22
Alina
Well, so far so good.
I’ve been here at Onyx for almost two hours and I haven’t freaked the fuck out. Yet.
“I’m going to get a drink and take a seat. My poor feet aren’t used to dancing like this.” I gently pull Paisley close to me so I can shout in her ear, as the words to Fifth Harmony’s “He Like That” fade out and switch to “Would You Ever” by Skrillex, featuring Poo Bear. We’ve been dancing and laughing like maniacs for the past hour, and I need a well-earned break.
Who would have thought: me, dancing? It’s another huge step in the Alina Cassidy road to recovery. Gone is the earlier stress I felt about coming out tonight. Everyone’s been so nice. The other bands seem just as nervous and excited as we are, and the more time I spend around these people, the more I know I can do this. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I belong.
In the past, I’ve never danced when I’ve gone out with the girls, instead choosing to play the loyal guard dog for our drinks and purses, scared of putting myself out into the limelight where people could openly stare and judge my awkward dance moves. But tonight felt different. Dancing with my friends felt good, almost liberating. And the best part? Not once did I worry I was being scrutinized or that I stood out among the throng of people as “the girl who danced like a mom.” I felt comfortable, like when I’m onstage. I also discovered that dancing is great exercise, one I’ve been missing out on. I can feel myself sweating, and we all know sweat equals calorie loss. Maybe I’ve been too harsh with my “I don’t dance” rule. Clearly, I need to reevaluate.
The Onyx is littered with people. On top of meeting other bands and speaking with Tommy and Victoria Vu, I also had a chance to talk with Rain Jenkins. Which was surreal, especially when he shared his love for the band Sublime with me. We ended up standing among a group of people, totally lost in talking about our favourite musicians, and it seems both Rain and I have excellent taste in music.
I also found myself chatting with Zack Nolan, Sicken Union’s lead guitarist, who recommended that I try Fender’s Original Bullets over the Super Bullets strings he’d noticed I had on now. According to Zack, I should notice an immediate change in the sound they give off, a tip I’ll definitely be looking into. I also spent a few minutes chatting with Scott Billows, Sicken’s bass guitarist, about what to expect from life on tour, and which stops are his favourites.
And, thankfully, so far I’ve managed to avoid coming face to face with Slater Jenkins. That man does something to me. Feeling his arm around me during the photoshoot had sent my body reeling with an awareness I’ve never experienced before. Slater and I might not have talked tonight, but I definitely feel we’ve both been aware of one another. A few times when I’ve taken a risk and looked around to see where he was, our eyes caught and held in some crazy sort of magnetic pull.
Clearing the floor after stopping at the bar, I plop myself down into the plush black leather-covered booth in the VIP section. I give Siobhán a small wave to let her know I’m good, before settling my newly acquired Tom Collins on the black tabletop. Pulling out my phone, I shoot Lucky a text, letting him know I’m having fun and am going to be home later than I had originally planned. He quickly responds with a high-five emoji, and I laugh. I’m about to take a sip from my lemony drink when I’m startled by the deep voice of a man standing beside my table.
“You’re in my seat, Shadow,” his voice booms over the pulsing sounds of Imagine Dragon’s “Believer.”
“‘Shadow’?” I say. Looking up, the music and shouting noises of the bar quickly fade into the background when I realize the intruder is none other than Slater Jenkins himself. We stare silently at one another for what seems like minutes, and it’s as though everything around us—well, for me, at least—has disappeared, and all my focus is on the man I’ve been not-so-secretly watching from a distance all night.
Biting my lip to keep from giggling at my own awkwardness, I break the eye contact. Not by talking and being friendly, no…because I’m me, and I lack the confidence to initiate a proper conversation with a man like Slater. Instead, I reach for my drink and take a huge sip, feeling flustered and annoyed that he’s not only been breaking into my thoughts all night, but is now actually invading my space.
“Yeah. ‘Sha-dow’,” he says, overly enunciating the nickname, all gravelly-voiced and brooding. It grates on my nerves, while at the same time sends a thrilling sensation through my body at the thought that a man like him has taken notice of a girl like me. I respond by giving him a not-so-subtle stink eye—which he ignores—and continues without any verbal prompting from me. “Yeah, see, you’re all deep and mysterious-looking, giving off this ‘don’t fuck with me’ vibe. And I find it sexy as hell. Makes me want to fuck with you,” he admits, giving me a would-be-panty-dropping-grin (if I were like any other girl).
Instead, I roll my eyes, nonchalantly gripping the table and trying to keep myself from bolting out of the seat and away from him as fast as I can. I turn away, willing my accelerated heartbeat to calm the hell down as Slater Jenkins takes a step closer to where I’m sitting in his so-called “spot”. He drones on, not taking his eyes off me, regardless of a wave of obviously interested young women who have drifted close by to sit in the booth next to us.
“Wouldn’t you be better off sitting over there?” I ask, thumbing towards the booth of giggling girls.
“Nah, this is my spot. Plus, you’ve peaked my curiosity. I’m thinking we should be friends,” he admits, before pausing. Waiting. Waiting for what, I’m not sure. Is he waiting for me to respond? Offer a high-five to his idea of friendship? Is he expecting me to offer up my slashed palm to forge us into a Blood Brotherhood? He can’t possibly think I’ll shift my seat over for him, can he?
