1993
Seattle, Washington
“The accountant’s back.”
I raise my eyebrows and grunt, still lugging my drum kit from the tiny stage area to the even tinier backstage area, bumping into walls as well as guys in jeans, beanies, and flannel shirts.
“He is?” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.
Ava just laughs, pulling her feet up and sitting cross-legged. She’s currently on top of a broken amp in a black tank top, red plaid schoolgirl skirt, and black boots that come to her knees. Like usual, she’s got bright red lipstick, plenty of eyeliner, and Bettie Page bangs in her platinum blonde hair.
“Left side. Back corner,” she says, nodding at the audience beyond the curtain. “Look for yourself.”
I don’t answer her right away, just grunt and get my bass drum the rest of the way to our van, shut the door behind it, and triple-check that it’s locked.
It’s not the greatest van. It’s not the greatest alley, in not the greatest neighborhood. It’s not the greatest drum kit, either, but it’s mine and I’d like it to stay that way.
“—Heard one of the execs from SubPop was gonna be here tonight,” Nadine is saying as I re-enter the narrow, dark, warm hallway. “Maybe that’s his deal.”
“No way,” I say, heaving myself up onto the busted amp beside Ava. “You can spot a record exec from a mile away.”
“You can also spot the accountant from a mile away,” Nadine points out.
“Yeah, but not the same way,” I say, resting one Doc Marten clad foot on top of the amp, letting my other leg dangle down. “The execs always have on brand new flannel shirts that they tuck into their acid-wash jeans left over from 1985, like they think they’re gonna blend in.”
“I always thought those guys were just pervs,” Nadine says thoughtfully, leaning against the wall opposite us. She’s wearing jeans with gaping holes at both knees, combat boots laced high over the ankles, and a Bikini Kill t-shirt, her black hair in a spiky pixie cut.
There’s not much room back here, but it’s the quietest place in the Heathen Hotel, the only place where we can wind down after a set.
“Why can’t they be both?” Ava says, and Nadine laughs.
“An equal opportunity misanthropist,” Nadine says. “I like it.”
“Men can fulfill a wide range of roles in the modern world,” Ava goes on, still laughing. “Record exec and pervert.”
“Shouldn’t I be the one hating on men?” Nadine teases.
“Why? I’m the one who has to fuck ‘em.”
“You don’t have to,” I point out, laughing.
Nadine holds up both of her hands.
“We don’t want any of her straight girl bullshit on our team,” she says, grinning. “Find a convent or something.”
Ava rolls her eyes, both ringed with smoky eyeliner.
“We’re not talking about us,” she says. “We’re talking about the accountant, and how he obviously has a thing for Joan.”
“Just because he showed up to two of our shows?” I ask, trying to sound bored.
It’s actually been three shows. We’ve got a standing gig at eleven o’clock every Thursday at the Heathen Hotel, and he’s been here, standing in the back, for three weeks running.
I’m pretty sure he’s watching me. It’s hard to tell, obviously, but the club is pretty small and every time I sneak a peek back there, he’s looking at me with an intense gaze I can’t quite shake.
“More because he clearly keeps trying to ask you out and you keep running away,” Ava says.
I make a face. Ava laughs again.
“Then go out there and tell him to fuck off,” she says.
I make the face harder.
“Or go out there and give him your number so the two of you can get married, move to the suburbs and have two-point-one children and a white picket fence,” she says.
“Are those my only options?”
“There’s also lesbianism,” Nadine says dryly. “C’mon in, the water’s great.”
“I thought you didn’t want any straight girl bullshit,” Ava says.
“I don’t want any of your straight girl bullshit,” Nadine says. “Joan might not be so bad, though.”
“Thanks.”
Nadine walks to the end of the hallway, then sticks her head onto the stage where the next band is setting up.
“Still out there,” she says, reporting back.
I sigh, jump off the amp, and join her. I feel like the three of us are schoolgirls, peeking out at the cute boy, whispering about him without actually going and saying anything.
