The Devil You Know (8 page)

They had charged on to rapturous cheering, fists thrust skywards, a surge in the club to the lip of the stage, girls pressing forwards, arms

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outstretched in supplication. The lights played on them, red and blue and gold, and the band blasted into the first tune.

Poppy was enraptured. She gulped at her drink, mesmerised. She was too late to get a good position in the crowd, so she stayed where she was, where she had a good view. Oh, man. They were all gorgeous, and they rocked. They sounded nothing like the average hair band, but they weren’t hardcore thrash metal.

They were new, and different, and … incredible.

And they knew it, too. Look at the way the lead singer strutted over his tiny space as though he were headlining Madison Square Gardens. The guitarists were flirting with the squealing chicks in the front row, and the bassist …

He was tall and skinny and had flash rock-star pants with glitter on them, and a bandanna, and he stroked that bass suggestively, lovingly. He had almond eyes and flowing black hair, he was smooth-chested and Byronic and she wanted him. Most of the other girls were creaming themselves over the singer, some over one of the guitarists. But Poppy liked that dark, mysterious look. She sat up on her stool and manoeuvred herself under one of the small round lights over the bar, and over the heads of the crowd she looked rightaX

him. And he saw her.

His eyes flickered her way, up and across the blonde hair, the …. push-up bra, the hand-span waist, the rock-chick outfit. Poppy felt a wave of heat pulse through her, centring in her belly. She was always being checked out by men, but never by men she fancied. The way the guy was assessing her felt as though his eyes were peeling off her clothes. She felt exposed, and it was hot.

She couldn’t help it. She dropped her gaze.

When she looked back up, the bassist was still stating at her. Like he’d been waiting for her to look at him again. He’d totally caught her.

Poppy flushed crimson, not that anyone could see it in the club. Her lips parted.

He grinned, and gave her a slow, deliberate wink.

Poppy’s hand shot up to her mouth. The heat in her belly spread little tendrils all over her skin. Her nipples hardened into .tiny little buds. She backed her stool out of the light, she couldn’t take it. He looked away, swinging his bass out over the crowd, running to the other side of the stage.

The barman behind her chuckled.

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‘I guess he likes you,’ he said. ‘Can’t blame him.’

Poppy turned to him eagerly. ‘What’s that guy’s name?’

‘Ricardo ‘

‘

‘I

t erez, he said. think they call him Rick.’

‘Rick,’ Poppy repeated, as though it were somehow magical and fascinating. She had to get to meet him.

She took another, deeper slug of her Jack Daniel’s. The alcohol

relaxed her, made her feel confident. Poppy gazed at the stage, lost in the music and the lights, staring at Rick, fantasising, hoping he’d’!| glance her way again.

By the time Dark Angel got off stage after their second encore, and [

the fights went up, she had found the backstage door. It wasn’t too

hard … there was a gaggle of chicks thronging around it, pleading

with a stone-faced bouncer, squealing and jumping up and down

and touching up their hair and makeup.

‘Are you all waiting for autographs?’ Poppy asked.

A razor-thin platinum blonde with large fake boobs looked her

over witheringly. ‘Yeah, that’s it … autographs,’ she said derisively.

The other girls tittered at Poppy for being so nai’ve.

‘Will they come out?’ she asked the security guard.

He looked down at her bl.anldy. ‘Dunno.’

‘Come on, baby,’ one of the bleach-blondes wheedled, jiggling

her tits at him. ‘I was, like, totally meant to be on the fist. You

should let me back, it’s just a mix-up …’

‘Name?’ the security guard said in a bored manner.

‘Trixie Campbell,’ she pouted.

He scanned a sheet of paper. ‘Your name’s not down, you can’t

come in.’

‘Hey, come on…’

The door was opened just a crack from inside. The girls all started

to scream hysterically.

‘Zach! Zaaaaach! Pete! Carl! Rick! Jason! Aaaah! Aaaah!’

The singer’s face poked out half an inch, grinning. The girls thrust

bits of paper at him.

‘Sign this!’

‘Will you sign my boob?’ Trixie said, pulling down her top to

reveal a rock-hard pair in a black lace bra.

Poppy was shocked, but tried not to show it.

‘Sure, honey,’ the singer said. He was armed with a black marker

pen and scrawled something on her flesh while she cooed and

giggled. One of the guitarists started to do the same thing.