My head is spinning, my personal space totally consumed by Slater Jenkins. I sit under the heavy regard of his alluring cinnamon-coloured eyes as they hold me captive. I want to ask him what he wants, except I can’t get the words past the knot of nerves that’s formed in my throat and is keeping my questions on lockdown. And any witty retorts I might have die inside me because I can’t seem to find my damn voice with his proximity. Thoughts of him seeing my flaws exposed by the hanging light over the table—and by my stunned silence—start to take form. Then Her voice starts to rise up and become loud, telling me that he’s only here out of pity, having seen me sitting alone and nothing more, because why would a man like him seek out an awkward wallflower when he could get any girl here?
“A girl like you shouldn’t be hiding back here,” he says, shaking me from my thoughts. He reaches his hand out, and his long fingers sweep my bangs off my forehead. The gesture is innocent, yet too personal. His observations and the nickname he’s apparently created for me are too insightful, and it’s got me rattled. My heart pounds in my chest with the way he’s considering me. It’s as if he can see straight through me, and I instantly wonder if maybe I’ve been slacking in my ability to keep my secrets mine. If a man like Slater is calling me out after knowing me for all of thirty seconds, then what must other people think? How will the audiences see me? Will they see through my front? See me as a poser?
Swallowing past the lump, I tell him, “I’m not hiding, my feet are sore. I’m just taking a quick break,” I say, and it feels good to find my voice again. The last thing I want is for Slater to think he affects me. I’m sure it’s the last thing that man’s ego needs.
“Fine, I’ll take a break with you. So, you gonna move over and let me have my seat now, Shadow?” he asks again, cocking his gorgeous face to the side.
Those cinnamon eyes of his are laced with a mysterious glint as he waits for my answer. Laughing, he crosses his muscular arms in front of his chest, and without realizing it, I track his movements, taking in a sharp breath as I notice the veiny contours adorning his forearms. Arms that tell me he works out, arms that I know would make me feel protected and safe if they were wrapped around me. God, his arms look so good, I think, tracing the lines as they run somewhat hidden under the vibrancy of the tatted sleeves illustrating his skin, camouflaged among an array of intricate designs, script, and music notes. I realize I’m gawking and am unable to stop. I find myself wishing that I had the right to reach out to touch and explore the words and images a man like Slater Jenkins found so personal and profound that they warranted gracing his toned muscles and tanned skin for life.
Hearing him clearing his throat, I know I’ve been caught, so I decide to try and deflect. “No. I’m not moving,” I state flatly, looking to the right and the left then behind my seat, and I smile. “Sorry. They must have taken down the sign with your name on it reserving your spot,” I say, prying my hands from the table’s edges and offering a shrug.
“Cute,” he says. “I’ll let it slide this time, only ’cause I like feisty and I’m in a good mood tonight.”
“Lucky me.” I roll my eyes as he gives in and takes the seat across from me. His black Rush T-shirt pulls across his broad chest, begging for my attention, and despite my best efforts I find myself caving and resuming my earlier inspections of this formidable male sitting before me. Swallowing, I track his movements as he drapes his arm over the back of the booth before smirking, leaning in a little over the table and asking: “You always on the rag?”
“You always such a diva?” I huff. “‘You’re in my seat,’” I repeat, using my deepest voice to mimic his earlier words, causing him to bark out a laugh, one I feel right between my legs. A sensation I haven’t felt…well, ever.
“Fuck, you’re cute, Shadow,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m going to really like having you around this tour.”
“Whatever,” I say, reaching again for my Tom Collins. I allow myself two drinks—and only two—when out. There are so many calories and way too much sugar involved in mixed drinks that I can never risk allowing myself to indulge without feeling guilty, even now in recovery. Guilt, like an eighth deadly sin, is an all too familiar obsessive feeling that continues to plague me, and from what others have admitted in group, it seems many bulimics feel the same way. Indulging in sugary liquids mixed with alcohol, which only make me feel like shit anyway, is on my list of Avoidables. A long list I started making of all the foods I limited myself in consuming after a group session where Elijah had us create what he called our “Relapse Prevention Blueprint”. My blueprint is a list that contains things like foods and situations to avoid, ones that may trigger a relapse, things I can do if I feel myself losing control, stuff like that. It’s a list that I carry in my purse at all times, as well as being tucked in each of my many self-soothe boxes.
“I can tell we’re going to be good friends, Shadow,” Slater says, breaking me from my thoughts again, and raising his beer. “To us,” he says, and moves his glass to meet mine in the middle of the table.
I make him wait, hoping to the gods above that his arm will get tired and fall off of his way-too-perceptive-and-gorgeous-assed self. There is no possible way I could be friends with this man. Within mere seconds, he awakened a part of me that I’d thought was broken. A part not even Dustin could resuscitate, even when he wasn’t being a total douchebag.
I might need to add Slater Jenkins to my list of Avoidables, because I can already tell by his cocky grin, handsome face, and those damn veins, he thinks I’ll be waving a little white flag in no time. And from what I’ve seen tonight, I can tell Slater won’t give up without a fight, until he gets exactly what he wants.
Which, for someone like me, might just be exactly what I need.