Perry loves to (websling) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-11-17 10:48:00 |
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Entry tags: | gwen stacy, mary jane watson, norman osborn, spider-man |
Who: Billy, Elise, MK, Neil and Sam
What: Billy's Charity concert
When: Recently
Where: A theatre in downtown Vegas.
A mostly darkened two-room building the size of a high school gym, the venue was usually home to a comedy club and a weekly dinner-theatre; not exactly your Hollywood Bowl.
For people who paid anywhere from three hundred to over a thousand for a ticket, the venue seemed garageband, soft and even friendly. After a moment of uncertainty, privilege took on a new form: the lucky few were like friends invited over for a jam session and a few beers, despite the diamond bracelets and the imports parked out front, and everybody liked to be with the band. There were a handful of press present, but photography was expressly forbidden, and there were some ushers standing around to make the point if necessary.
The lobby’s bar didn't have flashing lights and no drinks were free. The bartenders all had a badge that shouted, “I’M A VOLUNTEER,” but they knew exactly what they’re doing, and a few of the smiling faces present could sometimes be found working in the more exclusive skyscraper bars down the Strip. Drinks were available before and after the short performance, and small printed signs in plastic frames noted the name of the charity benefit. There was even a cardboard box if anyone wanted to drop envelopes or cash for the cause.
It had been a whim, buying the guy's tickets on the journal, but Sam was shit about planning things through, and going out sounded like a good idea. And, honestly, she always liked dragging people along when she coaxed Neil out of the house, that way the fucker didn't think she was trying to corner him into a date or something. It was a trapeze act that she sucked at, but she was getting better, and she was relatively calm when she showed up at the gig dressed in jeans that were so low the strings of the red thongs she wore showed if she moved just right. A slate grey sweater, the neckline scooped dangerously low, finished off an ensemble paired with Doc Martens and a whole fuckton of cat's eye makeup, and her blonde hair was loose around her shoulders. She was fairly clean, only the doctor-prescribed benzos in her system, though there was a baggie in her front pocket, which include some nicely rolled white widow, and she pushed up on the tips of her boots to look over the crowd in the lobby, waiting for sight of Neil or MK or "the angry chick."
MK mostly like wouldn’t have come to this concert had Sam not jumped the gun. It wasn’t her scene, really, not when there were clubs with VIP sections and blow in the bathrooms. But, who was she to pass down a good time? It was a great excuse to get out and spend time with Sam, who she really liked even though she knew her such a short time, and it was a good distraction from Adam. Adam, who still consumed her thoughts day and night until she was so wasted or high she could barely remember her own name. She decided he wouldn’t be the center of her world tonight, though, or at least she would attempt that. The handful of pills she downed before leaving her hotel room would help, of course, and by the time she strolled into the venue, she was definitely not clean. Dressed in her skinniest, skin-tight jeans, highest heels, and a sheer top with a colorful bra, she looked more like a model stumbling into a club than some of the crowd milling into the space. Her red hair was wavy and wild, almost as wild as her wide green eyes searching the crowd for a familiar face until she spotted a familiar blond. “Hi, gorgeous,” she said, leaning into press a kiss to Sam’s cheek. Her breath smelled of booze, and there were still faint reminders of the scars she gave herself that she couldn’t quite disguise with the awesome cover up she discovered from being on set with junkie models like herself.
Neil didn’t make a habit of going to concerts, and he knew absolutely nothing about South Portal or Billy K., but it was for charity, and anything that involved giving away money without getting something deemed worthwhile in return was a guaranteed way to piss off the asshole and his insane tag-along taking up residence in his head. All in all, it was too good of an opportunity to pass up, and getting out of his place would probably do him some good. Booze wasn’t likely, which was a downside, but he’d had a couple of glasses of spicy whiskey before leaving, and it was enough to give him a pleasant buzz without pushing him over that fine line between drunk and sober. He was dressed casually, jeans and a black shirt, cuffs rolled up and the top few buttons undone, and while his hair wasn’t exactly smooth and a hint of stubble dotted his jaw, he managed to make it work for him. Since he had no idea what angry chick or the redheaded supermodel looked like, he entered the lobby looking for Sam, which was easier said than done. He maneuvered around the clusters of fans babbling on in their excitement, and after a few seconds of searching he caught sight of a familiar face, coupled with a redhead he assumed was MK. Definitely a model, he decided as he approached, but he knew better than to think she had a perfect life full of glamour and excitement; no one who was actually happy with their lives took coke from random guys in bathrooms. He’d known his fair share of the wealthy and the famous, and despite all they supposedly had, a lot were pretty miserable in the end.
