AISHE

I feel like a human heater. It’s like I’m in menopause at the age of twenty-three, and it’s making droplets of sweat trickle between my breasts. I’m at the Cleveland meet-n-greet after the concert, assisting with signed photos and posters. I pass on fresh t-shirts for the guys to sign as the line snails past them one by one. Now that I’m taken off merch-stand duty, there isn’t much else I can do to earn my keep.

The guys were against it. “Aishe. Are you sure? You know how people are. It could explode in your face again if they recognize you.”

“Except it’s less likely,” Elias had cut in, making sense for once. “Because we’re there, and people are more interested in a moment with us than with bashing Aishe.”

Whenever possible, the band does this—receives their fans backstage instead of in a more spacious, dedicated place like the shopping area upstairs. Bo’s smart; he knows the fans love being able to recount how they were allowed backstage at one of Clown Irruption’s concerts.

As always, you’ve got your rabid, wide-eyed fangirls in skimpy outfits whose goal is physical contact. Others politely hold out items they want signed, the most interesting today being an old-school alarm clock, round and large, on which Emil is currently scribbling, “Emil says GET OUT OF BED!”

The alarm clock owner squeals in happy falsetto and covers his mouth with his hand as I pass it on to Troy. Strong fingers brush mine, lingering for a moment before he accepts it. I feel his stare on me in the middle of the hustle-bustle, but I keep my eyes on the alarm clock and watch it slide from my grip and into his.

Those hands. Drumming is what they do and should keep doing. Not the other things, the delicious, amazing things they did once. Free association is a bitch.

The room is jampacked, groups of fans being guided into lines. Together they produce heat in here, but the droplets trickling between my boobs aren’t their fault. Neither is the fire that never leaves my stomach.

I’m frustrated. Generally frustrated and sexually frustrated. Showers and soft sheets have never felt more soothing and more insufficient at once.

“Wait… Oh-mi-God, Aishe and Troy!” Alarm Clock Boy says and covers his mouth on an inward breath. “Holy moly, that was so crazy! You guys are, like— Are you going to get married?” His chest heaves with exaltation.

“Keep it down, man,” Troy murmurs. “It’s not what you think.”

I step back, busying myself with stacks of postcards, ducking my head into a cardboard box on the floor behind us. With my back to the line, I still hear Troy’s short but polite commands while he tries to talk the fan down.

“But I recognize her hair! Oh-mi-God, the way you looked at each other in that video. The sex was, like, not even the important part! You lo-o-ove her, right?” The way he sings it out between his teeth makes me cringe. “Just— Oh-mi-God!”

Instinctively, I knot my mane at the middle and slip it inside my shirt. Yes, I’m wearing my bodice and my long skirt, but I don’t have feathers in my hair or peacock pendants in my ears. Defying the heat in the room, I’ve slung a cotton cardigan over my bodice too.

“Here, dude. I’ll take the alarm clock,” Elias mutters. “You want something in particular on there?”

“Whatever you want! Is your porn-star lady here too?” Alarm Clock Boy breathes, looking around. Wow, I’m relieved the rest of the pretties are chilling in the green room.

“None of them are. They don’t actually work for us.” Troy forces a smile as he politely ushers the guy forward in the line.

“But that hair! You are her, right?” He swings toward me again, and for a second, my mind goes blank.

Hailey presses between the lines, head held high, butterflies and my hair swaying in waves down her back.

“Aishe just set a new trend,” I finally say. “We love her hair, so we do this.”

Alarm Clock Boy’s eyes flicker with uncertainty, but then it returns to gleaming exaltation again. “No-o-o,” he murmurs, clutching his clock to his chest.

“Ye-e-es,” I play along and jut my head toward Hailey. “Hey, girl!”

She sways up to us. Acknowledges me with a nod before leaning against Troy. She curves a hand over his bicep, and with the other, she crooks her finger for him to bend down. She puckers her lips, getting ready to tell him something very important judging by her expression. Then, she says, “They totally just closed the shopping hall, so I’ve packed up our stuff.”

Troy looks bewildered. Merch isn’t and has never been one of his duties. “Right. As long as you’ve told Troll, I guess.”

