When I woke up hours later in my familiar old cot, I crawled out of bed and brushed my teeth. Peering at my sleepy gaze in the mirror, I wondered why I was so exhausted. But then, it all came flashing back, in a slideshow montage of events in my head.

The bikers, trying to rape me.

The rocker, shirtless and oh so handsome.

The seductive way he looked at me.

How close I’d been to giving myself up.

Sweet Caramel Jesus on a stick.

How fucking stupid had I been? I could barely believe it. Hot or not, no boy had ever had that kind of effect on me. I mean, yeah, I felt like I was a little indebted to him for rescuing me and taking those punches. But…

Old Greg had been right.

I’d almost fucked him.

I’m such an idiot.

That look in his eyes…that seductive, low yarl of a baritone in his singing voice… and then there was all that bullshit at the end of the night. He’d been putting serious moves on me, coercing me to come along to see him play life. I could see the burning lust in his eyes, and I knew that he didn’t really give a rat’s ass about me.

No.

Nuh-uh.

Ain’t happenin’.

I groaned angrily at myself. I held myself to a higher standard than this. Sure, I owed him for what he did for me – but did I owe him that?

I mean… he was really hot.

UGH.

No.

Still mentally grumbling to myself, I went on with my morning routine. After brushing my teeth, I hopped into the freezing cold shower for the millionth time. I’d learned to clean up fast without access to hot water in the improvised bathroom for over a year.

It was only while I was toweling off that I thought back to the concert he’d mentioned. Didn’t he say that he was going to send someone for me?

I looked over at the time.

It was coming up on 11 AM.

Great. Only five hours of waiting.

Throwing on a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of shorts, I cracked a few eggs, slapped on some bacon, and made myself fried egg sandwiches for breakfast. A tumbler of frigid tap water from the bar rounded out my breakfast of champions.

As I dwelled on recent events, I found myself savoring the warmth of the eggs. Alabama rarely got what you could consider cold, but there was a slight chill to the air outside – a cold front must have snapped through.

Didn’t help that this bar had the approximate insulation of a paper bag.

Should I go? I wondered to myself.

Could I have been wrong?

Does he REALLY want to see me again?

Trent probably saw me as just another notch in his bedpost. It had been a long time, and he was really hot. Could I be okay with that? After all, I thought to myself, maybe he’d already lost interest from being interrupted by my landlord.

It was just so utterly lame that the only time I brushed with fame, with someone from well beyond this shitty little town, it was with such a conflicting, obvious asshole.

He rescued me.

He wanted to fuck me.

I had wanted to fuck him.

Well… that thought had only lasted a few minutes. I’d been caught up in the moment, in my brush with fame. But I couldn’t let him have that kind of control over me… and wouldn’t you know it, the guy looked the type to get angry over that.

UGH.

Why is this shit always so complicated?

I had to admit, though – if he was telling the truth about the concert… that would definitely be a hell of an opportunity. I’d only ever seen small, shitty shows here. This was way different. An opportunity I wasn’t sure that I could pass up.

Being backstage for a major rock venue.

Watching the rock stars go balls out.

It could be fun.

Resigning myself to this course of action, I decided to stop fucking around and just see where that went. However, I made it very clear to myself that he and I were not going to be doing anything that might sully my innocence.

So, I put on the radio while I tried to clean the back of the bar up. I went ahead and took my inventory count, swept out the storage rooms, reorganized the cold stock, and tried to fix one of the creaky shelves back there.

Just for kicks, I tuned it to the Top 40 station.

All the while, I kept my ears open for one of Trent’s songs, dragging the little battery-powered boom-box around from room to room as I worked. The stuff that was playing was mostly the kind of crap I didn’t have any patience for. Lots of young TV stars given a platform on the radio. Some super repetitive electronic music or whatever.

Is this the shit that people listen to now?

Luckily, there were some familiar sounds, older pop mainstays either making a comeback, or showing that they still really ruled the roost.

I missed the days of alternative rock on the radio. Living in this bar had given me an appreciation for country music, but still… the Nineties really pushed some stellar alternative rock bands to the forefront.

Finally, what I wanted to hear came on:

“Featuring, by popular demand, their latest single, here’s ‘Wicked Wilds’ by Trent Masters and the Whiplash! Go see ‘em live at RIPFEST tonight! This is The Pitbull, and you’re listening to 106.7 The Pit!”

A low growl of the guitars swung into gear, building up a crescendo. A few bars in, the drums kicked in, complementing the instruments until Trent’s voice finally poured in over the music:

“My lonely walk along the highway / A silent king with feet a-peelin’ / Empire of dust that shattered my way / My soul regret, I’ve lost the feelin’…”

I smiled to myself.

It was him. Definitely him.

I could see a clear picture of Trent Masters in my head, scrawling notes in a dirt-stained notebook. His boots were kicked up, while his band practiced chords and strummed along to their own hearts.

I liked the thought of it.

That’s why, when the private car finally crunched gravel just after 4 o’clock, I was dressed up in my best.

I’d even been waiting for half an hour.