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Author’s Rambling Corner: Welcome to the first chapter/prologue of My Life as a…! I hope you enjoy this story. It’s really quite fun to write. It’s all tongue in cheek and absurd, so please don’t take it seriously. I’m not trying to write the next New York Time Bestseller (that’s what my novel’s for!), I’m merely attempting to tell a screwball tale about a girl and a band of clueless men. I hope you’re entertained by it. Laugh a lot and be sure to tell me what you think by leaving lovely little reviews! (yay for alliteration!)
What are you waiting for? Read the damn story already!
- MAD -
“Elaine! I look like the Easter bunny! This is not the sexy look I was thinking of! And have I mentioned my undying hatred for the color pink?”
The face that stared back at me in the dusty mirror wore a look of absolute horror. The widened green eyes were framed by shoulder-length violet hair, that clashed horribly with the magenta pink dress that hung poorly off my thin, bony shoulders. It would probably be a good time to note that I did not naturally have violet hair, nor was I of the persuasion to dye it. I rather liked her caramel colored-locks and while violet wasn’t a terrible color it simply didn’t fit my down-to-earth, generally quiet, think-before-speaking way of life. “Oh fine.” The short, punkish Elaine threw up her hands in surrender. “You wanted sexy concert wear, Mercedes Kain, so don’t you dare lie to me.”
“Don’t all the cool kids wear black? Black I can handle. It’s a lovely color. Pink…it’s just not working with me.”
Elaine spun around to face her closet and my poor, brown suitcase that looked as if the clothes had exploded from it. With the practiced ease of a fashion-aholic, she drew a mesh shirt, electric violet tank, and black and white checkered cargo pants. “Here, this’ll match your hair.”
I sighed and began shrugging out of the pink monstrosity. “How long before my real hair color returns?”
Elaine shrugged. “Weeks? Give or take…I’m not entirely sure. It depends a lot on the hair type.”
I forced the tight tank over my pathetically, lacking chest and considered everything that had taken place up to this point. Two weeks ago I’d dropped out of college. Two weeks ago I’d packed up my meager belongings and trekked from Richmond, Virginia to Las Vegas, Nevada. Two weeks ago I’d gotten a job waiting table at a fancy restaurant in one of the not-quite as well known, but still upscale hotels. Two weeks ago I’d met Elaine. And three days ago Elaine learned of how horribly single and straight-laced—that’s how she put it. I’m not straight-laced, I’m sensible—I was. Two hours ago, Elaine decided to drag me to a Fate’s Dog concert.
So much had happened in the past two weeks that even I, the great Mercedes Kain, was a bit ruffled under the feathers. I was still unsure how the violet hair happened, however. But hell had obviously frozen over. I still wasn’t able to rationalize my sudden departure from everything I knew to randomly choose Las Vegas. I had vaguely attempted to blame it on a wild frat party, but since I’d never attended one of those in my life the justification sank like the Titanic—quickly and tragically. There was only one other possibility for my out-of-character move, but admitting that would lead to trouble and ideas that I wasn’t ready to handle, much less think about.
I glanced again at the mirror. The girl staring back at me was not any form of Mercedes Kain that I could ever recall. From the purple hair to the rocker chick attire, to the strange glint of excitement in her…well my…eyes…nothing was remotely familiar. My recent ex’s words echoed dimly in her mind. “You’re so…so predictable, Dee.”
Nevermind the fact that I absolutely hated to be called ‘Dee’, on some level, the bastard had been right. If only he could see me now. Maybe he’d leave the skanky bitch who helped him cheat on me. Carefully, I shot the mirror girl a snarky smile. Perhaps…perhaps this wasn’t such a bad thing after all. “Hey, earth to Kain! Come on, girl, the concert’s going to start soon. We want to get as close to the front as possible!”
I nodded, sighed, and hurried after Elaine. The purple-haired mirror-girl disappeared with me.
She paused only to swipe blue lip gloss across her lips. “They’re an awesome band. I’m sure you’ve heard their song on the radio. They have this one called Hyde that 105.2 plays constantly.” She began humming the song as an example.
I nodded. The tune sounded familiar. The cooks liked to have 105.2 on as they were cleaning at the end of the night. It would have helped if I had actually paid attention to the songs. So I just settled for nodding and smiling as Elaine went on to tote the virtues—or lack thereof—of the upcoming band. “Oh and god, is their vocalist hot! He’s Asian!” she added meaningfully as if this made all the difference. “And some of their songs he sings in Japanese!”