“Hey, you,” Neil greeted with a grin once he was close enough, and compared to the two women, he was woefully underdressed. With whatever the hell they had being nothing short of complicated, affection wasn’t quite in their repertoire, and it was probably the whiskey that had him brushing his hand over Sam’s shoulder before turning to MK. “I’m Neil,” he added, extending a hand. “You must be MK, right? Unless the angry chick’s a redhead too.”
MK's kiss to Sam's cheek made her tense up a little; she was shit at casual affection with anyone other than Tessy. Sex was one thing, but casual shit? Yeah, no, and blame her fucking parents for that. When she was drunk or high, she managed to loosen up enough to forget about her hang-ups, but she wasn't drunk, and so she floundered a little and managed a small wave for MK, and a grin-smirk that made up for the lack of reciprocation. "Hey, babygirl," she told the redhead, her greeting genuine. She could smell the booze on MK (a result of not being drunk herself), and Gwen's recent knowledge that the redheaded woman was cutting herself led to a very surreptitious glance at MK's arms, and the marks there that make-up almost hid. Yeah, ok, so add another one to the 'totally fucked up' column, and Sam was beginning to wonder if anyone in Las Vegas actually had their shit together. Sure, she had realized MK had issues when they went out, but Sam had been so fucked up then, and the realization wasn't as clear as it was in that moment.
Neil's arrival cut short any additional introspection, and Sam didn't tense up when that hand brushed her shoulder; anyone else would have gotten a fist to the nose for taking that liberty. She stayed quiet as Neil introduced himself to MK, and she only tugged on the black fabric over Neil's stomach for a second, then smoothed it down again, her own wordless greeting. "I'm thinking angry chick better have dark hair, you know, to even shit out," she said, and she glanced toward the ticket booth and wondered if one of them was just going to have to yell ELISE at the top of their fucking lungs.
MK was always affectionate, no matter what, and no matter who. Complete stranger or best friend, that didn’t matter. So, she was used to people rebuking her touch just as much as she was used to people melting at it, and Sam only got a small smile and quirked eyebrow as a response before Neil arrived. She could see how Sam was head over heels for him in that fucked up way girls like them were. He was handsome, and he was mysterious, and he looked like the type of man that brought his own fucked up drama to the table. Just the kind of guy girls like she and Sam were drawn to like magnets.
MK took his hand with a smile, squeezing his fingers ever so slightly, and said, “Pleasure’s all mine, Neil.” She shrugged, not really knowing much about the ‘angry chick’ except what she had glanced through on the journals. Whoever the woman was, she was pissed, and MK looked forward to being amused by someone else’s shitty drama for once. “Yeah, she better be. Fucked up Charlie’s Angels right here then if she is.” The redhead would have glanced around to look for this Elise chick, but she had no idea what she looked like. Maybe they should have worn those stupid, dorky ‘My Name Is...’ stickers on their chests.
Lucky for this motley crew of fuck ups, throwaway rich kids, and junkie supermodels.. somebody here did have their shit together. In her own way of thinking, perhaps, but what else mattered? One really had to keep up with the make-believe bullshit for themselves if for nobody else. In royal red jeans that must have been stitched onto her body, Elise made her way through the entrance in everpresent, ever traditional slingbacks heels. They'd been a gift from some designer she'd dated once or twice before he exploded all over Italian Vogue and got too self-absorbed and King Henry the 8th to tolerate. Only one egomaniac at a time, please. She'd long ago carved deep X's into the leopard print sole bottoms of those heels as a new age version of the voodoo doll. Elise liked to think that every step she took was another year off his life. Whether Billy knew it or not, he really got off light as far as her malcontent toward ex-lovers went.