Because the accountant is very, very cute, even if he’s not really my type.
My type is basically the male version of myself: flannel-wearing, long-hair-having, rebellious-seeming, and preferably musical. I like my guys broody. Even better if he’s in a band.
The accountant is none of that. He’s clean cut, with slightly wavy dark hair, intense eyes, and a mouth that always looks like he’s about to smile. I’ve never seen him in jeans, only slacks and a button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal tattoo-free but surprisingly ripped forearms.
He looks like he showers. He looks like he works out. He looks like he gets adequate sleep, like he does laundry regularly, and like he could explain the finer points of the tax code.
And… he looks like he’s leaving. He tilts the can of Rainier Beer he’s drinking all the way up, then turns and walks toward the exit. My heart thumps in my chest as I watch him walk away, looking completely out of place and also like he couldn’t care less about that.
The confidence is also kind of hot.
I wonder if I should go after him, but I have no idea what I’d say. Hey, can you do my taxes? Is he even an accountant? I have no idea.
“There he goes,” deadpans Nadine, right behind me. “You’re not gonna go get your man?”
I just sigh at her and duck back into the tiny hallway.
“I’m gonna go get a beer,” I say.
It’s about twelve thirty at night, and the Heathen Hotel is banging. It’s jam-packed full of people, probably way more than the occupancy limit. It’s humid as hell, the floor is sticky, and everything smells like a combination of old beer and sweat. They keep the lights low so no one can see how dirty the place is, which is fine with me.
I step up to the bar, wave to Irma, the bartender. She looks like she came for a Bon Jovi concert and never left, all teased blonde hair and jeans that button up to her ribcage, but we love her all the same because Irma doesn’t take shit from anyone.
She holds up a can of Rainier in my direction, her eyebrows raised. I give her a thumbs up as I squeeze up against the bar, between a big guy wearing a black t-shirt and a younger guy, who’s wearing a torn t-shirt and chatting up a girl who couldn’t be less interested.
“Thanks!” I call out to Irma as she opens the can and sets it on the bar in front of me. I wedge myself in a little further so I can grab it, accidentally bumping the big guy.
“Sorry,” I say automatically.
He turns, one thick hand still gripped around his whiskey glass, and glares at me. He glares hard enough to raise the hairs on the back of my neck, instantly setting off all of my this guy is bad news radar.
I ignore him. I ignore him studiously, determinedly, wrapping my hand around the cold can and taking a sip, determined to show him his weird display of aggression makes no difference to whether or not I can be there.
“Fuckin’ dykes,” he mutters, though he makes sure he’s loud enough that I can hear it.
I take another sip of my beer, ignoring him with all the force I can muster.
“Bunch of ugly fuckin’ women,” he goes on. Now I have goosebumps all over my body, my entire attention focused on him even though I’m staring across the bar, pretending to ignore him. My blood is boiling, but I know what he really wants is to get a reaction from me.
Don’t give in. Don’t give this asshole the satisfaction.
“Look better if someone beat your faces in,” he says, his voice slowly rising. “Wouldn’t fuck any of you with a borrowed dick.”
I’m tense, ramrod straight, every sense on high alert. My heart’s beating a million miles a minute, but I will not give this asshole the satisfaction of backing down.
“You’d have to borrow more than that,” I finally say.
He moves his arm, and I flinch.
He’s just drinking the rest of his whiskey, but he laughs.
“Not so fuckin’ brave, are you?” he crows, now fully turned toward me on his barstool. I give up the pretense that I’m ignoring him and turn.
He’s just some guy: not ugly, not good-looking, just somewhere in the middle. He’s got long dark hair that’s on the unwashed side, a goatee, and a Metallica t-shirt.
“Fuck off and die,” I say, raising my voice.
People are starting to turn toward us, give us a little more space even in the crowd near the bar.
“Crazy bitch,” he says, even louder now, as he stands from his bar stool, swaying slightly.
He’s taller than me. Wider, too, but I stand my ground.
“Ugly asshole,” I fire back. Everyone around us has stepped back.