I quickly assumed by the tone Elaine said it in, that singing in Japanese was apparently a good thing. “Well he probably is Japanese.” I replied matter-of-factly.
Elaine shot me a ‘no duh, genius’ look that I very nearly gave her a lecture for. “Well, it’s really hot anyway.” She paused and tried to remember what she’d been talking about. “Oh yeah! Phoenix Moreland’s their guitarist and he’s like the very definition of a brooding, sexy, enigmatic genius!”
The ‘enigmatic’ was what caught my attention. Not because I really cared for the tall, dark, and mysterious sort of guys—they were really just anti-social bastards—but because I was surprised Elaine knew how to use the word in a sentence. “Really?” I asked, sounding interested merely because a “two-dollar” word had been used to describe the man.
Elaine took the interest and ran with it. “Oh yeah! He’s got this effing sexy long dark red—natural!—hair! And these smoldering blue-grey eyes. Oh and he has tribal tattoos all over his chest and back. Sometimes he takes off his shirt during concerts. God, is that boy built! Your virgin eyes will be overloaded, trust me. It’s almost too much for me!”
Thankfully for my sanity and patience, it looked as if the band was about to make their appearance. Now it was time to see if any of Elaine’s rambling was true. The crowd began to surge closer as the house lights dimmed and the stage lights began to change color. The hot press of bodies was uncomfortable. I drew closer to Elaine and tried to ignore the feeling to claustrophobia that was beginning to nag at me. The noise of the crowd suddenly died down as the stage lights turned to a deep, dark blue color and a black-haired guy in jeans, a ragged black t-shirt, and sunglasses came out, took the bass from the stand, made a few adjustments on the knobs, and began playing a strong, teeth-rattling bass line. He was quickly joined by a very tall, thin, fellow with a shock of bright blue hair dressed simply in combat boot, black pants, and a white wifebeater. Mr. Blue Hair—as I was quick to dub him—twirled a pair of drumsticks that seemed to appear out of nowhere and swung himself behind the drum set. A very loud, but surprisingly catchy beat was added to the bass. The crowd was cheering now. The drummer was apparently popular. But if I thought they were loud for the drummer, it was nothing compared to the cheering that accompanied the arrival of the next band member. I very quickly discerned that this was the infamous Phoenix Moreland. He did indeed have nice red hair that fell to just past his shoulder blades. I couldn’t tell if his eyes were as smoldering as Elaine claimed they were, but I could see that she was right about him having tattoos. They poked out from under the sleeves of his tight black t-shirt. Unfortunately—or fortunately—I couldn’t see them very well though due to the lighting. Heedless of the cheering fans, he swung up his pale, yellow-greenish electric guitar, fiddled with the amp behind him as he plugged it in, and then began a very impressive bit of playing. Not that I was or still am any expert on guitars and the like. But it sounded good. And he did look interesting up there with all that red hair of his falling into his face as he concentrated on the instrument in his arms. I was interrupted in my observations of the guitarist by Elaine’s “There he is!” Insert squeal. “It’s Renji Itoh!”
Looking every bit the resplendent god of metal, Renji Itoh appeared on stage. He had wild black hair and wore a very elegant gothic costume that featured a red jacket and a white poet’s shirt that hung open to the tops of his tight black pants. I wasn’t dead. Even I felt inclined to—inwardly—admit that Renji Itoh was a very attractive man. They all were. I began to feel better about the concert when Renji opened his mouth and began to sing.
Things were going well for the first fifteen minutes. I managed to loosen up enough to try my hand—or rather head—at head-banging. I was forced to stop quickly though because it began to give me a headache. But jumping up and down and throwing my “rock fist” up in the air was easy and I did it with a mild smile hanging from my lips. The music wasn’t half bad. Renji Itoh had a good voice, even when he was screaming out some of the lyrics. Yes, things were looking great, until Elaine tugged my mesh sleeve and shouted. “I want to go join the mosh pit!” She pointed behind her.
My gaze followed the hand to wear a group of people were enthusiastically throwing their bodies into some form of dancing. It looked pretty violent. Against all better judgment—that was apparently allergic to Las Vegas because I hadn’t seen hide-nor-hair of it since I arrived—I nodded. “Go on, I’ll stay here.”
