Rachel Burke - Love Bites

“He did,” I said, nodding slowly. David loomed behind Renee, at least six feet tall, with dark hair and a hint of a baby face. His lips had twisted into a faint smirk, the amusement of the situation still lingering. But those eyes. Those giant, brown, crazy eyes. They were having sex with me. In my own living room. Behind my best friend, who I could no longer see.

“About time,” Renee said, hanging her purse on the wall rack. “Listen, we’re going to sleep here tonight because David has a meeting in Brentwood in the morning. Fill me in tomorrow?” She winced like she felt bad.

“Okay,” I agreed. David followed Renee out of the living room, still smiling back at me. But not with his mouth. With those goddamn eyes. I had never met anyone who could smile without moving their mouth.

I heard the bathroom door close and the sound of the sink running. Before getting settled on the sofa, I realized that I’d left my grilled cheese sandwich in the kitchen. I got up and headed toward the kitchen, and there he was. Leaning casually in the doorway, his right arm propped against the wood. Like he’d been hiding there, waiting for me the whole time.

“So, did you say yes?” he asked, not bothering to move out of my way. He was blocking the doorway. I couldn’t get through. I didn’t care. “To the date, I mean.”

“I did.” I was whispering. I wasn’t sure why. Like we were sharing a secret.

“Lucky guy,” he said in a low voice, slowly looking me up and down. As he turned and disappeared into Renee’s bedroom, his eyes never left mine.

Even if Vincent wasn’t in London, at that moment, he still seemed a million miles away.

The Middle East felt like my childhood. It was what I imagined Seattle to be like during the nineties. Dark basement feel, sticky floors, heavy distortion, the distinct aroma of weed and beer. It was dirty and raw. In LA, everything was pretty. Even the rock clubs were pretty. In Boston, the rock scene was real, not manmade. No one painted a mural of Jim Morrison on the side of the building to be cool. It was cool without trying.

I spotted Renee as soon as I walked downstairs. Even at six months’ pregnant, she was still stunning. Her blonde hair spiraled down to her waist, and she wore a long, black vintage coat with a fur collar. She looked like a seventies groupie. She was perched by the merchandise table, helping the merch girl unload the band’s albums and t-shirts. Her face lit up when she saw me.

“Hey!” She waved and abandoned the table, wrapping me in a hug. “I’m so glad you’re here. You have to see the albums!”

Tonight was the album-release party for Dylan’s band, Electric Wreck. They had just finished their first full-length album, Hiatus. I’d photographed them for the album cover, thanks to Renee’s referral, but had yet to see the finished product. Renee was like an elated toddler, grabbing me excitedly by the arm and dragging me to the table.

“What do you think?” she asked, thrusting a copy into my hands. I looked closely at the cover. It looked great. We had used their studio for the shoot, which everyone agreed was a practical location, with the graffiti and equipment in the background adding to the sincerity of the setting. The four guys were strewn across the room with their instruments – Christian in the back of the photo behind the drum kit, Andy seated on the floor with a guitar in his lap, Jeff leaned up against the wall clutching his bass, Dylan in center, head down, gripping the microphone with both hands. It was a fantastic shot.

“It looks awesome,” I said, running my fingers along the edges. I had sent the final image to their graphic designer, who had adjusted it to black and white and added classic-style font so it looked like an album from the sixties. I flipped it over to read the twelve-song list on the back.

“I know!” Renee was beaming. “I told him it would come out great.”

Dylan was not a fan of the cover concept. He thought a photo of the band members was cheesy and opted for artwork instead. Renee insisted that, since they were all good-looking guys, it would be more marketable. Sex sells. Dylan argued that this theory was exactly what was wrong with the music industry today.

He eventually gave in.

With her new mom-to-be schedule, Renee had quickly become the band’s pseudo-manager. She devoted all her spare time to learning about the music industry and indie artist success strategies. Thus, Dylan usually listened to her even when he didn’t want to. And I was just grateful for the referrals. Electric Wreck was the second band she had referred to me for photography shoots, and since I hadn’t found a job or a permanent place of abode yet, freelance work helped. Living rent-free also helped.

Although I knew the real reason for my lack of drive. I hadn’t fully committed to being home yet. My heart was still in LA.

Renee handed a cardboard box to the merch girl, then led me to the side of the stage. “Did I tell you that they raised over 20,000 dollars for their album through the Kickstarter campaign?”

She had. At least three times. “I think so,” I lied.

“You’re almost as bad of a liar as I am,” she said, laughing. “Sorry if I keep repeating myself, it’s just so exciting. Twenty thousand dollars! They haven’t even been around that long.”

Through Renee’s research, she’d discovered that a lot of emerging indie bands were launching online donation campaigns to help with their album recording expenses. Renee had started a campaign for the band and executed different marketing strategies to get the word out. I knew she’d put a lot of effort into it, but I don’t think anyone realized how effective it was until the results came in. It was all Renee had talked about for weeks.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” she said, lowering her voice. “Andy thinks you’re cute. He hasn’t shut up about you since the photo shoot. Do you…” She hesitated. “What do you think of him?”

I think he’s not David , I thought.

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” I said. Technically, it was the truth. I hadn’t thought about any man except David in months.

“Do you think he’s cute?” she asked. She had a painful expression on her face, like it would hurt her if I said no.

I considered. Their guitarist, Andy, was average-looking, shaggy dirty-blonde hair, nice cheekbones, a little extra weight around his midsection. He was the personality of the band, that was for sure. Dylan was too intense, and the other two didn’t talk much.

“He’s okay,” I answered, shrugging. “He’s funny.”

The truth was, every time I pictured myself with a guy, all I could think of was David. I couldn’t imagine feeling that way with anyone else. And if I couldn’t feel that again with someone, then everything else would just be settling. I’d rather be alone.

Just then, the lights dimmed and the four guys slowly made their way to the stage, Dylan arriving last. Renee’s eyes locked on him, and I knew better than to say any more. I had seen Dylan perform, and the way he silenced the audience. He had an undeniable gift. He wasn’t just a voice, he was a presence. It was easy to see why Renee had fallen for him.

When I first met Dylan, he wasn’t at all what I had expected. Maybe because he was so different from David. He was smaller than I’d imagined, five foot nine at most, and incredibly skinny. A true starving artist. He had a big nose and very dark hair, almost black, the complete opposite of his glowing light-blue eyes. His eyes were so intense it was hard to look at him sometimes. Like he was perpetually scared.