It was supposed to be a lazy summer afternoon in for a change. A break from all the hustle and bustle of our daily lives. You would think that working with six bands on a weekly basis would turn Saige off to rock shows when she had the choice of doing literally anything else. But no, of course it wouldn't, because my best friend and roommate is the groupie that parents warn you about when you threaten to start a band. She latches onto the band, then develops an obsession with one of their members and becomes determined to have his babies. Usually the guitarist. She says they have the most incredible fingers. She goes out of her way to go to all of their shows, to be in the front row, and to spend every ounce of free time she has stalking, I'm sorry, I mean spending time with and supporting her newly found love interest. And dragging me along for the ride so it seems more casual until she hauls him back to her lair to begin the breeding process.
Sam was not an exception from this rule. He was part of some British rock band called Counterfeit that I'd never heard of until she started blaring their cd in the too-small space of my old Volkswagen. They weren't bad, but they weren't the best band I'd ever heard. Maybe I'd finally gone tone deaf from listening to so much rock and roll.
See, Saige and I worked for a band management company. We help handle press for them, help them set up appearances of shows to help them grow and gain attention, we set them up for shows at local venues or for tours, which is usually more trouble than it was worth in my humble opinion, coming from a minimum wage earner. I had sat through too many concerts to really be able to discern between the good and the bad music anymore. It was just... noise. God... I'm really starting to sound like my mother.
"Eli, come on, we're going to be late!" Saige screamed at me from across the room. I groaned from where I slouched on the sofa, looking up just in time to catch a flash of her curly blonde hair as she disappeared into the bathroom to finish up with the pound of makeup she put on her face whenever we went out.
"I'm not even dressed. