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him. Ugh. And Viola wondered
why I hadn’t gotten laid in so long. With champions like this all across town,
I had slim pickings.
    Once every month or so, Viola made the hour-long trip to the
city, widening her dating-pool options, but for me—well, I’d moved to the
middle of nowhere to avoid cities. Cities bred strange sights that led to
counseling sessions and padded rooms.
    “The show going on in the basement, Jamie?” I palmed a
couple of crinkled dollar bills and shoved them his way.
    Still trying to recover his shredded dignity, he chewed on
the filter of his cigarette as he gave me change. No eye contact, of course.
Viola wasn’t so keen on letting him off the hook.
    “Any good spreads at least? Please don’t tell me you’re
jerking it to Playboy , because that’d be a disappointment.”
    I bit down on my lip to hide my smile. Jamie gritted his
teeth, took her money and ignored her. We walked toward the music pulsing from
the basement.
    “You didn’t have to torment him like that.” I nudged her
shoulder once we were out of sight.
    “Oh but I did. Who could waste the opportunity?” The dark
steps down to the basement cast her face in shadows, but there was still enough
light to glimpse the mischievous gleam in her eyes. At least with a friend like
her I was never bored.
    Voices threaded raw with half-screams and shouts to the
audience assaulted my ears the second we hit the final steps. Jamie must’ve
pulled out the dark-red lights for ambiance, coloring the rusty basement the
color of old blood. I blinked in surprise once I turned the corner to face the
crowd.
    Packed. Was that possible in this town? All young
folks too, not the normal smattering of old drunks lining the bar and the few
people my age halfheartedly fist-pumping to the music.
    Shows in this town ranged from awkward to just pathetic.
Unless the band was country, in which case most families turned up and stupid
broads lip-synched all the words.
    The smell of Old Spice mingled with body odor and bourbon,
creating one confusing inhale. Babykiller was the opener and this much of a
crowd had already showed up? I’d thought I’d caught a whiff of messed-up juju
from the flyer and many of these people backed up my theory.
    Viola and I snuck in, elbowing past a couple of people to
lean against the wall. Folks with armbands, good leather jackets and neon-dyed
hair crowded most of this place.
    I could guarantee half the crowd wasn’t from here. The
townies stood out like sore thumbs with their rolled-up flannel shirts and torn
jeans. Even better still, a real live mosh pit had formed, filled with
thrashing guys and flying fists. My heart skipped a beat with the excitement of
violence, of anything new. All my pent-up anger and frustration pulsed in my
chest, throbbing with the music and rising with the crescendo of the guitars.
    I ordered a beer and popped the tab, knocking back the
watered-down sludge as if it were nectar. This, this was what I needed
tonight, regardless of what general weirdness was going on around here. Viola
stood there with a smirk on her face as the general populace gave her a wide berth.
    The punk rock community couldn’t process her pink poodle-y
self.
    The air was heavy, humid. It reeked in the perfect way, giving
the atmosphere much-needed gravity amidst the chaos. The door shut again as a
couple more guys wandered in.
    I scanned the audience, surprised by the amount of eye candy
in here tonight. A normal walk around town gave me a scope of long-haired hick
guys, older toothless jerks and overweight or overmuscled slouchers. Tonight,
however, I spotted lanky limbs, shaggy hair and intelligent eyes everywhere I
went. All the things that sparked my interest.
    Babykiller wrapped up their set with one final blaze of the
guitar and the crowd roared, fists flying in the air and shrill whistles
piercing through the noise.
    I chugged the remainder of the beer and crushed the can on
the wall.
    Viola flashed me a smile.