I wasn’t entirely too keen on separating from Elaine, but I reasoned that we were both big girls and could handle ourselves. Although I figured that Elaine would have a little more difficulty in her “mosh pit” than I would in my “almost-calm” spot up front. Okay…okay. So it wasn’t anywhere near calm, but it wasn’t as rowdy as the mosh pit. Elaine happily pushed her way backwards and the crowd took it was their cue to surge forward. Hot, sweaty bodies pressed at me from all sides. I elbowed one to my right, a tall young boy who was all but shoving me into the metal guards. “Hey!” he protested. “Stupid bitch!”
Angrily, he shoved back hard. I was barely keeping myself above the rising tide of people in the first place, so with that bit force, I went down like a rock. Of course, not before slamming my head into the guard as I went down. Because it just couldn’t get any better. I held my aching head and looked up at the sea of bodies. “Someone? Help me up, please?” I offered pitifully. Now was past the time to save my pride. I just wanted to get out.
No one listened. No one could hear me...or at least that’s what they pretended. I have to admit that I began to panic. The claustrophobic was returning…with a vengeance. I shoved a foot in front of me and was promptly kicked in the gut. Someone else stepped on my hand. “Stop!” I tried screaming.
Still no one cared. I tried to grab someone’s pants leg as a boost to lift myself up. I was pushed down again. Someone’s elbow connected with my temple. I saw stars. The aching was unbearable now that I’d been hit twice. “Help!” I tried screaming again as I thrust up my hand like a flag.
And surprisingly, someone grabbed it. “Out of the way!” someone above me shouted. “Let her stand!”
Slowly and painfully, I clambered to my feet. The blood rushed to my head and I held a hand over my eyes. So much noise. God, wouldn’t these people just shut up for a minute? “You okay?” someone asked.
I was struck by two things at once. First: I could actually hear the man (the voice was too deep to be a woman) talking to me and it wasn’t because he was shouting. Second: I could hear the man because the band had stopped playing.
I looked up to find two worried blue-grey eyes trying to catch my focus—Helloooo lovely eyes! “How many fingers am I holding up?” he asked.
Three long fingers were waving in front of my eyes. “Um…three?” I asked, slightly distracted by the pain and my own rising insanity.
“Sure?” the man prodded.
I tried to nod, but it hurt too much to move my head. Oddly, I wondered when the band would start playing again, but realized I was content for now that the noise level had lessened. My ears were buzzing and it was almost as annoying as the headache. “Come on, you need to sit down.” The man, still holding my hand, was leading me down to the end of the metal guards.
“Come on guys!” scolded an amplified voice. “It wouldn’t have killed you to help her. Try to keep the injuries down or we won’t play the rest of our set.”
There was a general grumbling that was beginning to die down as the man led me away. “Do you want to be where you can still listen?”
I shook my head carefully. “No, my head really hurts. The quiet is nice.”
“Sit here.” He said as he gently pressed me onto what felt like a sofa. “I’ll have Jessa get you an ice pack. Don’t fall asleep. You may have a concussion. I’ll be back to check on you soon.”
I grunted something in reply. The sofa-thing was really comfy and I was suddenly aware of how much I hurt all over.
In the back of my mind, I heard footsteps and assumed it was my rescuer going to find the ice pack. Really, I didn’t really care. All I knew was that I was suddenly feeling terribly tired. I laid back and tried to burrow further into the sofa-thing. “Hey now!” scolded a voice than made my eyes spring open. “Don’t fall asleep. Hold this to your head.”
The speaker was a short woman in a brown pencil skirt, white blouse, and black corset. She thrust an ice pack into my hands and then helped me pressed it to my forehead. Once she seemed satisfied that I could hold the pack on my own, she whipped a pencil from her corset and held it in front of my nose. “Follow this with your eyes.”
I obeyed. “Alright.” The woman said after a moment. “You’ll be fine. Just don’t go to sleep for awhile.”
“Thank you.”
The woman sighed and sank down on the couch next to me. With the lull, I took a moment to scan my new surroundings. We were in a hallway of sorts. It was bare save the couch and ended about ten feet away at a door. “Stupid kids can get pretty violent at these things. The guys like to keep an eyes out on things. Especially Nix. Good thing too. He was the first to see you.”
I nodded… very carefully. “Where is he? I’d like to thank him.”
The woman snorted. “Well he’s still on stage, but I’m sure he’ll be back to check on you after they finish the next song.”
“Next…song?” It was suddenly coming together.
Blue-grey eyes…I froze. Nix…Phoenix…Phoenix Moreland. “Holy shit.” Was all I could manage.
