The guy squares his shoulders and says, “I think you need to keep your bitches on a leash.”
“Maybe you need to go die in a fire,” I snap.
The guy’s face twists with anger. He rushes forward, but then Jake pushes me out of the way, and for all his trouble gets welcomed with the guy’s fist flying into his face. It makes a sound, but not as loud as the sound of him tumbling to the floor. The people around us gasp and laugh in shocked surprise.
Oh, it is so on.
I lash one hand out and snatch the guy’s silver chain. He cries out in pain as I rip it out of his nose.
“Stupid bitch,” he spits, and that’s when I mentally punch him in the face.
Except it isn’t just mentally—it’s for real, my closed fist is actually moving. It hits him square in the nose with a sickening crunch.
“Oh my God,” Laney breathes from behind me.
“Oh my God,” Jake says from the floor.
My eyes widen. “Oh my God.”
There’s a moment that’s barely even a moment—it can’t be more than a second or two—where everyone around us falls dead silent, collectively holding their breath as the guy staggers back with his hands covering his nose, which is gushing blood like a fountain. But then the moment of stunned silence is over, and someone pushes him to the ground, and all of a sudden people are shoving and fists are flying everywhere.
I’m elbowing some guy in the face when strong arms wrap around my stomach from behind and heft me up high. I kick and struggle and scream at the top of my lungs as the person drags me out from the crowd, and it’s not until I’m unceremoniously dumped in the back alley that I roll over and see that it’s a security officer who grabbed me.
“And stay the fuck out,” he says, right before slamming the door in my face.
I sit up slowly to assess the damage. The elbow I scraped at the protest flares with pain, and I’ll definitely be bruised in a lot of interesting places by tomorrow morning, but I think for the most part I’m okay.
Someone laughs and says, “Having a rough night?”
I twist around, wincing a little at the movement, to see that the disembodied voice belongs to someone standing farther down in the alley. All I can make out is a silhouette and the orange embers glowing from the tip of his clove cigarette, but then he steps into the pool of light emanating from the lamplight above. He’s all jet-black hair and winter pale skin, and he has the widest smile I’ve ever seen. It splits his face and shows all of his shiny and even teeth.
“I’ve had worse.” I stand up a little shakily and inspect my elbow. Not bleeding. So that’s something.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” the guy asks.
“What makes you think that?”
“You don’t look like you fit in this scene.”
I’m not sure if that’s supposed to be an insult. “If that’s how all the guys in this ‘scene’ act, then that’s probably a good thing.”
He waves smoke away from his face and grimaces. “Those stupid horny fucks? Ignore them. Half the guys who come to these shows are just idiots wanting to indiscriminately beat the crap out of each other. Or worse, neo-Nazi assholes co-opting the scene as their own. They don’t even listen to the lyrics. Otherwise they’d know we’re anti-Nazi. Antisexism, antiracism, anticorporate tools, antiestablishment—”
“Anti-every thing?”
“Practically,” he laughs.
He leans against the grimy brick, and the light slashes across his face in a way that illuminates the large white bandage plastered over his right temple.
“You’re that guy,” I realize. “The singer. From Robot Suicide Squad.”
“Quentin Williams, at your service.” He pushes himself off the wall and does this little bow thing that makes me grin, before sticking out his hand.
I shake it; his palm is hot and dry. “Harper Scott.”
“As in To Kill A Mockingbird-writing, friend of Truman Capote, reclusive author Harper?” he asks.
“The one and only.” I’m surprised. It isn’t often people recognize my namesake.
“So if you’re not local, where are you from?”
“Michigan, born and bred. It’s a lot cooler there. Weather-wise, I mean.”
“You traveled all the way here for our show?”
“Not exactly. This was sort of an unplanned detour. We’re on our way to California.” His face falls a little. “But you guys were great,” I assure him. “Really.”
“Overinflated ego. It’s an occupational hazard,” he says, recovering with a self-effacing grin. “So, who is this ‘we’?”