She'd almost decided not to come at all. She'd mentioned it briefly to her agent, but he thought it was a brilliant idea - although he probably wouldn't have if he actually knew who was hosting the benefit concert - for her to get back into the scene that had birthed her name on editorial pages. It was a step in the right direction, he'd said. Then, of course, Elise found out about the no photography rule that the venue had adopted for the night. She took that as a personal slight from Billy himself, and she stormed around her condo for a while, bitching in German to the security who only rubbed his eyes and nodded along in a vague attempt at ignoring her and simultaneously not inciting her wrath any further. "You know he insisted on that just so that I wouldn't come!" The man nodded in fruitless agreement, and it was three cigarettes later before Elise decided that she'd just show up anyway. It would be unexpected, and she enjoyed such aimless and eccentric adventures that had fallen by the wayside ever since she'd been put under house arrest. It would be worth it to get out, and who said that she had to stay for the whole thing?
The black t shirt hung off of one shoulder due to a heavy slash from some designer's aggressive scissors. The back was tattered into dripping spiderweb clings of cotton that twisted around to the front here and there, it offered a lot of beauty marked skin, clavicles, and side boob. At the front desk, Elise gave the name that the woman on the journal had mentioned. Donovan. The cheerful girl with the clipboard made a little check on the list before gesturing Elise to where the Donovan trio was standing further inside the venue. Elise approached with a dark, unlit cigarette twirling between her fingers and no makeup on. Just day old smears of eyeliner that hadn't quite washed away and a mouth stained from the noir she'd had with dinner. The fairyblond and spun gold of her hair was twisted up in a careless knot. "Sam?" She peered between the women first with eyes like snowdrift and sapphire, then a contemplative glance to the man amongst them while she pinned that clove to the corner of her mouth regardless of the fact that somebody somewhere was bound to approach her and insist she put it out eventually.
Sam turned when she heard her name, her attention moving away from Neil and MK, to the blonde woman with the accent. Oh, yeah, angry chick was definitely a piece of work. Right away, Sam realized she was with the band. Oh, not fucking with the band, but the kind of woman that moved in musician circles. She'd made plenty of deliveries to musicians and their entourages in her day. They liked their white powder, musicians, and they always tipped better than anyone else she knew. And, yeah, Elise - "angry chick" - she looked like she belonged in that scene, just like MK looked like she belonged at a catwalk after-party, just like Neil looked like money (even dressed down). She felt woefully out of her depth, but she covered it with a smug-warm smirk and a slow perusal of the newly arrived blonde, the kind of look that made most people uncomfortable enough not to notice how bargain her clothes were. "Yeah, baby. That's me," she said, and she motioned to Neil and MK with a jerk of her thumb. "Neil and MK. We ready to enter stage left?" she asked, wandering away just long enough to take the tickets from the woman at the ticket booth, flashing the card she'd "borrowed" from Neil as ID. She handed a ticket to each of them, and she nodded toward the doors, smooth as silk, like she picked up five-hundred dollar tickets from a box every day of the week.
The interior was as intimate as promised, though the fifty advertised tickets must have somehow doubled judging from the number of people sitting on real, cushioned chairs, all arranged twenty-five at a time in a miniature coliseum. There were no signs shouting Billy’s name on the interior, which focused on the simplistic instead, with warm lighting in soft yellow bulbs and some bronze fixtures from the last mystery meal. In the center of the room a small carpeted platform had enough room for the band and not much else. Something about it suggested an opulent living room, even more so because unlike most concerts, the band was on the platform waiting once the doors opened.
The platform boasted a drum set with an easily physical middle-aged man on it, his brass cymbals gleaming, and there was room for the guitarist and a bass player to move to either side if they choose. The bass player couldn’t have been more than eighteen, while the guitarist was Billy’s age, and both looked up occasionally from tuning to grin at someone they recognized or to have a brief conversation with the people to their seats. There were early murmurs about the assembled band, none of whom bore membership in South Portal, and only a few recognized the guitarist as one of Billy’s old friends from California.
Billy himself was sitting. The wooden chair had a tapered back that leaned gently behind him toward the drummer and widely set arms along with an ivory seat without much of a cushion. It was fancier than Billy, who was in jeans and a worn shirt that had a Malibu surf logo splashed across the front. An unplugged guitar was leaning against the chair to his left, its sandy-colored surface not unlike Billy’s hair in the yellow light, cropped shorter than it had ever been before but flattering to his round, friendly face and easy eyes. He looked intensely normal (except that he wasn’t standing), and he smiled and even shook hands with a couple people as they moved past the bottom of the platform. It was probably the most polite and friendly concert anyone had ever been to, and nobody could quite stop watching Billy, as if he might suddenly seize up or fall into six different pieces.
Billy was admittedly curious about the sale tickets he sold on the journals, and he watched the seats just out of his immediate line of sight behind his right ear covertly, trying to distract himself from the idea of showing all of these people how much less he was than before.
If paper tiger grins and tricksmoke nonchalance were intended to be taken at face value with no questions asked, Elise really wasn't the type of person that should have been invited along. She was the greedy claws that peeled back layers pretending to be tough as nails, all for one savoring glimpse of the vulnerability beneath. Lucky for them that she didn't have the ravenous, unblinking eye of that Canon camera strung about her neck tonight(even if there was something slim and digital tucked into her back pocket), nobody would have escaped its acid wash approach to the truth then. She looked over the women in momentary silence, assessing each of them even as the other blond with the punk revival cat eyes went off in claim of the tickets. If equally measuring eyes upon her were supposed to be discomforting, there was no sign that Elise registered such a thing at all. She was the impervious stone behind the swollen lens of God's one good eye.
Elise was accustomed to these kinds of gigs, although being part of the audience was something new. It might have unsteadied a lesser animal. Elise was more tuned to smokey backstages and raucous dressing rooms, the sidelines of stage lights where musician profiles came out perfect, intense, and oblivious to the crowd beneath them. This wasn't that kind of venue and the intimacy of simple chairs and modest lighting threw her for a momentary loop as she thoughtfully collected the ticket from Sam with a muted "Danke..." Her all-seeing attention was snagged by the band as the group moved nearer, and Elise found that she didn't recognize any of them except for Billy. Her scrutiny lingered on the bassist, as if trying to determine if this was some kind of trick. She'd found South Portal's original bassist to be a complete asshole, although she also recalled that such sentiments were frequently returned in spades. She'd never minded being the enemy back then. Slinking just behind MK, she peered beyond that halo of wild red hair to glimpse Billy at a new angle, as if the red might camouflage her. For fuck's sake, what was he wearing? No wonder photography wasn't allowed, and Elise huffed a dramatic sigh with the realization that he'd retained nothing she said about the importance of lighting and contrast and -- she shook her head to cease from thinking about it and rather invasively dropped her cheek onto MK's shoulder to peer at the young thing from close up. The girl seemed vaguely familiar by eyesight alone, although Elise crossed with enough models and models' showcards that they all kind of blended together after awhile. "And what do you do?" Her tone suggested that she didn't even have a suspicion.
Elise was a character, that much was obvious, and like Sam, MK could tell she fit right into this scene. Like the icy blonde was cut right out of one of the music magazines or editorials she sometimes graced herself. There was something familiar about the blonde, too, and MK couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but then again, she met a lot of people over the years. She could be from anywhere. Still, she scrutinized the other blonde with bright green eyes and a warm smile, and she decided it would at least be an interesting night. If anything, she could make a good time for herself. So, the redhead followed after taking the proffered ticket, and her eyes wandered around the cushy room, and she knew then that this was definitely not her kind of scene. Everything was too plush and chill and subdued, nothing MK Robinson was really used to lately. But, she was here, and she would stay for as long as she had -- as long as she could land something to keep her up.
MK hadn’t met Billy before, but she had spoken to him over the journals a few times, and he didn’t quite look like what she had pictured. Then again, it was hard to match a face to the weirdness of the journals. Before she could think on that more, or anything to do with Passages and its bullshit, she felt a light weight on her shoulder, and she looked down to see the new blonde. The redhead wasn’t jarred at all by that sudden affection and supposed line crossing, both always loving touches and quite high enough not to mind much at all. She swayed a little on her feet, the pills and booze finally catching up to her, but only enough that it was noticeable to the girl leaning on her. “In theory,” MK said, looking down at the blond, “I guess I model. Sometimes. People would probably argue and say I’m on Perez Hilton more than in editorials.” After a second and a glance away, she looked down again. “You look familiar.”
Elise had always loved that question. What do you do? Perhaps because she was not bound to the less than thought provoking restraints of the English language, Elise had a way of musing over words and turns of phrase. Converting them to French or German, the miniscule Portuguese she'd had to pick up on during the Brazilian model invasion of the early 2000's. What do you do? It was a question that could have been taken a dozen different ways and answered a hundred more. Americans always narrowed the possibilities into the life-sucking realm of profession. So MK was a model. "Ah," Elise said softly. That accent like taking a warm dip in a war mortar and shrapnel spring. MK was not the coltish, obscenely young imports from Eastern Europe. She was too old for that, even if MK wasn't old at all. The modeling industry was fickle and half-blind on the best of days. Due to her house arrest, Elise poured through plenty of magazines. To hell with newspapers, the gossip rags were just as informative. While MK had a smile like diamonds, Elise knew trainwrecks when she saw them. Her last gallery tour had been centered around the subject matter, after all. It made Elise itch to get the redhead under her lens, peel back the pretty smile and find flavors underneath.
"I take pictures," she admitted with another sly glance up to the musician on his throne. "Maybe we crossed at a party," she murmured before bringing her storm blue eyes back down to MK with determination. The magazines were always have some charity event and costume gala.
Neil wasn’t the kind of guy who gave long, challenging stares or sized people up immediately upon meeting them. His general apathy was often mistaken by others, giving the impression that he was easygoing, floating just above life and its array of problems, untouched and unencumbered. In theory, that was true, but it required a hell of a lot of effort and most of it was just an image he’d cultivated because it worked for him. When angry chick-- sorry, Elise, appeared, he merely offered a quirk of his brow and a polite smile. They probably made quite a sight, the four of them, but he didn’t give it much thought, and he accepted his ticket from Sam with a careless sort of ease before crossing through the doors and into the room where all the action, or at least the concert, was being held. He’d been to a couple of those outdoor rock concerts in his younger years, dragged along by friends, but if there was anything that was more his ‘scene’, it was this. The whiskey gave everything a pleasant buzz, and all things considered he was actually in a pretty good mood.
While Elise and MK played the ‘so what do you do?’ game, one he knew all too well from being forced to attend parties for friends of his parents, and friends of friends, as a kid, Neil turned his attention to the man of the hour, seated up on the platform in all his casual glory. He’d had no expectations for the man, and so he wasn’t surprised or mollified. “Billy K. looks like a nice guy,” he remarked, to no one in particular.
Sam watched for a few seconds as MK and Elise sniffed each other out, and then she dropped into one of the seats and gave part of her attention to the stage. She missed Tessy, who at least felt familiar and like she came from the same world, and she patted at her pockets, finding the one with some candy and popping a little blue pill that would make her anxiety disappear. The guy on the stage was blond, which she wasn't expecting for some reason, and she expected (from the look of them) that it would be a pretty fucking chill performance, which was just fine with her. She propped her booted feet up on the front of her seat, and she spared a glance or two over at Neil, who she knew was much more comfortable in this world than she was. "He looks nicer than any of us, baby," was her casual reply to Neil's comment. More fucking put together too, she thought, but she kept that to herself.
They were accompanied by a last flood of people as everyone was ushered in from the Lobby, so Billy had been too caught up in some last minute tech problems to pay as much attention to them as he liked. There was a moderate amount of twisting as he leaned to indicate something to the guitarist, and he had to turn to take an earpiece from a helpful sound design assistant, but he never got up. The jeans gave the illusion of ease and strength where there was none, and he wasn’t eager to get up and ruin it. He had just enough time before the lights abruptly dimmed to give Elise one long, unreadable stare, and then the short-range floods at his feet lit up and blinded him to the audience.