Alarm Clock Boy is even more bewildered, stare going between Hailey and me. He examines every strand of her hair as if he’s trying to collect DNA from afar, eyes resting a little longer on her butterfly adornments.

While she murmurs more insignificant crap to Troy, Alarm Clock Boy studies my hair. I pat it demonstratively; no feathers, no nothing here. I see the exact second when the lightbulb goes off in his head.

“Oh-mi-God, you are Aishe Xodyar, aren’t you? Oh-mi-God, can you sign my alarm clock too?” He bats his eyelashes at Hailey.

“What? No, she’s not!” Troy says with much more conviction than the last time.

“Who, me? What are you talking about…” Hailey trails off, touches her chest, rounds her lips. “You wouldn’t want autographs from little me. I’m just the merch girl.”

Ho-ly shit.

“Aishe? That’s her?”

Right, now, everyone hears it.

“No, she’s not. Back off. Hailey, please leave.”

“But I was just going to see if you need any help. You’ve got a lot of stuff over there.” Good grief, no way she’s as clueless as she looks? I have no idea how to feel about this. She’s nodding toward the boxes I’m sort of rummaging through, and she manages to do so without sparing me a glance.

“She’s taking care of it,” Troy mutters, hiking his thumb at me. “That’s all the help we need, thank you.”

“Who’s taking care of it?” she asks. She really, truly asks that, and the way she says it sounds freaking sly. By Troy’s reply, he hears it too.

“Hailey, listen up.”

“Yes?”

“Get out.”

TROY

“Why are we keeping her on again?”

“Troy, I know she’s an odd one, but she pulls customers to the stand. We’ll get someone new as soon as we return from Japan if she keeps being a bother.”

“But did you see her today? She’s a fucking loose cannon!”

“I know, man. She kept her mouth shut, though, right? She didn’t rat Aishe out, did she?”

“Because I all but shoved her out the door.”

Troll shakes his head, eyebrows even bushier than usual as he draws them together. “All right. I’ll have a talk with her. Give her a warning, okay?”

“Yeah, and give management a call too.” I feel my nostrils flare with annoyance. “For God’s sake, how hard can it be to replace her?”

We enter the little Greek place as the last of our group.

“To be honest”—Troll snaps his fingers pointing toward a sectioned-off area in the back of the restaurant—“I put out feelers after the Boston incident, and so far, all they’ve found is the guy Moriculus fired a few weeks ago. I checked with them as to why, and he partied at work, so no.”

“Yeah. Shit.”

“Tro-o-oy! My man!” Emil shouts like we don’t see each other twenty-four-seven.

“Hey-y-y,” I simper. “S’up ma man?”

“You freaking rocked it tonight! What’s with the hop on the throne? Where the hell did that come from?”

“Eh.” I lift my shoulders in a shrug. “YouTube, ya know. Someone did it. I copied it. People liked it, huh?”

“You’re such a showman!” Hailey shouts, clapping and lifting her wine. “I’ve never seen anyone jump up on their drummer stool like that and still play the drums like nothing happened. So wild—I thought you’d fall off or something. Cheers for a super-incredible performance!”

“Wild, huh?” Zoe says, firing her up some more.

“Heck yeah, it’s all over YouTube already! So good. You guys, I just need to say this, and I know I’m just, like, only the merch girl and what-have-you, but I’m so happy to work for you. All of my friends are so jealous it’s not even funny.” She giggles and bumps shoulders with Bo who’s so not a shoulder-bumper.

I snort; as clueless as she is sometimes, the girl’s entertaining.

The table is thirty people strong. Food’s been ordered remotely, and we’re rounding off the night unhealthily with a last celebratory supper in the U.S. before we head off to Japan. The whole crew is here, the pretties, management, and the guys.

“What’s the status?” Troll asks Bo, tipping his head toward the kitchen.

“The owner is chasing down non-alcoholic beers and fake champagne for Emil,” Bo replies, “but the appetizers are on their way.”

“Nice,” I say, while Troll mutters that he let them know way in advance about the band’s non-alcohol needs and this should not be happening.

The room is shaped as a long, narrow rectangle. I’m trying not to creep-stare at Aishe at the end of the table where she’s sitting with our new sound guy, Zap, and Rob, my drum tech. I wish they weren’t boxing her in. Meet-n-greets are always crazy, and I didn’t get to talk to her again after it.

