Keep Me Guessing

--Alex's POV--

Imagine this:

So here you are, minding your own business. In desperate need for a beer and chilling backstage right after a high-intensity show you've just played. But there, tucked away behind a stand-alone amp, a little black notebook lies on the ground, somehow managing to catch your eye and your eye alone.

What would you do?

Personally, this isn't a question.

You pick it up. You read it.

And you do whatever it tells you to do.

___________________________________________________

School was finally over. Summertime.

Not like this mattered to me too much - I'd been out of school for almost 4 years now.

However, summer was still my favorite time of the year, and by a long shot, because it meant one very big thing: Warped Tour.

Only, we still had about a month 'til we'd be actually traveling anywhere. Until then, we had time at home, playing for our town exclusively. And since it was summer, my favorite time of the year (did I mention that already?), we were always awaited by huge crowds of teenagers that no longer had pre-cal homework all weekend and could now use their cars to travel to shows as opposed to the library.

As a side note, I guess you could say our band is a pretty big deal. Baltimore, or even Maryland in general, really, is pretty small, but we sure know how to attract a crowd. At our "usual spot" at Jaxx, we could easily pull in 500 fans, and that was just shy of capacity.

I hate to brag, but we're kinda the shit in this town.

But I digress. We decided to put on a show on the first day of summer, for all those kids that were itching to break out after their last days of school. The crowd was amazing, more packed than usual, if that was even possible. They loved our songs, and the number of teenage girls that begged to come backstage was hardly shy of ridiculous. To exemplify, I couldn't even emerge from backstage for all of 2 seconds without the metal barricade being all but collapsed by the screeching, roaring crowd that didn't seem to care that the 300 pound guards weren't afraid to toss them back over like toothpicks.

Every single time, without fail, I nearly shit my pants from the explosion of screams just because I was dumb enough to poke my head out of stage left. You'd think I'd learn.

Anyways, we had just played an incredible show, and I found myself craving a drink at the bar - not like this was unusual. But amidst the stage being cleared of our set, I casually made my way towards my guitar case, which held my wallet, knowing full well that on my way I'd be stopped a number of times by the band and crew, attempting intriguing conversation.

In the end, it took approximately 20 minutes after our set for me to make it across the 30 foot wide stage to my guitar case. And as much as I loved the many chances to talk about the Foo Fighter's most recent album and my best friend's girl issues, I just wanted my damn beer.

Reaching my destination, I knelt down to sift through my guitar case. And out of the blue, for a reason I truly cannot explain, something caught my attention. A typical guitar amp sat next to me, facing out towards the stage and pit; it was there every time we played, never left its spot.

But I had to double take this time around, because something was different. Out of the ordinary. Right behind this amp that I saw everyday was something I had never noticed before: a little black notebook, lying on the ground right behind where this amp sat, partially on stage. Even in the slight darkness from backstage, there it was, clear as day to me.

I reached out for it and took it in my hand. Standing up, I ran my fingers over it, a little cloud of dust visibly flying off of it. There was nothing to it, really. No detailing, no words, nothing that would indicate that it was a notebook of any importance or good use. I had the elastic strap that ran along its side lifted with a finger when a hand clapped my back.

"Alex, we got some seriously hot chicks that wanna go out later. Let's go, bro!" Jack, my hormonal best friend, enthusiastically cheered over my shoulder.

I didn't turn to look at him as I replied, "Yeah, okay. See you then."

"Uhm, now?" Glancing at him, he was giving me an inquisitive look, shaking his dark, sweaty hair out of his eyes.

"I thought it was later?"

He stared at me like I was growing a third head before his eyes. "Bro. We have a batch of fine ass girls waiting for us to get wasted with them. You and I know for a fact that they'll wanna do the dirty tonight, and you want to wait 'til later?"

"Jack, you're being contradictory. And besides, if they want me that badly, they can wait an extra 15 minutes." I said with a nonchalant shake of my hair, crossing my arms over my chest, the notebook firmly in my right hand.

His mouth fell open, giving him the almost identical appearance of a stumped monkey. He eyed the half-concealed notebook, then asked, "What's that, the wine list or something?"

"What, you think I'm drunk already?" I asked sarcastically, smirking.

"You're sure as hell acting like it!" He screeched.

"Jack." I looked at him evenly. "I'm not abandoning your offer. You know better than anyone that I'll be there, whoring it up just like always. A delay is NOT a denial."

Despite my understandable explanation, he threw his hands up in the air in a "Why me, God?" gesture and sauntered off in the opposite direction.

I shook my head in defeat, but looked back down at the little notebook in my hand. I undid the strap, and coaxed it open to the first page, clueless as to what awaited me.

Inside this notebook, I've left some clues for you.

If you wish to follow them, turn the page.

If not, put this back where you found it, please.

It was a girl's writing, I knew immediately. It was written in that elusive cursive, though not as bubbly as some girls in high school were so fond of taking the time to write out. To me, writing is writing. Why spend all that effort making the letters curvy and twisty and fill up the entirety of the short lines on notebook paper? Wouldn't you just get your thoughts down before they escape you? But that's a whole other frustrating rant.

I couldn't not turn the page. I was too perplexed.

Alright then. Thank you in advance for your interest.

Let's start with the best of the best, some Budweiser.

We all know it, and we undoubtedly all love it.

Go get 'em.

P4, L3, W9

P2, L5, W12

Oh, and you best put this notebook back if you can't figure this one out, because honestly, you probably aren't the brightest crayon in the box if you can't solve this one. And I'd rather not associate with someone incapable of a Grade 1 riddle.

I stared at this for a long time. This thing was legitimately insulting me right now and demoting me to the level of a 7 year old child. Not to mention, it was directing me towards the bar, to go fetch some Budweiser beer.

Best. Notebook. Ever.

I didn't think too much about what I was getting myself into. To be perfectly honest, the mention of Budweiser had me aroused instantaneously. But for some reason, I found myself particularly adventurous, like this could be fun. It was a puzzle I felt like I had to solve, because I was the one that uncovered the little black notebook in the first place, somewhere anyone could've come across it.

God, that sounded cliche. I basically just said this notebook chose me. Like I was in Lord of the Rings or something. Just call me Frodo.

Tucking it under my arm, I took my wallet and swiftly made my way out of the backstage area and out into the pit. Though the bar was way in the back of the venue, the majority of the lingering fans were too busy either surrounding Vinny at the merch table or wrestling with the guards backstage to even notice me casually make my way through.

I leaned on the bar when I got there, scanning the vast shelves behind the counter to see if I could possibly find the bottle I was looking for. However, the bartender got to me first, blocking my view.

"What can I get for you, sir?" He asked, cleaning a glass as he glanced at me.

"Budweiser, please." But before he could turn to fulfill my order, I spoke up loudly to catch his attention, "The bottle, though."

He gave me a confused look, "Just the bottle?"

"Yep, right here." I patted the bar in front of me, right next to where I had placed the notebook. The bartender eyed it and shrugged. He dutifully fetched a Budweiser bottle right off the shelf, opening and placing it on a coaster where I had motioned.

Once he had left to tend to another bar-goer, I discreetly opened the notebook and looked back at the page with my instructions. P3, L3, W9. It was kind of strange, the way it had been put. But I was pretty sure I knew what it meant. It was like in English class, when the teacher, too lazy to point out every single simile in the novel, would give you a sheet that listed all the "unique" and "significant" words in a set of directions. Page, line, word.

I took the Budweiser and turned it in my hands, coming across the wide label on the back. Since we weren't in fact in English class, and I wasn't reading a novel, I figured that the "p" actually signified the "paragraph" of the label. There was a long, kind of pointless little sequence of paragraphs that detailed the founding of Budweiser on the bottle, which, honestly, nobody that wanted a beer was really going to take the time to read. I surely hadn't, and God only knows how many of these I had downed since I was *cough* 21 *cough*.

Using my finger as a guide, I pointed out paragraph 4, line 3, word 9.

Do

One word down. I then traveled up to paragraph 2, found line 5, and crossed to word 12.

you

Do I what? I was beyond curious as to what directions were next, to finish the sentence, and, maybe, answer it. Despite myself, I felt accomplished upon finding these two one-syllable words. I suppose I could, in fact, be compared to a 7 year old child.