“Harper!”
Footsteps pound on the pavement, and I turn to see Laney and Jake running down the alley. They stop a few feet short of us, out of breath.
“Are you guys okay?” I ask.
Laney’s bent with her hands on her knees as she pants. “Us? You’re the one who punched a dude in the face!”
“Nice,” Quentin says appreciatively.
“I’ve got a few scrapes, but I’ll live,” I tell her. “So, this is—”
“Quentin Williams. I know.” Jake looks to me, then to Quentin, and then to my hand, which Quentin is still holding. I drop it quickly. “You were great tonight, man,” he adds.
“And my wounded pride makes a resounding comeback,” Quentin says with a smirk shot my way. “You know, the band’s chilling in the bus right now. You guys wanna come check it out?”
chapter twelve
It turns out a tour bus looks a lot like a Moroccan opium den: clouds of pot smoke and strange decor. Who knew punks were into tasseled throw pillows?
“This place is awesome,” Laney says, shouldering past me and farther into the bus. “You guys must have a blast touring.”
Quentin tosses his head to the side, flipping his shaggy hair out of his eyes. “Touring’s cool. Flagstaff is too hot for me, though. At least the turnout was good,” he says. “Let me introduce you to the band. The guy with the neck tat is our drummer, Dom, and next to him is our bassist, Shane—” “Wait,” Laney says, “you mean them? “ I peer over her shoulder to see what she’s gawking at. The drop-dead gorgeous drummer with high cheekbones is on one of the couch benches, making out with the bassist.
The very male bassist.
“Oh,” I say, out loud.
Laney stifles a laugh into her hand, leans into my ear and hisses, “That is so hot.”
It really is. I stare, transfixed.
“So,” Quentin says, “what’d you think of the set?”
“It was amazing,” Jake says. “I mean, the bass line alone in ‘Revolution Is an Excuse to Party’ kills me every time. And the crazy chord progression after the second verse—that took forever for me to learn.” His cheeks go red, much to my amusement. He’s such a fanboy.
“Hey, Dom!” Quentin calls to the drummer. “You should hear this. Someone is actually complimenting your boy’s skills. Maybe you oughta document this occasion with a picture or something, you know, since it happens so rarely.”
“Fucker.” Shane, the bassist, extracts himself from Dom, the drummer, and punches Quentin in the shoulder. Then he nods at Jake. “I heard that, man. Thanks. So you play, too?”
“Not really. I mean, I mess around a little, that’s all. The bass isn’t even mine. It’s my brother’s.”
“He’s really good,” I insist, overly defensive. Jake does have talent. Why’s he trying to brush it off like it’s nothing?
Shane glances at me and then back at Jake. “You write any original stuff?”
“No,” he says quickly with a shake of his head. “Definitely not.”
“Too bad.”
I remember then that I have my camera on me. I grabbed it from the van before we went to the bus.
“Hey,” I say, pulling off my pack and reaching for it, “would you mind if I—?” I hold up the Polaroid tentatively.
Dom pauses from rolling a blunt between his fingers to frown. “Wait a minut
e. Are these going to wind up on the internet?”
“Uh…” I pause. “No?”
“Fair enough.”
I snap away as everyone else sits down, getting comfortable. At first Quentin, Shane and Dom make faces at the camera, alternately growling and sneering and leering lewdly, but after a few minutes they drop the poses. That’s when I get the best shots—Jake, in intense conversation with Shane about chord progressions; Laney laughing at some elaborate story Quentin is telling about getting pulled over by the cops in San Antonio; Dom, beating out a rhythm on his thighs and nuzzling at Shane’s shoulder.
I feel part of it all and completely separate at the same time.
I turn to Quentin, who is closest to me, and tell him I’m going to go get some air.
“I’ll come with you,” he says.
He follows me down the bus steps and out into the dark and empty parking lot. The feeling in the night air is weird, like it’s at a standstill. No breeze.
“So what’s in California?” he asks, bumping his shoulder into mine.
