CHAPTER FOUR
Fringe
It’s been a couple of days since I’ve seen Dawn. Ever since that bitch, Trish, interrupted us. I sent her ass packing right after Dawn left that day.
I realize I’m missing my best friend. And I want to see her. Make sure she’s not pissed at me.
It’s a day off for me and I could just text her. But suddenly I’m not sure what to say. I need to explore this new feeling carefully. Dawn hangs out at Lucifer’s almost daily so I can plan to run into her there, even though I hate the place. It’s always filled with biker dirtbags, like Lobo. I can’t stand the feeling in my stomach, like I’m at some portentous crossroads—it gnaws at me like a hungry rodent.
It’s already close to noon so I have a couple hours to kill before heading to Lucifer’s. Looking around the living room, I see it with new eyes, the way Dawn might see it, if I brought her here. Like it’s the next best thing to a garbage dump. Shit.
Flipping on my iPod, I turn it up to full volume and jump into cleaning this landfill I live in. Three songs in and I’m singing along to Rachel St. Claire while I push a broom around the kitchen. When I first met Dawn, I couldn’t believe my luck. Getting a meeting with Rachel St. Claire, a chance she would listen to my demo tapes, the possibility of my big break suddenly seemed within reach. In the end, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t ask Dawn to set it up. I didn’t want to use her like that or have her think that was the only reason I was hanging with her.
Talk about dream suicide.
A couple hours later, the place looks almost livable. Other than the laundry and the sink full of dirty dishes, but I made progress. Break time. Flopping down on the couch, I hit the on button of the TV remote. Flipping through channels, I smirk as I land on “Heartbeat,” the doctor show Dawn’s half brother stars in. He’s Canada’s version of Dr. McDreamy. Has to beat the female fans off with a stick. I’ve seen it happen.
It strikes me that in everything I’ve done so far today, some part of Dawn was involved. I frown, uncertain whether I’m okay with that.
I switch off the TV and pick up my guitar to work on a new song that’s been rattling around in my noggin. I’m grooving on the beat but the opening chords need some fine-tuning. Words start coming to me and I scrounge for my notebook, let them flow from brain to paper. They’re coming faster than any other lyrics I’ve ever written and my heartbeat speeds up.
Might I have something here? I’m such a poor judge of my own work.
Fear and elation vie for dominance within me as I play and sing, work and revise, losing myself in the music.
Checking my cell phone for the time, I find I’ve lost a good couple of hours, and laugh. I could spend the rest of the day lost in the song, but I’ve done all I can do for the moment. Standing, I stretch, pull on layers to protect me from a cold bike ride and shuffle out the door to Lucifer’s.
When I enter the bar, I’m greeted by several of the bikers, some shouting out my name, others raising their pool sticks or beer bottles in a salute. I know most from the shop, I’ve worked on their bikes. I don’t care for the motorcycle club lifestyle but I’m no fool. No reason to antagonize these guys and form some very unwelcome enemies so I offer nods and a tight smile all around.
I’m walking through the bar, looking for Dawn, when Lobo weasels his way in next to me. “Looking for some action, man?”
I don’t know whether he’s talking about women or drugs and I’ve just spotted Divine. I can ask her about Dawn. I need a way to shake this loser.
“Nah, not right now. Just gonna talk to Dawn’s friend for a few.”
“Whose friend?” Lobo flashes an ugly know-it-all smile. The kind that says he’s king shit.
I feel like I’m about to be the brunt of a bad joke so I grit my teeth.
“Raven Dawn. You know her.” I make my tone the most non-challenging I can muster.
“Oh, yeah, right. You mean Almost.”
“What? Almost what?” I’m quickly losing patience with this guy.
“Almost. That’s Dawn’s nickname around here lately. You know. As in, almost gonna get her world rocked by yours truly.” He laughs like he’s sharing an inside joke with a best buddy, but I’m sickened.
My hands curl involuntarily into fists. I want to punch this asshole in the face but I manage to keep my hands by my sides. I’d get killed if I start a fight in here. These guys wouldn’t mind losing their mechanic if it meant upholding the honor of one of their own. Probably the only good thing about the club—a lot of lowlifes who have each other’s backs.
I’m about to force myself into saying something neutral in response when I hear my name being called again.
“Yo, Fringe! It’s open mic night. Wanna sing?”
It’s one of the less objectionable bikers, one I’ve had a conversation or three with both here and at the shop. What the fuck is his name? Skull, I think. Stupid name but who am I to point fingers? He’s one of the older bikers, mid-forties I’d guess, and has the requisite long, bushy salt-and-pepper beard many bikers have.
“I don’t have my guitar with me, brother, otherwise I might.”