I turned the page.

So maybe you have a chance. Very well.

Next up, the fun stuff.

S on the B

W1

Oh no. No, no, no, a thousand times no.

There was no way in hell I was ordering that. This was the limit, the fucking LINE.

... But I had to.

"Sir? Uhm, could I have one Sex on the Beach, please?"

I can't help but point out right now that I have never seen a man as confused as this poor waiter was in that second. His eyes widened at me, then not too discreetly up-downed me, as if to make sure I was, in fact, a man.

"Of course, uhh, sir. Glass only, though..." He said awkwardly, and with an obvious sense of discomfort.

It was as he trotted off that I realized that these instructions didn't make sense. A Sex on the Beach (just thinking that name made me want to watch a football game and eat 10 rib-eye steaks) was a mixed drink, and didn't come out of a bottle. How was I supposed to pick out a word when there weren't any words to look through? It was impossible.

I was only a second from canceling the order when the bartender reappeared, the devilish drink balanced in his hand. He placed it in front of me, watching my expression as he did so (I could only imagine the look of absolute horror spreading like wildfire over my face).

"One Sex on the Beach sir." He said with a smile, then reached under the bar to retrieve something.
"Complimentary umbrella, too. Makes for a nice little touch, eh?"

He smirked cruelly as he plopped a little, multicolored straw umbrella right in the tall orange drink. He left with a wink, leaving me a little less than completely freaked out.

It was bad enough that I realized too late that I couldn't figure out the instructions, but now here I sat, at this very public bar, still sweaty after performing, with a Sex on the Beach in front of me.

To clarify, this drink was the epitome of femininity, the favorite of over-served sorority girls of the world. Just looking at it, the mini bright pink umbrella leaning against the side, I could feel myself losing my manhood.

Short from banging my head against the bar, I turned my attention back to the notebook, looking for any other sign of hope that this downright embarrassment wasn't for nothing. I had only just glanced at W1 when it occurred to me.

W1. "Word 1" implied that there was a single word, and not just a word embellished within a slew of them. It was like this word stood alone, by itself, with its own meaning. It didn't belong to a paragraph on a label. It was just there.

With this revelation, I took the drink in one hand, turning it around and around while keeping my eyes intently on it, scanning every square inch of the glass. I searched under it, on top of it, even on the coaster it came with, but came up short.

That is, until I noticed the umbrella. I narrowed my eyes at it as I picked it up carefully, spinning it between two fingers as I searched for anything I could find. I had only covered the lime green stem of it when I heard an attention-grabbing cough from my right.

I turned and quickly concluded that Zack and Rian had been standing there for a moment, no doubt curious as to what I was doing. And, picturing it, I didn't blame them. Their lead singer and guitarist, total man-whore (I was willing to admit), and sex-driven best friend intently inspecting a miniature umbrella that came with the single girliest drink known to man, aptly named Sex on the Beach.

"Hey guys." I said casually, trying as best as I could to wipe any trace of embarrassment over my situation from my face.

"Uhm, Alex, what exactly -?" Rian started, but Zack elbowed him and shut him up before he could finish. "Fuck!"

"I think what Rian means to say is, uhh, we would rather not know."

Acting casual, I raised an eyebrow. "I don't know what you could possibly be talking about, but whatever." I replied.

"O-okay." Zack said awkwardly, quickly putting an end to that convo and moving on. "Well, are you going with Jack later?"

"What, with those girls, you mean?"

"Yeah, he's already outside with them. And let me tell you, they're the needy kind." Rian joked, smirking at Zack.

"I told him I'd meet up with them later. I'm busy."

There was a moment of silence, Zack and Rian no doubt unsure of how to respond.

"What else is so much more important?" Rian guffawed.

I shrugged, "I dunno. I'm a little distracted today." To add to the awkwardness, I twirled the umbrella between my fingers and gazed dreamily at it, all to get them to hightail it.