5o

‘Pete, can I come back? Can I come back?’ a fiery redhead pleaded ab`jectly. She wasn’t all that good looking, too much ass for the miniscule skirt she was wearing.

The guitarist shook his head. ‘It’s a bit crowded back there, sorry, OK?’

Poppy blushed crimson and hung back, uncertainly. She felt out of her depth. She’d never tried to go backstage before, and she didn’t want to show her tits in public nor to beg for access. She hovered on the edge of the crowd, clutching her pen and the napkin she had brought for the bass player to sign. Now she knew why the girls had laughed at her - getting an autograph was.just an excuse, a way to be able to speak to a rock star and say what you really meant, which was ‘Can I come backstage and hang out?’

She’d wanted that too, but this was .just humiliating. She wasn’t a sign-my-tits type of chick. Poppy was ashamed of herselt she wasn’t as rock ‘n’ roll as she’d thought. Maybe she was just a nice Jewish girl and she should go home.

Rick Perez stuck his head out the door. Poppy gasped; he was gorgeous, she thought, insanely gorgeous. Those slightly slanted eyes, that coal-black hair. He was wearing mascara, but that md,g him look more rock-star-ish, as though he were in the New Yorl. Dolls. She flushed scarlet again, and this time the house lights were up. Now he was close, she felt incredibly embarrassed. She wanted’ to say something, but she felt rooted to the spot. Her hand with its

sad little napkin hung limply at her side.

‘Kick!’ the girls screamed. ‘Rick!’

He signed a few cigarette packets and body parts, then his eyes skimmed the little knot of groupies and fell on Poppy.

She could hardly breathe. He was looking right at her.

Kick beckoned. Unmistakably, he was pointing straight at her and crooking his finger.

Almost as one, the girls turned round and stared at Poppy. She stumbled forwards through them, hoping her sweating palms wouldn’t dampen the napkin. Poppy tried to think of something to say, along the lines of ‘Could you sign this for me please,’ but her tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of her mouth.

‘Bitch,’ Trixie said in a low voice, designed for Poppy to hear. She was standing right in front of him now with the whole crowd staring at her. Poppy’s blush seemed to have reached the very tips of her ears. She .just couldn’t look up. He was tall, and she was standing right by his chest. She could feel him looking down at her.

5

‘Charlie.’ He had a rough voice that sounded as though he

smoked a lot of cigarettes and drank a lot of liquor. ‘This young

lady’s with us.’

‘Sure, 1Kick,” the security guard said.

‘Hey!’ the girls chorused.

Poppy glanced up, open-mouthed. The bassist stuck something

on her left shoulder. It was made of cloth-like sticky paper, square

and green, and said ‘Guest’.

The security guard opened the door to let Poppy through.

‘Wait a minute!’ the redhead squealed. ‘I’m with her! I’m her

friend! I know her-‘

Poppy was pulled through the backstage door by Rick Perez, and

it shut behind her with a clang, drowning out the sound of the desperate girls. She was in a grey-painted corridor, leading off to wide open doors that looked like regular offices. It didn’t seem all that glamorous. But here she was, surrounded by the members of Dark Angel, and Rick Perez had one hand proprietorially on her shoulder.

Zach Mason, the lead singer, checked her out, then grinned at

Perez.

‘Nice,’ he said. ‘Cutest chick in the place.’

Poppy could hardly breathe.

‘Look,’ said Pete the guitarist, ‘she’s blushing. I don’t know when

I last saw a chick blush.’

Rick Perez looked down at Poppy.

‘Hi,’ he said.

Poppy half whispered, ‘Hi.’

‘Would you like to get a drink?’ Perez said. ‘We’ve got a cooler of

beers and shit in the dressing room.’

‘Thank you, that would be lovely,’ Poppy said politely.

Perez stared at her and snorted with laughter. ‘You’re a riot.

Come on. This way.’

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Poppy followed Rick into a small room, crammed with people.