The concert was surprisingly informal. Billy smiled (his face had farmboy earnestness without a trace of shy naivete) and greeted the audience only with a “Hey, good to see you here,” before the first song was on. It was obvious that while the band was no South Portal, they had all practiced with each other a great deal, and they had shifted some of the more progressive, electronic sounds to something easier and more raw--less echo, more thud--for the occasion. The kid with the guitar was the strongest musician on the stage, and they let him show it off for the first song, which was a familiar, introspective piece from five years back. It started with a suggestive snare beat and hit a heart-thrumming riff for the sarcastic sting of lyrics before tapering off to a soft, melodic finish, and in that it was much like the concert itself.
Those looking for weakness in Billy had to get past the strength of his voice, which hadn’t diminished in the slightest. He might look like something fresh off a sandy beach or a wide cornfield, but he had a sharp tongue and a way with his lyrics that hinted at someone in the midst of a society that barely noticed him. Billy had a seven octave range, and the whip-flicks of his early stuff stayed low in his chest while some of the unfamiliar songs (presumably his own) featured an incredible grasp of a falsetto that he could make soothing and emotional on a dime.
It was possible, however, to separate from the music here or there. About halfway through the concert Billy grew uncomfortable enough on the chair to take a longer break between songs. Finally, he spoke to one of the sound designers invisible off set about the volume of his earpiece--genuinely, with a smile--and then tipped his head sideways to the guitarist in a distinct c’mere gesture. The guitarist came over immediately and leant Billy his right arm, guitar swung off to the side, and everyone watched as Billy pulled himself up to standing in what looked like the most fucking difficult thing he’d done yet. It was an exceptionally awkward moment, but Billy grinned into the lights and said, “That’s why we hired him,” and the audience’s willing chuckle dispelled most of the tension. He stayed standing for the rest of the concert, though he leaned back against the chair’s high back when he picked up the guitar for the last song, which everyone else, even the drums and guitarist, kept silent.
The audience exploded into willing applause, and Billy took off the guitar to wolf whistles and a slightly ironic standing ovation. There were pain lines beginning to show around his eyes, perhaps not visible to most of the onlookers, who saw only the smile. He said something quiet away from the microphone and suddenly the ushers were very keen on showing people the door to the lobby. Billy turned and looked again at the people on the journal, eyes moving over their faces, curiously. He pegged Sam for the loud one pretty much on sight, and he recognized MK from her considerable press coverage. He gave Neil a friendly upnod, but again his eyes lingered on Elise. He quirked an eyebrow and smiled. “Did I waste your money?”
Billy K. looks like a nice guy. Elise managed a snort of displeasure from around the coalmine filter of her blackcat cigarette. The animalistic sound, like the comment itself, wasn't directed at anyone at all when she flicked a white lighter and took a swift inhale. The smoke that spun in a galactic halo of timberwolf gray over the champagne topknot of her warrior hair was not traditional, although not many thing about Elise fit into molds of Western tradition. The Indonesian smoke lingered in the way that a Marlboro wouldn't have the balls to, cloying and almost sugarcane sweet. Clove and cardamom, kava and poppies, just a speck of tobacco to quicken the burn. She caught Billy's stare at that moment before the music came strumming forth. She stared back.
Even if she looked at Billy, Elise stared through him. The ghost in the chair. It was strange how she could feel notes of familiarity, and where some unexpected improvisation left her blinking to regain a tune she'd thought she'd lost sight of. Wrinkling her nose, some venue security approached at the end of the performance with a request that Elise put that herbal smoke out. She dropped it in a passing flute of champagne when Billy spoke up, and with a fresh breath, frosted bangs slipped away from intense eyes. "Since when is charity a waste of money?"
Billy imagined himself pushing away from the chair and sliding around the guitar in an easy stride, and he imagined himself dropping down off the edge of the stage so he could look at them all level, the way he used to. He imagined it which such clarity that he could almost see himself doing it, like one of the dreams where your eyes watched from above as you moved through clouds or jungles. It was a fast imagining, brief and as fleeting as he could make it while his gaze still smoldered against Elise’s. He broke it as the illusion came apart, dropping his chin and shifting awkwardly against the back of the chair, a transference of weight without the aid of his other foot. He waited out a few stabs of pain down his hip and spine, and then he eased the pose forward to fully face them.
