1
Jem
Every cliché rocklove song crashes into my head as if they were all written for this girl. Long legs in black, skinny jeans, tattoos emerging from the tight tank top stretching across her tits and crimson hair spilling across her shoulders. She leans against the bar, one elbow propped behind her.
This girl.
She stepped from my fantasies and landed in the new version of reality I live in these days.
When she turns her head, it’s as if she has a shotgun, holds the gun to my temples, and pulls the fucking trigger. My head explodes because in her eyes I can see that she exists in the same place I do: a lost place at the edge of the world.
Did time stand still? The world fade away? Souls meet across the stars?I should give this moment to Dylan for one of his pathetic love songs.
The chick looks away, snapping me back to the real world. Another club, another band. Not the best place for a recovering addict to hang out, but Blue Phoenix manager Steve reckons I’m a good scout for a new support act. Blue Phoenix don't tour again until next year and I worry he’s trying to replace us. Steve claims he’s looking for a decent support band he can whip into shape ready for the tour. Hedging his bets, more like.
The world waits for Jem Jones to fall back into his drug addicted self, media poised to hold me up as a fucked up loser again. If I’m in public, I’m less likely to slip than if I’m hidden at home amongst the spectre of my old life. This time I’ll make my new start count.
The kids in the club are young; some too young to be here. Sure, eighteen is a great age in this country because you can legally drink in clubs—but what a mess. Why watch a band if you’re too drunk to stand up? At least I could hold my drink by the time I hit the legal age, but I started early and had plenty of practice.
I’m half-hidden in the shadows at the edge of the bar waiting for Ruby Riot. Everything’s set up on stage but no band. I check my phone - 8p.m. They’re late. If the band don’t appear soon, I’m leaving. I don’t have time for a group who can’t get their shit together. I’m only here last minute anyway—normally I research before I waste my time, but I needed to get out of the house and away from my thoughts. I checked for the nearest pub with a band playing tonight, and here I am.
The white glow from the lights above the bar illuminates the girl, highlighting the scarlet red of her hair. Do I speak to her? Why am I hesitating? Since when is Jem Jones nervous of talking to a chick? She must know who I am or she wouldn’t have her eyes glued to me again. Problem is, if I step out of the shadows, the kids around will spot me. As I debate this like a nervous teen, she drains her beer and places the empty bottle on the bar.
Fuck it.
“You want another?” I ask, approaching the girl.
“No. Thanks,” she says dismissively.
I wait for the parted lips and moment of realisation at who I am but nothing. Instead, she scans the room, ignoring me. Do I have to bloody introduce myself?
The chick smells of flowers, roses maybe—odd because she doesn’t look like a flowery girl. In her boots and with those legs, she’s almost to my eye height and her face close enough to see the ‘back off me’ purse of her lips. Now I’m nearer, I’m struck she could be younger than she looks under all the make-up and my neck prickles as an image of Liv trips into my head.
“What’s the band like?” I ask.
She turns her black-painted eyes toward me. “Yeah, they’re okay. Do you know much about Ruby Riot?”
“No, I heard good things so came to check them out.”
“You’ll see them soon, make your own mind up.”
I frown at her terseness. “I want to know people’s opinions.”
Does shereallynot recognise me? There isn’t a glimmer of anything apart from a disinterested girl hit on by some guy in a bar.
A new track filters from the speakers and through the room. I smirk when I hear Blue Phoenix—this should prompt her memory.I watch and wait but her expression remains detached, no flicker of recognition.For fuck’s sake.
“Hmm. Okay, I gotta go.” The girl pulls herself away from the bar.
“Leaving? The band are due onstage soon.”
She fixes me with a curious look. “I have somewhere I need to be.”
This I’m not used to. I almost utter the cliché ‘don’t you know who I am’ but she’ll laugh at me. Nah, she must have a boyfriend. That’s who she’s looking for. Damn shame.
“I hope you like the band, Jem Jones,” she says and stalks away.
Okay.That was unexpected. I stretch out my neck and consider my next move. Drunk Jem would’ve ignored the rejection by picking up a different chick who’d love to get her hands on me. Sober Jem can’t be bothered. I shuffle back into the shadows before someone spots me, but the crowd is jammed tight and not looking at anyone but each other and the stage.