The walls were covered with graffiti, every spare inch thick with marker pen; obscenities, band names, complaints about the showers, fuck-yous to the promoters of the gigs. There were a couple of ratty old black leather couches, covered with slashes, the rest of the band sprawled across them with their friends - longhaired dudes, talking loudly, drunk, chopping out lines of coke on mirrors, or whatever flat surface came to hand. There was a large plastic cooler in one corner, full of ice and cans of soda and beer. On a table there were the remains of a buffet - metal platters of cheese and fruit and bits o” sandwiches. Not very rock ‘n’ roll. There was a more recently set up,; table with bottles of vodka, packets of cranberry juice, and plastic., cups; it wasn’t quite so wrecked. Poppy realised that someone had only put the alcohol there once the band had gone onstage. No need to risk a drunk group until after the performance. Hovering round the drinks table, primping their hair in the grimy dressing-room mirror, laughing and pretending to talk to one another, were the girls.

Poppy tried and failed not to stare.

They were the same as the chicks outside, but they had the edge on them. Dressed in exactly the same trashy style: skirts as short as belts, lace, bras, leather, heels and studs; exactly the same long blonde hair, full-on make-up, and with lots of flesh on display. But these girls were better-looking and acted a little less desperate. They carried nothing suggestive of autographs; they drank the band’s liquor and nibbled on their celery sticks and acted like they had a right to be there.

‘What are you drinking?’

Rick was talking to her again. Poppy couldn’t quite believe it. She was here and she was talking to the bassist!

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Suddenly, the crowded, filthy little dressing room seemed like the coolest place on earth.

‘I’ll take a vodka and cranberry juice,’ Poppy said, ‘thanks.’ She sat down on an unoccupied corner of one of the couches and looked at him expectantly.

Rick Perez grinned and went to mix her a drink. At the makeshift bar, the girls elegantly draped themselves over him, smiling right into his eyes, as though Poppy didn’t exist.

Poppy was picking up the rules of the game. It was the jungle in here, survival of the fittest. Or the prettiest. They didn’t give a damn about her; several of the chicks were eyeing her with disdain …

But Rick came back over to her and handed her her drink. Poppy

took refuge in a big gulp, then spluttered. He laughed. ‘Too strong for you?’ ‘You could say that.’

‘How old are you, anyway?’ ‘Seventeen,’ Poppy lied. ‘I’m twenty-two.’

‘That’s cool,’ Poppy said, trying to be sophisticated.

Rick settled back on the couch and casually draped one arm across her back. His fingers rested ligh.tly on her shoulder, and the touch was electric. Poppy saw the other girls gazing at her, their mascaraed eyes narrowing in loathing. She felt an instant thrill of triumph. He

preferred her, he’d taken her right out of the crowd.

This rocks, Poppy thought.

‘I saw you out there,’ he said.

‘I know,’ Poppy said confidently. She grinned. ‘I saw you too.’ ‘Did you like the band?’

This question she felt comfortable with. She un-tensed slightly. ‘I think you guys really have something.’

‘They “have something”,’ said one of the blondes at the bar. ‘Well, that’s nice.’

The guitarist glanced Poppy’s way.

‘Dark Angel are, like, totally the best band ever,’ cooed the chick with whom he was intertwined.

Poppy rolled her eyes. ‘No they’re not. Come on.’

Rick Perez laughed again, this time in disbelief. Poppy realised a second too late that the entire room was now staring at her. It also dawned on her that backstage girls weren’t meant to venture opinions, unless they were along the lines of? ‘You guys are God.’

‘Did she even like us?’

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Zach Mason was asking the question of Rick. As though Poppy was his property and he was responsible for her big mouth. Mason had two long-limbed beauties, both redheads, draped against him, one in each arm. One of the chicks was resting her head drunkenly against his chest, the other had her shirt halfway unbuttoned, with a white lace bra peeking out.

‘No, I did. I mean, I thought you guys put on an excellent show. But the PA was too loud for the melodies and you look like you need a bigger stage to run around in, and the lighting guy was messing up in that fast number ‘

‘Fighting fire,’ Jason, the drummer, said.

‘Yeah, like you know about stage shows,’ said the redhead with her buttons undone. She pouted at the singer. ‘Why is she even here?’

The singer ignored her and tilted his full glass slightly towards Poppy. ‘He did mess it up.’

‘He didn’t light me during my fucking solo,’ said Carl, the guitarist, sullenly.

‘OK, Sharon Osbourne,’ said P,.ick Perez, ‘and what did you like about it?’

‘All the songs and the way you work the crowd,’ Poppy sai simply.