Noah

The arty crowd's in love with me. From the wide leather backseat of a silver limo, I scan the lineup with a pair of three thousand dollar binoculars imported from Austria. My drummer Kendall sits next to me doing the same.

We can afford two pairs of three thousand dollar binoculars. It's fucking Vegas. We can afford anything in this fucking town where everybody's looking for a deal or a scam or a discount or a win. It's the world capital of something for nothing.

I'm not London rich, but I'm Vegas rich.

On the path to being Los Angeles rich, London rich, anywhere you name it rich...

So here's me, Vegas rich Noah Hammond, in the backseat of a limo checking out the talent lined up for miles outside the venue where I'll be singing my lil canary heart out later.

As we're pulling up, I can't help but notice some big young guy delivering pizza and soft drinks to the line. Did our people arrange that? I don't think we do that.

Then I notice him touch some girl's arm, and I somehow know it's all because of her.

You know, I have lots of choices on a hot summer night in Vegas. Hair in all the colors of candy. Pink and blue and yellow, and sometimes two or three of the conversation-kiss colors all swirled together. Piercings and tats. Short skirts. Lots of leg. Long thin legs with ballerina hollows.

This girl, the hot girl with the pizza guy at her beck and call, this one's no ballerina. She's no older than the rest, eighteen or maybe nineteen, but she's got a woman's curves. A poor observer would think the hair blends right in, but it's definitely a cut above. Expensive-looking rather than something done over a kitchen sink during a slumber party. Professional level.

A honey-colored asymmetrical bob with a long blue streak in it. Baby blue, a shade more intense than the color of the slightly over-large blue eyes.

That's the kind of girl who has guys all over her to fetch and carry. This dude isn't even going to the concert. He touches her arm, and then he's gone. That's all he gets in return— a friendzone smile from the girl that would tear most hearts completely in two.

Judging from the smile on his face as he walks away, his heart remains untorn. I have to conclude either he's her brother or he's gay.

Kendall's watching the same scene, and he knows exactly how my mind works. “Out of your league.” He means the girl, not the brother.

“Fuck you,” I say. “No girl is out of my league, baby. I'm a big rich rock star.”

It's a conversation we've had many times before, and Kendall snorts right on time. When did ten million dollars become middle-class money? Upper middle class but still... my drummer invests an inordinate amount of time in reminding me that he's soooooo not impressed. He calls it keeping things real.

“Anyway, I'm getting that movie deal,” I say. “My agent says we're this close...” I make a pinch between my index finger and thumb.

Kendall looks serious for a minute. “I hope you do, man. The band could use the publicity.” No matter how big we get, no matter how much money we make, Kendall always says the same thing. He's worse than the actual fucking publicist. Hell, he's the one who first suggested I go out for the movies.

“Focus is an admirable quality in a drummer,” I say. “Not.”

“I'm just keeping my eyes on the prize, man.” Rock music is theater, he always says. No reason I can't slide over and be an actor. No reason he can't slide over and do the same, except he's the drummer, and the drummer's not going anywhere unless the singer's going somewhere.

We're a team, me and Kendall, but sometimes he leads from the rear.

Sometimes, I let him. Guy's got a brain, not just a sense of rhythm.

And, as usual, he's right. This one's way out of my league.

I find myself zooming in on the blue-streaked butterfly's face. Peaches and cream skin. The long side of the asymmetrical bob is on the left, and that's where the blue streak is too— all the better to offset the little dimple in the right cheek. The hair's like a liquid frame around her face that focuses all the attention on the perfect complexion and the wide eyes. The brows are a slightly darker shade of honey, another frame for those eyes.

There's a lot of girls in that line. Why the fuck is she the one who grabs my attention?

Well, fuck it in a bucket. If the show is to go on, sooner or later, we've got to get out of the fucking limo. I stow the binoculars at the same time all the doors come open. Four bodyguards for two dudes— me and Kendall Kenn are The Night Bell, a two-piece that takes some inspiration from The White Stripes and The Black Keys but updated for today's generation. The bigger the star, the more polished the bodyguards. The Night Bell's security doesn't have polish. They have bulk. All four of them are former flunk-outs from the NFL. At three hundred forty-five pounds, Nailgun is the smallest of the four.

Yeah, I know. Trust me, we're all aware his mama didn't name him Nailgun.

Girls scream as we start walking toward the venue. Why lie? Guys scream too. Nobody's waiting in that line who doesn't have the hots for Noah Hammond. A few super-arty, super-snobby types will tell you they're really more into the drummer, but c'mon. Even Kendall doesn't believe that one. He's the plan B. That's the fate of drummers, no matter how good their reflexes or how tight their cheekbones.

They're there for me. All of them. There for me.

In all that crowd, I only have eyes for one of them.

Nailgun has my elbow. “I'll talk to her, sir.”

Standard operating procedure. Security vets the girls for me. Makes sure they're legal age, makes sure they're not drunk or drugged, makes sure they don't have the stalker crazies.

This one is looking back at me, well, sure, they're all looking back at me, but the way this one looks at me...

Jesus. It isn't like she's looking at me. It's like she's looking into me. Like she can see all the dirty little secrets on the inside of me and she has a few dirty ideas of her own.

A jolt goes between us. Eye to eye. Invisible lightning. This one isn't drunk or drugged or psycho.

The age thing, though. I'm twenty-five, and I've already lost the instinct you have as a teen to recognize another teen. I don't know if she's seventeen or twenty-seven.

I need to let Nailgun handle this.

I've stopped walking, and normally this means everybody around me comes swooping in screaming. I can't say what's different this time.

The way I'm looking at her.

The way she's looking at— the way she's looking into— me.

The invisible lightning between us. Heat lightning, they call it. Not a single strike but a sheet of engulfing flame. Do other people feel it?

Or does this moment that lasts forever only last a heartbeat?

“Yeah,” I say to Nailgun. “Get her information for me.” I'm already walking, and the crowd's falling in on me again, and the other three guards are bodyblocking the rush.

Did I even stop and look at her at all?

Did I imagine everything?

“We've got to get to soundcheck.” Kendall is making a general announcement to the fans. “We'll come back and take pictures in about an hour. Thanks for understanding.”

I smile a smile and wave a wave in the general direction of anybody standing around, and then I've already been swept inside.

She's outside.

If she isn't eighteen, I'll never see her again.