And so they did. Without missing a beat, Zack pulled Rian, whose jaw had dropped nearly out of its hinges, by the sleeve, and in a rush. They were gone in no time, and I didn't blame them.

I rolled my eyes and sighed with relief before refocusing on the umbrella. Finding that the stem was clean, I spun the top only once before I found what I had been looking for. Embellished in small, cursive writing, was my answer.

believe

Now that made sense.

Do you believe

I was so relieved I could almost - let me stress the word almost -say the Sex on the Beach was worth it.

Content, I flipped the page of the notebook.

The fact that you appear to have the balls to sit at the bar with a Sex on the Beach is promising.

Speaking of balls, I must ask this - are you a boy? And under 25, for God's sake, seeing as how I'm not looking to socialize with sexual predators?

If you are both of these, turn the page.

I didn't have to think too hard about this one. I was 22 and well equipped, therefore clearing that test nicely.

Next page.

Another question.

If you have already ordered a Sex on the Beach before, or find it to be refreshing and/or cute, I'm afraid this is it for us.

Don't get me wrong, I totally support boy-on-boy, but this girl is exclusively looking for boy-on-girl.

Turn the page if you get my drift.

I knew better than anyone that I was very, very interested in the opposite sex. I loved Jack and all, but I rolled one way and one way only when it came to my favorite subject.

I turned the page once more.

/1.0.1

L1

I smirked. The lack of directions didn't phase me at all as I enthusiastically ordered the bottle of 1.0.1 Vodka.

The bartender, who I was convinced was in on all this, seemed to have already had the bottle handy, and even handed me my bill right away, like he knew that this was my last order. Or maybe he was just hinting that I should probably leave now, before things got too out of hand with this particular drink.

This was the stuff I knew the best. Hard liquor, shots, what got you the drunkest fastest. 1.0.1 was some of the hardest stuff out there, and I was familiar with it, but had never been in dire need of some. Now, however, I figured it balanced out my last, rather feminine drink quite well.

I spun the bottle around like I had before, and came across my answer pretty quickly. This Vodka was rather expensive, as I was sure I was about to find out when I had to pay the bill, so it was all artsy and fancy when it came to the label. The entire back was pretty plain, but had a single, long inscription, their little cliche "pledge."

Life is about not knowing, but taking chances

I nearly fell out of my chair.

Do you believe life is about not knowing, but taking chances?

It wasn't a complicated question. It was pretty simple, actually. But just the way it was constructed, this little hunt for clues and words, was, to put it mildly, thrilling.

I turned the page again, enthralled with this challenge.

So here we stand.

Now it's your choice, whether this continues, or ends here.

If you wish to keep this going, pick a drink, any drink, and leave it with Eric, the bartender that's been serving you and your diverse array of drinks. Include your email address on a slip of paper with it.

Don't ask any questions about me to Eric - he won't answer, or pass on your drink if you do so.

Once you've left the drink, return this notebook where you found it.

Do all of this, you very well might hear from me.

Emma

I was amazed to say in the least. She had flawlessly masked herself, and left me without a single clue as to what she was like.

Because in front of me sat 3 drinks. Sex on the Beach, the girly, fruity drink. Budweiser, the laid-back, simple drink. And 1.0.1, the masculine, tough drink. I had absolutely no way of knowing who she was or what she was like, because all of these were total opposites of each other. If she had chosen Sex on the Beach and drinks similar to it, I would've guessed she was your sadly abundant husband-hunter who liked to shop with her rich daddy's money while she was off at college. If it were the 1.0.1, I would've thought she was stubborn, bitchy, even, who liked nothing more than the one-night stands and high-intensity parties.

This girl wanted to conceal herself, rid of the stereotypes and judgements.

With this in mind, I didn't want to second-guess myself or hesitate when it came to picking a drink. However, I wasn't going to settle for a simple and clean bottle that you could get at the counter with a single word.

I liked complicated. And sarcasm.

Upon writing out a note of my own, no email or name included, I handed it over to Eric without a word, leaving him to make the drink I'd have left for this girl later.

And after paying him the hefty bill, I couldn't help but think that it was all worth it.

I was actually looking forward to the month I had in Baltimore before Warped.