“You stupid dyke,” he says, towering over me.
I step back, involuntarily.
“You’re fuckin’ lucky that—”
Hands grab him from behind. A few sets. They pull him back and he stumbles, revealing a couple other metalheads and behind them, the bouncer.
“The fuck, man?” one of them asks. He pulls his arms from their hands and then wheels on them, keeps fighting. There’s more shouting, more cursing, but then their little group is leaving as the bouncers close in.
A few more glances my way, but then the crowd closes in again and the whole thing is forgotten, except by me.
I’m shaking. I’m sweating. I feel unsteady on my feet, a little lightheaded, like I could run three marathons. I grab my beer and chug it, but that doesn’t help at all, and the room is closing in, suddenly too hot and humid.
I book it for the exit, searching my pockets for my cigarettes as I push through people. Not the front exit, where the drunk guy went, but the side exit, the one to the alleyway.
I shove it open. I step outside, stand with my back to the concrete wall, and pull the last smoke from the pack, still shaking. It’s not raining, exactly, but it’s not not raining. There’s just water in the air, some of it falling earthward.
I pull my zippo out of my pocket and flip it open, try to flick it on. It sparks but doesn’t go.
What the hell was that guy’s problem? I think, trying it again. More sparks.
Was he that pissed because I bumped him by accident? Or was he just pissed because I exist?
I flick the lighter again. More sparks, no fire, my lips wrapped around the cigarette. Frustrated, I shake it.
I wish the guy in the Metallica t-shirt was a one-off, an aberration. I wish that, at nearly every show Girl Bomb played, some asshole wasn’t shouting insults at the stage, centered mostly on our look or unfuckability.
I try the lighter again. Not even sparks this time.
“Need a light?” a voice says, materializing from the darkness.
I shout and jump back, dropping my cigarette and lighter in the process.
“What the fuck?” I shout, still jittery and worked up. “Don’t fucking do that, what’s wrong with you?”
“Sorry,” he says, and in the dark he holds his hands up, palms out, a matchbook held between two fingers. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I blink in the dark of the alleyway, the only light half a block away, my eyes still adjusting. Behind the hands is nicely-groomed dark hair, deep eyes, and a mouth that’s half-smiling.
It’s the accountant.
We don’t know each other. We’ve never even spoken.
All the same, I’m oddly relieved.
“It’s okay,” I say, pushing a hand through my hair. “I’m just jumpy.”
I bend down, looking for the cigarette I dropped. I find it, crushed and in a puddle, clearly my own doing.
I look up.
“You owe me a cigarette,” I say.
He’s still holding his hands out, and now he turns them upward.
“Sorry, I don’t smoke,” he says. “How about a drink instead?”
I stand up straight, studying him.
“If you don’t smoke, why are you carrying around a matchbook?”
“Helps me strike up conversations,” he says, grinning.
I narrow my eyes.
“Get it? Strike up?” he says, his voice fading. “Because it’s…”
“I got it,” I say, trying not to smile.
“Come on, that was good,” he says.
“Was it?”
“If you want, you could tell me how bad it was over a drink.”
He puts the matchbook back into his pocket, and I take the moment to give him a good, long up-and-down.
Close up, he doesn’t look much like an accountant. He’s still got the business-casual clothing, and he still looks like he bathes regularly, but the demeanor is all wrong. His presence is oddly magnetic, at least to me.
“What’s your name?” I ask. I know I’m going to accept the offer of a drink, but I don’t want to make it seem too easy.
“Dan,” he says. “It’s Joan, right? You’re the drummer for Girl Bomb.”
“Right,” I say, surprised he knows my name.
“You guys sounded great tonight.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Are you really an accountant?”
Dan frowns, his handsome face looking puzzled.
“I work for the city,” he says, sounding amused. “Urban planning. You want to know anything about traffic studies in downtown, just ask.”
I grin, despite myself.
“Where do you want to get that drink?” I finally say.
Stay tuned for part two, coming Friday, May 2!
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