“Can you meet us back here at, say, midnight?”
“Perfect,” Clay echoed, having no idea what Savy and Spider had planned for the night. He supposed it didn’t matter if they were flying to the moon, their itineraries were changing now.
“Also, any chance you can play a gig tomorrow?”
“Where at?” Clay asked.
“The Stone Fox. Leigh was on the phone for the last half of your set. She wants you to open for Divinity Destroyed on a sold-out bill.”
“We’ll run it by our peeps and get back”—Clay checked his watch—“in ninety minutes.”
They shook hands all around, and Clay and Fiasco made their way through the crowd again, their feet twinkling six inches off the ground. Three gigs. Three fucking gigs and not even ten songs written and already they had A&R reps racing across town to meet them.
It was too good to be true.
Because it is, you dumbass. Clay stopped himself. His head twisted back to look at Bobby’s table. Surely they weren’t advance scouts for the Hailmaker. Their boss was at a charity function. Still, it was better to tread carefully, reconvene with Savy, get on the same page.“We need to find the others, Fee. Like, now.”
Clay hopped up on the brass rail of the bar to survey the milling crowd. Through the Viper’s side door, he spotted Delilah Jane, dressed as the green-faced Wicked Witch, standing near Spider and a cluster of vapers. “Our drummer and your girlfriend are outside, blowing smoke down Sunset Boulevard. Savy, I don’t see…” But even as he uttered the words, his eyes contradicted them. Savy was still in the club. Standing right in front of the curtained-off stage, in fact. Swaying to the M.I.A. song pumping on the PA. Laughing and smiling at a handsomely rendered groupie. Clay watched her fidget with a few of her jasper-stone bracelets, in a nervous, girlish way he’d never seen before. And he nearly died. There was a familiarity between her and Handsome, in their eye contact and how their bodies seemed to sway in sync to each other. Well, at least now I know why she was nervous before the show, Clay thought. “Fee? Who’s the pretty fool with his hands on Savy?”
Fiasco went up on tiptoes and looked immediately uneasy. “Oh. Our old frontman.”
“Bass?” Clay spat. Emphasis on the ass.
“Short for Basserman,” Fiasco said. “Gar Basserman.”
“Well, shit, that just rolllllls off the tongue. Gar? What kind of name is that?”
“I never asked. Guess it’s short for Garrett?”
“No. I’ll tell you what it is. It’s another fucking fish! Gar Bass. A double Fishman who wants to scale our guitarist.”
In some rational corner of his mind, Clay knew he didn’t have a right to be this furious. Savy had been clear about where they stood, had explained that their post-fire fever dream had been a one-time thing (and a mistake at that), had showed absolute candor in everything except Mr. Pisces here—who she’d obviously kept secret to spare Clay’s feelings. Except rationality meant very little right now. She had lied to him, after vowing that only the truth would live between them; she’d started fucking Gar Basserman when Costly Creation was together, then broke the band up and went right on fucking him; and Clay was furious, sick on the bitter feeling in his throat. “Hey!” he yelled across the club. “Screw him later, we have business!”
The journeymen at the bar whooped. But as Savy turned her head, Clay hopped off the bar rail. Not only a fool of the heart, but one without balls to stand his ground.
“Clay, relax, you’re a little drunk, I think.” Fiasco grabbed at him. “Look around at all the ass in this room. Actresses. Tattooed honeys. You can talk to anyone you want.” He clapped his palms over Clay’s skull and drew him in. “You need to feel what I’m feeling right now.”
“Don’t say ‘turned on.’”
“Our lives are about to change. Really change. I’ll gather the troops. You take the ninety minutes. Get your mind clear, drink up, get your johnson milked, whatever. I’ll see you at the twelve-stroke.”
Monologue over, Fiasco faded into the crowd, and Clay found himself retreating to the bathroom, which had one stall, one urinal, one sink, and band stickers over every surface and wall. Nevertheless the singer of the next band was staring into the smallest wedge of mirror between sticker clumps, combing his hair into an impressive surfable wave. The stall was occupied by someone shuffling restlessly inside, a one-man party that had nothing to do with a call of nature, so Clay stood at the urinal, feeling angry, feeling betrayed, feeling weak and cowardly, and powerful and murderous, all at once.
Clay listened to his urine striking the stickered porcelain. The singer exited and someone else entered the bathroom and stood behind Clay, waiting his turn. A moment passed. A hand slid around Clay’s cock and he jumped and spun, ready to deck the fucker, regardless of his size.
It was the brunette in the masquerade mask. The pert tennis player he’d noticed before his set. Her hand didn’t go away. “I love the feel of a man peeing,” she told him. “The vibration.”
She didn’t get to feel it very long. Clay hardened under the pressure of her palm, her fingers choking off the stream. He stared over his shoulder, astounded, the blue eyes peering out from the feathery mask as soft as a warm bath. “Someone’s in the stall,” he groaned.
“That’s a shame. Guess we’ll have to run to my place.” The girl released him as suddenly as she’d glommed on, leaving his erection to thump against denim. She didn’t bother to check if he was following. Why would she need to? He zipped as quickly and carefully as he could.
“Clay?” The voice came out of the stall like a phantom call. It was Mo’s, half-aware. All the way gone. “That you, my brother-brother-bro?”
Clay hurried out like he didn’t know a thing.
21
BABY DID A BAD BAD THING
He didn’t