I look down at the camera in my hands and shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Aw, don’t hold out on me. You’ve gotta have a reason for going.”
I don’t really want to explain it to him in detail, so I keep my eyes down as I fiddle with the camera strap. “Some people think that a place can save them,” I say. “Like if they could just be somewhere else, their lives would be totally different. They could finally be the people they always wanted to be. But to me, a place is just a place. If you really want things to change, you can make them change no matter where you are.” I look up at him. “Does that make sense?”
Quentin stares at me, his face schooled in a pensive expression, and for a second I think maybe he understands. Maybe someone does.
But then he cracks a bemused smile and says, “Wow. That shit is too deep for me.”
Well, it was a long shot. My thoughts don’t make sense even to me most of the time.
Suddenly Quentin lunges forward and steals the camera from my hands. He lifts it up, pointing the lens at me, and I instinctively cover my face with my arms.
“Come on,” he cajoles. “No fair. You take everyone else’s picture, but no one can take yours? That’s how it is?”
“That’s exactly how it is. I hate having my picture taken.”
I peek at him cautiously through my fingers as he lowers the camera. I rush forward to dive for it, but he quickly raises it over his head again. Since he’s at least half a foot taller than me, no matter how high I try to jump, I don’t come close. Finally I stop, huffing, and cross my arms over my chest.
“Give it back,” I demand.
“I will,” he says, “if you let me take your picture.”
“Fine.” I toss my hands up in defeat. “Go ahead.”
He holds the camera to his face and peers through the viewfinder as I glower. A second later he pulls it away, head shaking. “Nah, it’s no good unless you’re smiling.”
“I don’t smile unless I have a reason.”
“All right. Then I’ll give you one.”
Quentin ambushes me, his hands grabbing at my rib cage, tickling my sides. I jerk backward and stumble so hard my back rams up against the side of the bus.
“Stop,” I gasp, trying to bat his hands away. “Seriously, Quentin, don’t—”
He does stop. He slides his hands down from my ribs to circle my waist. I try to remember, through wheezes, how to breathe normally as he leans down, his breath hot against my face. I know that he’ll kiss me if I don’t stop him. Part of me doesn’t want to stop him, because Quentin doesn’t know who I am, doesn’t know about June—he just sees a girl with a camera who rambles nonsensically. Maybe that’s the same reason he wants to kiss me; before tonight I’d never even heard of the legendary Quentin Williams, I don’t own any Robot Suicide Squad albums, I just see a guy with black hair and pale skin and a killer smile.
Too bad that at this range, all I can focus on is how he reeks of pot and stale beer and sweat.
“Dammit. Shitty piece of—”
I glance to my left to see Jake, cigarette dangling between his lips. He shakes out his malfunctioning lighter and curses a few times. And then he looks up, and I’m looking at him, and Quentin has his hands around my waist, and—
Jake stops dead in his tracks. He stares at us for a few seconds, frozen, before whirling around and rushing off, all without a word.
“Get off me,” I choke out through gritted teeth. I shove Quentin back a few steps and snatch my camera from his hands.
He fixes me with a bewildered look and says, “It was just a joke. I didn’t mean to—”
“Well, it wasn’t funny,” I snap hotly.
My legs won’t stop shaking. God, Jake’s face—
“Is that guy your boyfriend or something?” Quentin asks, more curious than anything.
“No! God, he’s not—” I stop and take a breath. “No.”
He raises one eyebrow at me like he thinks I’m full of shit.
“I’m not anyone’s anything,” I insist. “Believe me.”
I tug down my shirt from where Quentin’s hands rucked it up, angry, embarrassed. At least my camera didn’t break in our scuffle. There’s a picture sticking out of the bottom—I yank it out to see a reflection of myself, hands blocking my face from view. I rip the photo down the middle and drop the remnants.
He watches both halves flutter to the ground. “You’re pissed,” he observes.
“You think?” I sigh, running my hands through my hair. I hate that I’m so flustered. “I just didn’t expect to get jumped on. It freaked me out.”