“Your time, then, maybe?” he asked tipping his head in fully ironic acknowledgment of Elise’s correction without actually looking at her. Instead he quirked that smile at the blonde. Sea blue eyes glistened under all the spotlights, and the sweat on his brow made his hair darker at the line of his brow. “You Sam?” he asked her, flicking a wink at MK to show her that he knew very well she wasn’t Sam. “Did pretty good getting this whole crowd here in one piece.”
Sam felt like she was in the middle of some CW drama and, for once, this shit wasn't about her, and how fucking awesome was that? But then this kind of drama might be nice for a change. She caught the smoldering something between Elise and Billy, and she caught the wink at MK, and she just quirked a brow, trying to decide whether to say anything, or whether to let Elise bite back at that comment about charity, because Sam was pretty fucking sure she was going to. "Yeah, seeing as I only carted my own ass here, I don't think I actually get the credit, baby," she said, and she wondered who would win a catfight between her new, redheaded friend and the angry chick. Sorry, MK, baby, but her money was on Elise. But solidarity was solidarity, right? And MK was the one having shitty relationship problems. If Sam was a pom-pom kind of girl, she'd be cheering for MK right about then. If she could figure a way to drag Neil and Elise out, she would do that too, but, yeah, no. So she just leaned into Neil a little, and waited for an opening to escape and do some absentee matchmaking.
Neil wasn’t fully versed in whatever history Billy and Elise had, but oh, he knew just as well as Sam did that there was something. He didn’t thrive on drama, though admittedly it was much more enjoyable when it wasn’t his, and he hardly knew either of them well enough to ‘take sides’ if the situation even called for that at all. There was a faint sort of interest, most of which came from the sadistic sense of humor the guy in his head possessed, and while this was much too tame for his tastes, verbal digs drew blood of their own if they went deep enough. A show after a show, if they were lucky. “I think we all came together on our own,” he quipped, sliding an arm around Sam’s waist when she leaned against him. “Not bad, by the way. Charity’s charity, you know, never a waste, but all in all I’m not lamenting the lost time.”
Like Sam and Neil, MK couldn’t have known anything about Elise and Billy’s past, but she picked up something in the air between the two of them. MK was good at that, after all, sensing and reading people, or at least she thought she was. She flashed Billy a warm smile when he winked at her, and she shot Sam a subtle, but pointed look as she caught her blonde friend and Neil slink closer and closer. Well, they looked cozy, and Billy and Elise could collapse into some serious hate sex at any moment. MK almost visibly balked at the idea of being the fifth wheel in all of this, but caught herself. She could totally have some fun here, at least. “It’s not my usual scene, but I’m glad I made an exception for you.”
There was an exhale caught on the razorblades in her throat and it left Elise with a subtle and partial little huff of an unamused sigh when Billy looked at her. Her eyes were slate gray under spring skies, the prettiest kind of cement to get buried up to your neck in. Which she was probably envisioning with great detail when that earlier security gestapo passed by at a wider berth upon noting that the little crew was getting chatty with the main attraction. Sensing an opportunity, or just not caring if she was reprimanded again, Elise dug a new smoke from the candy apple denim of a ripe back pocket. "I've seen dees shows before," the only indicator that something caustic was brewing was the deepening of that accent. In the old days, when the German went thick like frosting, it was time to back away slowly. Of course, only Billy could know that.
Distracted with the movement of her origami boned fingers, the elegant extension of indigo lacquered nails that pinned a black filter to the corner of her mouth, Elise patted herself down in search of a lighter before glancing up. Her eyes smiled while she spoke. "It only wouldn't have been a waste of time if you'd improved.." Sigh, shrug, ah! There's the lighter. She inhaled sweetly while giving an open offer of the pack toward MK and the open semicircle of their little group. That spice blend must have held an eon of memories for Billy; some loved, although probably most hated. "What for the request of no photography at this event?" As if out of anything she could have asked him, face to face, all these years later, that grievous offense needed to be clarified first.