I take the last seat next to Elias. He fist-bumps me. “More of the throne hops, for sure! Japan’s going to go crazy for that shit.”

“Only if I get a platform,” I joke.

“Oh! You want a platform, Troy?” Emil shouts, the others joining in a cheer. “Oh hell yeah, we’ll build up that damn drum kit of yours, and you’ll be, like, the fucking god looking down on all of us! Shit yeah!”

“Just kidding,” I say, because he’s much too excited.

“Hmm.” Bo rubs his chin the way he does when things are definitely happening, cool eyes flowing up the table and meeting me. “You good with that?”

“With what? Seriously, man, it was a joke,” I say. “I’m not going to turn into the clown of the band.”

“Yeah, no, you’re not funny, but you’re the acrobat, right? Oh this is so fucking happening,” Emil belts out, sending a bright stare at Bo, the sane half of the artistic duo that started Clown Irruption.

“Troll, can we get him a riser in Japan?” Bo’s voice is low.

“Yeah, no problem, Boss,” Troll replies.

I groan. This business is messed up. You can rent whatever you want on hours’ notice on a different continent, but you can’t find a trustworthy merch girl to bring over from the U.S.?

“Troy. Really.” Bo sends me one of his ice-country looks. “You should’ve had a riser a long time ago. You ready for it?”

I tip my head back, meeting his stare. “If the band wants it.”

“The band wants it,” Bo confirms.

“Hell yeah, dude!” Elias.

“Damn straight.” Emil.

“Done deal,” Bo says. “All right, down to business. We have a couple of announcements tonight.”

Excited ooohs follow. Some preemptive clinking of glasses. Hailey falls backward on her chair and scrambles back up again, pulling ice out of her cleavage. Wait. Her cleavage? The girl doesn’t have boobs—I know this first-hand—and wears normal chick tops with regular necklines. But that’s not what she’s wearing tonight.

I give her a onceover. She’s got some black, really tight little thing on with ropes in the front. It looks like one of Aishe’s tops, and it presses her chest flat, leaving a little wrinkle between her tits. It’s so low, I’m sure her nipples are about to fall out.

A crew guy helps Hailey back on her chair, eyes roving to that little wrinkle. All right, I get that, but what is this—is she idolizing Aishe or something?

Aishe is unperturbed by the commotion on Hailey’s side of the table. Calmly sipping her wine, her attention slips away as soon as I find her.

“We’re adding a song to the setlist,” Bo says.

“Which one?” someone asks.

“A really cool one?” Hailey interjects, eyes swimming. She smirks and winks at me.

Bo lets out a chuckle. “Some of you’ve heard us play it. We used to call it ‘Unbreak my Soul.’”

“Then, thanks to Troy’s fucking insane drums, we changed it to ‘Run with the Horses,’” Emil cuts in, lifting Zoe’s hand in victory.

“Or you called it that, and it didn’t stick,” I say, “Because seriously, what is this—the tour of Black Beauty?”

“It should’ve stuck,” Emil says. “It was perfect!”

Bo crosses his arms, waiting for us to run out of commentary.

“So did you land on a new title?” I ask Bo. I even tip my head to the side so the rest of the table can be in on the suspense.

“I did.” He skews out a laconic smile. “And I believe you approved it. It’s called ‘The Mask,’ and I have a feeling about this tune with the new arrangement.”

“So, this song used to be like fucking without climaxing, but then Troy got us the climax!” Emil hollers.

People burst into laughter.

“It’s our next hit—I just know it!” Emil adds.

Beside me, Elias starts a round of high-fives. “Everybody, time to thank Troy! Say it: ‘Thanks for the climax, Troy,’” he moans.

People obey in a variety of shouts and moans. It makes me chuckle, until Hailey’s voice joins in, a pitch above the others. “Thank you for all the orgasms, Troy-y-y!”

My senses draw to the one woman I don’t hear, and when my eyes find Aishe’s, they’re made of shiny, impassionate coal. I swallow. Force myself back into the general enthusiasm of the table and accept the platters of appetizers being passed around. And the whole time, I feel her mood falling.