“Some girls like the element of surprise.”
“I’m not some girl,” I shoot back.
A half smile curves Quentin’s lips as he looks at me. “You’re really, really not, are you?”
I expect Jake to act all weird and annoying when we get back. But he doesn’t. He acts totally normal, even when Quentin and I board the bus together, my face still flushed. Not long after that, Quentin announces they have to hit the road.
I’m halfway out the bus when he puts a hand on my shoulder and says, “Hey.”
I glance once at Jake, his arms crossed, eyes on the ground like the cigarette butts littered there are fascinating, before I turn to face Quentin.
He flashes me that sparkling smile. “You should Facebook me or something,” he says.
Facebook. How very punk rock.
I don’t know what else to do but nod. Quentin waves and heads back into the bus, and Jake, Laney and I walk to Joplin, parked on the other side of the lot.
Jake continues to act like nothing is wrong as we pore over the atlas and navigate toward the main westbound route. I feel guilty, and even more than that, irritated with myself for feeling guilty when I have no reason to.
Before getting onto the highway, Jake pulls into the parking lot of a drugstore. “We should stock up on supplies,” he explains.
Laney has been quiet since we left the bus. After picking myself up a wrapped turkey sandwich, some Skittles and a water bottle, I find her in front of the pop coolers, considering the different brands.
“What’s up?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer for a moment, then snaps out of whatever daze she’s in and looks at me. “Oh. Just the eternal debate. Trying to decide between cherry and diet.”
“Ah, yes.” I nod gravely. “A question for the ages.”
“Exactly,” she says. She glances over her shoulder toward the door. “Why don’t you pay and wait in the van? I might be a minute.”
I shrug. “Okay.”
As soon as I’ve checked out and pushed through the door, I nearly barrel smack-dab into Jake. He has a coffee in one hand, a lit cigarette in his mouth (big shock there) and two white plastic bags hanging off the other arm.
I falter for a second before deciding the best approach is to adopt his: act totally normal. “Hey,” I say carefully. “What did y
ou buy?”
“Stuff,” he replies. He doesn’t elaborate.
“Thanks for the clarification.” I roll my eyes.
He doesn’t even look at me. Apparently staring at the pavement is more interesting than engaging in conversation with me.
Suddenly I blurt out, “Quentin and I—we didn’t do anything.”
Ahhhhhhh! Why, why, why does my mouth never listen to my brain? So much for playing it cool. So much for maintaining my dignity.
Jake taps the ash off his cigarette and regards me impassively. “Okay.”
“And even if we did, which we didn’t, it’s none of your business.”
“Okay.”
“I just wanted you to know.”
“Okay.”
“If you say okay one more time, I’m going to punch you in the solar plexus.”
His eyebrows jump. “The solar plexus, huh?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m not exactly sure where that is, but I will find out. And then I will punch you there. Hard.”
“Look,” he says. He inhales sharply. “You’re right. It’s not my business. You are free to do whatever you want with whomever you want. It really doesn’t matter to me.”
I wonder if he believes me. I wonder why I care so much that he does. Jesus, it’s Jake.
I study him for a long beat and say, “Good.”
Except it isn’t, because somehow what he’s said only makes me feel worse.
“So, how far is California from here?” Laney joins us outside, a piece of licorice stuck in her mouth. She tears a big bite out of the strand and chomps on it loudly.
“I talked to the guy inside, and he said it’s about five hours to L.A.,” Jake says. “I’m thinking we drive past and hit up a motel in Huntington Beach near the shore, since we’re going to take the highway up the coast anyway. We can spend tomorrow chilling out before driving to San Fran.”
“Finally!” She pumps one fist in the air. “All of this driving is making me crazy.”
I have to admit I’m getting stir-crazy, too. Not so much that I’m ready to go home yet, but I am starting to long for the comfort of a warm bed instead of a stiff car seat. It feels like we’ve been on the road forever.