Billy nodded and smiled at the three of them, pleased, at least, that they weren’t irritated at the space. He wasn’t much concerned about their reaction to the music; the music was something Billy was at peace with, and he loved it so much that if they hated it, it didn’t hurt him. “Well thanks again for coming.”
It was absolutely transparent when Billy bristled at Elise’s arch comments, a movement all in the arrangement of his mouth against the otherwise soft curve of his chin and face. He wasn’t a naturally aggressive person, and the anger had the immediate semblance of pain for a split second, the way a marble statue resembles a running athlete until the eyes focus properly. He decided to take her first comment as an insult, some prod about improvement he didn’t really understand, and he refused to let the German get sexy while he decided to be angry. “Just to screw your camera over, Elise.” This was not true at all; he just said it to piss her off.
Billy pressed two fingers into his ear and called up to the invisible sound booth in the rafters for them to cut the spotlights. He felt abruptly exposed up there on the stage, looking down at all of them and watching them look up at him. He’d gotten used to that a long time ago, but this time was different. He wanted badly not to care, and it showed in some of the strain around his eyes just before the house lights came up and the spots that highlighted him alone faded down.
The guitarist (sans guitar) returned to the stage and lingered just outside the range of conversation, obviously uncertain, but something in the way Billy shifted seemed to decide him, and he stepped all the way out to hand him a lightweight metal cane that came up just short of his hip. “Thanks man... Later, you guys.” And then in the same breath Billy turned from the three of them, gave a last little wave with his free hand, and started off the stage in a graceless limp that had absolutely no rhythm and no haste. It was strange to see the youth and the jeans move with joints frozen and weight askew, something wasted and purely sad. He didn’t look back.
Sam, for one, knew when it was her cue to go, and she would have gotten up and bailed even without that "later" from the man with the cane. If she read things right, and she was pretty fucking sure she was reading things right, Elise and Billy K were likely to go tear each other's fucking clothes off at any minute. Yeah, exit stage left, baby. She stood, and she tugged on Neil's sleeve. "You can give me a lift home," she said, all smirk and magnanimous grin, before turning her attention to MK. "Coming, baby?" she asked as she turned to leave. She was too sober for it to be a lascivious invitation (which it might have been otherwise), but she doubted MK wanted to stay here and watch the private performance that she was pretty fucking sure was going to eclipse the actual show.
In all of the time that she'd known him, Billy had never been an aggressive person. In an era of guitar-busting maniacs and drunken drummers pitching their A-game in bareknuckle boxing matches in high rise hotel rooms, Billy was a different breed. He could be pushed and smile it off. He could have a few drinks with the mates and do nothing more aggressive than make everyone else laugh. It took a special kind of claws to get beneath all of that. Something that Elise regularly aimed for and only occasionally accomplished. She got it all now. That subtle drop of his mouth, not even willing to give her a grimace, it was all careful arrangement. She could see the internal denial there, the need to not give her an inch while succumbing to the inevitable. She followed the tense line of his mouth and there was that strange anxiety urge cleaving through her - that which drew all of the great ones mad. The artistic need to capture something uncapturable.
She very nearly reached for the sleek Nikon in her back pocket. but it wasn't right. It didn't have the proper film and this fucking lighting and -- she drew from her cigarette instead. All flippant gray smoke from betwixt clenched claws that went in a southern arc with her exhale. Dusk blue following Billy as the lights came up and he was just... gone. It was a strange and conflicting dust devil inside of her. Despite all of the vitriol on the journals, that was all he had to say? Some flippant barb about her camera? No, no, he would talk to her.
Even if the others were leaving, Elise pushed past in complete disregard for her newest company. Starting toward Billy, who was already vanishing into the dark recesses of the western stage gallows, Elise stomped after in her slingbacks. "Billy!" She'd come here tonight to right this. He wasn't just going to walk away and deny her that. She deserved it. The closer. He didn't know a thing about her! She screamed after him again before some security guard strung her up by one arm and dragged her out of the club like some deranged groupie, which she was not.. she was not.