nearly drove me crazy with want. I wrap my arms around Riley’s neck and grind my hips against his. His lips capture mine for a not-so-romantic kiss. To be honest, I wouldn’t call it a kiss. However, Riley wasted no time in shoving his tongue in my mouth. And his hands find my ass no fucking problem. Suddenly, I want to stop. I didn’t want to be some guy’s random hookup, no matter what my level of intoxication was.

I try to push Riley away, but he held me fast. I struggle against him, telling him to stop. I loose it when he tries to snake his hand up my shirt.

“Douchebag!” I yell, lashing my fist out into his throat. Air cut off, he makes choking sounds. I growl, stomping away, leaving him to locate air on the floor. Hailey comes up behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist.

“I love you, Ronnie,” she giggles. She is in her cuddly, warm state of drunkenness.

“Love you, too, bitch,” I pat her arm and order another drink.

“Are you mad at me?” she slurs, leaning into me.

“No, Hailey.”

“‘Kay, ‘cause I hate it when you’re mad at me. H-how’re we gona get home?”

Shit. I’d forgotten about that. “I’ll find someone to drive us.”

I begin the search, trying to locate someone who might have a car. There were many potential rides, but I had to find one who hadn’t seen me punch Riley in the throat. They might think I’m some crazy bitch.

I nearly fucking jump for joy when I see Dying Breed’s equipment bitch. Yes! Equipment bitch automatically equals van. And because he was too busy packing up the instruments, he had missed my act of rape-prevention.

I try to drag Hailey with me, but she is distracted by the guitarist of Dying Breed. I keep going, shoving the people in the crowd out of my path.

“Hey, roadie!” I shout from a few feet away. He doesn’t hear me. I wait until I am directly behind him and tap him on the shoulder.

Fuck.

This was no roadie.

This was the fucking lead singer.

“You’re equipment bitch. Caroline’s equipment bitch. Fuck.”

“Caroline’s? Like she owns me?”

“Yes. Shit,” my eyes dart around, looking for that blonde head. My fingers knot into my hair. I can’t ask this guy for a ride. Caroline would bitch us out for sure. Cock-blocking. I begin chanting shit, shit, shit when equipment bitch cuts me off.

“Why did you come over here?” his eyes zone in on my face like he’s seen me before.

“Well…”

“Go ahead,” he urges.

“Could you give me a ride? Me and my friend, I mean.” I blurt. He is probably the only real candidate for the ride home. Caroline will understand, right? He stares at me for a moment, and I nearly get lost is his fucking lily pad eyes.

“Sure, equipment bitch.” he grins.

“What?”

“Equipment bitch. You know, the person who helps the band pack up their shit-”

“I know what it is. Why did you call me that?” His grin grows and his eyes sparkle.

“No! No, no, no.”

“Do you need a ride, or what?” he asked, thrusting a guitar case in my direction. I narrow my eyes and snatch it from his grasp. I pause as the weight if the guitar pulls my arm down.

“Wait… Is this the Strat?” I ask, full of awe.

“Yes, it is,” he grins at me, “You like guitars?”

“I love them.”

“You play?”

“I dabble in a few instruments. Violin mostly,” I mumble, trying to unzip the case to get a closer look as the beautiful specimen of guitar. I pull gently on the neck until it is visible. I gasp, caught in its splendour.

“Betty is a beaut, ain’t she?” I look up at him, caught off guard at the unfamiliar name.

“Betty? Are you one of those guys that name their cars and dicks?”

“Well, unfortunately,” he looks down at his crotch, and then back at me, “I haven’t thought of a name for this yet.”

He laughs and I have to laugh, too. Because that’s the type of laugh he has. You just have to laugh along with him. I smile and put Betty back in her case.

We pack up the instruments, tuck them in for the night, and carry two cases each outside. He opens the back of a shitty truck and we load them in. I pause, hand resting on rusted paint.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“What’s your name?” I ask in return.

“Zackie,” he smiles, and suddenly I want to taste that delicious mouth. I lean an inch closer to him, lips slightly parted and I purr, “Ronnie.”

“I like that name,” he growls, taking my lead and leaning in as well.

And if I’d had the chance, I would have kissed him, but someone standing in front of the truck had to interrupt:

“Zackie? Ronnie? How do you two know each other?”