Skull hoots in reply and points to the stage, where another biker is holding up a guitar like it’s a flaming sword he just pulled out of a stone.
I shrug like I’m being roped into this, but the truth is, I don’t mind. Could even be fun. I enjoy performing.
With a nod and a grin, I leap up onto the stage and grab the mic, bending the stand forward like a true rock ‘n roller. In my smoothest voice I address the patrons. “Am I next?”
A hush falls over the bar and all eyes turn to me. I give the crowd my pretty-boy smile and take the offered guitar as a chant of my name slowly starts then picks up steam, like a mantra. I’ll admit, I’m not hating this. Especially the looks from the girls. I’m sure a couple of them are already creaming their panties. They want me.
Who the fuck wouldn’t want to be a rock star? It’s better than any drug. Better than sex. Well, maybe I won’t go that far, but it’s a close second.
I know it isn’t really open mic night tonight. This is just another ploy to get me to join the club, Lucifer’s Angels. I’m the best bike mechanic in the city and I don’t play sides. I’ll fix a bike regardless of what club the owner is from. The fact that Lucifer’s Angels want me for themselves is no secret. They don’t know it’ll never happen but I’m going to have some fun up here on stage while they’re still trying to recruit me.
Strutting to the side of the stage, I bend down to whisper to the guy who runs the karaoke machine. He’s an oily looking dude but nice enough. He nods with a smile and I move back to center stage. I’m ready. The adrenaline that pumps through me every time I get on stage is sizzling through my blood. In this moment, I could probably lift a car off a trapped person.
When the first chords of “Start Me Up” by the Rolling Stones bellow out of the speakers, the crowd cheers and claps. I know Mick Jagger’s moves, and throwing the guitar behind my back, I prance like a peacock the way he does across the stage. I belt out the lyrics and the crowd eats it up, screams for more. Each time I’m on stage it gets better—I get better. This is where I belong.
As the song comes to an end, another starts, one I didn’t request. But I know it and flow right into the lyrics. It’s Bowie, even these lug nuts were effected by his loss.
As I sing “Let’s Dance” to the adoring crowd, I know what my third and final song should be. I give the karaoke guy the kill sign as the song ends and motion for a stool. He jumps up and places it center stage for me. My audience grows quiet, uncertain what will happen next.
Flicking them a just-before-sex smile, I sit and bring the guitar back around. Once it’s tested and tuned, I speak into the mic. “This is gonna be the last one.” The cries of disappointment feed my starving ego. “It’s one I wrote myself so I’m still working the kinks out but I think you might enjoy it. It’s ahhh… untitled.”
Strumming the guitar, I bring to life the song I worked on all day. As the lyrics flow from me, I shut my eyes, momentarily alone and afraid—so inside myself that tears threaten to fall. And when I finally look back out at the audience, I find them in silent, rapt attention. They’re feeling it—the hope and despair, the crushed dreams, the agony of uncertainty of love lost and risks not taken. I’ve poured it all into these lyrics and am stunned by the reaction. I’m touching these people and it is fucking amazing.
I play the last chord and sit for a moment, looking out at the faces. They’re screaming for more like they’re at some big stadium show. A few are even holding up lighters and cell phones in the universal call for an encore. I shake my head and put the guitar down, speaking into the mic. “Thank you.”
I jump off the stage and make my way through the crowd amid much back slapping and frantic female arms thrown around me. I untangle myself and keep going. Reaching my destination, I bend low to Divine’s ear. “Let Dawn know I was looking for her, eh?”
“Yeah, sure, Fringe. No problem. You know, you were awesome just now. Blew down the house.”
I smile and wink. “Thanks.”
That’s all I get to say. There’s a hand on my crotch and I turn to face one of the biker chicks.
“You need to fuck me, like, right now,” she slurs.
I suppose she’s pretty in a hard-core sort of way. Slutty blonde bombshell, shirt too tight and skirt too short. Not my type but that’s never stopped me before. Yet, tonight I’m not feeling it.
Opening my mouth, I start to tell her so but she smashes her lips against mine and crams her tongue inside instead. My cock stirs and she squeezes it, laughing into my mouth. It’s a heady rush being in such demand, being wanted, adored. It’s an addiction that I know would be hard to shake.
I kiss her hard, our tongues dancing, my hand curling in her hair and pulling her head back, making her vulnerable to me. I’m going to fuck her. Movement off to the side catches my eye, Divine looking back at me as she leaves. That breaks the spell.
Again, it becomes about Dawn.
I don’t want Divine to tell her about this and I push the girl away, my expression hard. She clings to my shirt and it’s another moment or two before I finally get away.
I go home alone for the first time in I can’t remember how long.