9 Years Ago:
“Why are we here?”
I grit my teeth as I shut off the engine. I say nothing as I glance out through the windshield at the small little marquee sign above the door to the place and grin to myself.
Shit, her name looks good up there.
And it’s just her name - not some stupid stage name or some obnoxiously hipster one-word title like “Beach” or “Forest” or some shit.
Just her.
“Bastian, why are we—”
“Culture,” I snap at Stephanie, smiling thinly as I swing the door open. “We’re here for some culture.”
I don’t wait for her as I stride for the door, but I hear her heels click-clacking behind me. Part of me wishes she’d just waited in the car. Hell, part of me wishes I hadn’t checked Facebook halfway back from picking up weed at Ash’s house with Steph in the car, and seen that Ana was playing here tonight.
I could have dropped Steph off first, but she became secondary once I’d yanked the car around and gunned it for The Boiler Room. That and the show was starting in twenty minutes, and this time, I was going to make it.
This time, I’m going to damn well watch her play.
“Bastian, this place looks tacky.”
She’s right. The Boiler Room is a building doing its best to look like a tugboat or something - porthole windows, some lobster traps sitting by the front door, buoys decorating the white clapboard exterior. This was campy in the seventies. Now, it’s just sad looking.
But I’m not here for the decor, or because it’s a fashionable new en-vogue spot that’s recently been redone by some famous interior designer.
I’m here to listen to the girl who’d probably rather I not come tonight. Which is why the only plan here tonight is to hang out in the back of the room being invisible.
I don’t want to make a scene. I don’t want to fuck up her vibe or whatever. I just want to sit in peace and listen to that voice again.
These are basically the textbook stages of early addiction, by the way. I’ve looked it up.
The craving.
The obsession
The need for more.
“Oh my God.”
I stop, growling to myself before I turn to see what I’m already expecting. Steph is stopped short on our way to the front door, looking up and gawking at the marquee.
“Is that why we’re here?”
She looks back at me, her eyes narrowing in an accusatory way.
“For her?”
I bite my tongue.
“Yes.”
Steph’s jaw starts to drop, but I stop her.
“For Tyler, actually.”
I don’t lie because I’m embarrassed to be here, I lie to shut her the fuck up so we can go in. I also don’t need her causing a scene, and I definitely don’t need her reading into this.
…Even if whatever she reads is most likely right.
Steph frowns. “For Tyler?”
“He’s into her I guess, but he wanted to see what this whole singer thing is all about.”
I shrug, saying nothing more. I don’t need to justify this to her, or pacify her more than she needs to be to shut her mouth.
She makes a face.
“Can’t we just go?”
She sidles up to me, running her hands up my arms.
“What if I go roll up that weed, we drive out to Littleton Beach, and you can just fuck me on the hood of that hot car of yours?”
The invitation does nothing for me.
I look away from her, my eyes glancing first at my Maserati, which stands out like a sore thumb in a parking lot full of beat-up pickup trucks and third-hand Volkswagens. My eyes land on Ana’s - the old blue and white Chevy parked off in the back of the lot.
You can just fuck me on the hood of that hot car
My mind flashes to a different fantasy - one where it’s not the Maserati, but the back bed of that pickup truck. And it’s not Stephanie fucking Seyfried stretched out with her ankles on my shoulders moaning my name.
It’s Ana.
Begging me to go harder.
Begging me to spank her ass.
Grabbing my hips and flipping us over so she can ride me while she moans me to come inside of her.
“Ooooo, someone likes that idea.”
I snap out of it, jerking back from Steph as her hand slides to my now throbbing cock over the front of my pants.
I push her hand away.
“Wait in the car.”
Her jaw drops. “Excuse me?”
“Do you want to come inside this place and listen to a bunch of shitty, grungy musicians play bad songs?”
She makes a face.
“Also I doubt it’s air conditioned.
Steph blanches.
“So wait in the car.”
“How long are you going to be in there?”
“Five minutes, tops.
She mulls it over.
“Okay, fine. I’ll just—”
I turn and walk away.
“Wait, can I at least have the keys?”
I glance back and unlock the car door remotely with the little clicker from where I’m standing before turning back and heading inside. The show is eighteen and over, and when I pay the cover, I mention to the bouncer that the blonde girl in heels and a black mini-skirt outside is only fifteen with a fake ID. It’s not true, of course, but I say it and pass the bouncer a hundred bucks just in case Steph tries to come in looking for me.
It’s dark inside, thank fuck. I make my way to the back of the room and stand behind a pillar as some guy with shitty tattoos finishes up some lame boring clichéd song about being dumped.
“Next up - and I think you all know this one by now - please welcome a Boiler Room favorite—”
She plays here a lot apparently.
The MC grins at the crowd. “Please welcome, Anastasia Bell!”
The room claps and hoots, the lights go up, and then there she is, stepping onto the stage.
And the rest of the world sort of tunes out.
She’s good. She’s fucking really good. The songs are effortless and complex, the lyrics deep, and her voice - holy fuck that voice. I spend forty-five minutes of my life standing behind that pillar in the shadows, ignoring the twenty missed calls and forty texts from Steph saying she’s bored, or that she can’t get in, or that the car locked behind her, or that I can go fuck myself and she’s calling a cab.
I ignore it all actually, and just sit there and let it all just seep into my soul.
I blink when it’s over, coming out of my trance in time to clap with the rest of them as she steps off the stage. I leave before she can come out from backstage. I ignore the “fuck you asshole” written in lipstick on my driver’s side door, and I drive home alone, in silence.
That’s the night something changes in me.
That’s the night I go from obsession and addiction to something more.
…It won’t be until much later that I understand what the four letter word is for the emotion I’m feeling about Anastasia.