And while nodding, I blurt: “No.”
“Oh, TJ …” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “Talk to me. Was it a guy? Did he break your heart? I’ll kill him if you want.”
She says that so sweetly. And her face registers as unsettlingly sincere.Remind me to add her to a list of people never to fuck with.
“Sorry,” she goes on, “I just sort of assumed you’re gay. I have a gay brother. I’m getting gay brother vibes from you.”
I’m not even sure how to respond to that. “I just need to go.”
“I’m gonna fuck up whoever it is, okay? Like, fuck them up so bad, there’ll be nothing else left to fuck up when I’m done.” Again, she says this sweetly. “I’ve got your back, little bro.”
Whistling and howling erupts from the concert hall. Miranda and I turn to it. People around us rush back in, some abandoning the long-ass merchandise line, not wanting to miss the show.
She frowns at me. “If you gotta go, you gotta go. I sure hope I get to see you again. Maybe at the next show? You’re a good guy.”
Too many people tell me that without knowing me.
I sure don’t feel like the good guy tonight.
There’s someone who should be here instead of me, to see the singer he loves and worships. Someone I likely scared away. And every second I stand here still wearing his hat, I feel worse.
She takes my hand one last time, whispers, “I’ll mess him up, whoever it is, just say the word,” then smiles, nods, and lets go as she heads off to see the main act, leaving me in the lobby.
To the sound of the exploding crowd, I walk past the vendors, who are now staring at each other, like they finally broke through their wall of sexual tension—good for them—and head for the exit, clinging the Soul Biter shirt to my chest.
I stop. Through the glass doors: rain. Pouring, relentless rain. Flashes of lightning. The scene sure gives this “House of Thunder” venue a fitting atmosphere. All of that scary storming becomes the visual backdrop as the music kicks in from the concert hall—the steady, invigorating drums, a deep note ringing out from the bass guitar that joins the rhythm of the drums, and then chords on an electric keyboard playing their way in. Finally, the rich, bright notes from skillful fingers on a guitar come to life. The music is so full and engaging, even from out here in the lobby, that I barely register the joyous screams from the crowd.
It’s going to be a long-ass drive home.
Maybe I deserve it.
My hand is resting on the push-bar of the exit when Chase Holt sings his first note.
And I stop.
Struck by it.
I’m struck for some reason I can’t yet make sense out of.
I listen to his voice—and the lyrics.
“Quicksand, quicksand…”
“You know the danger, quicksand…”
I barely notice the flash of lightning and the rolling boom of thunder that follows. My complete attention is locked into Chase Holt and his lyrics.
“Haven’t given into him yet, have you?”
“But I know, I know, I know you want to.”
“Wanna toss yourself into his eyes, ‘cause he pleads the right way…”
“Yeah, he pleads the right way, don’t he…”
My hand drops from the push-bar as I continue to listen.
“You know the danger, quicksand, yet still you dip your toe…”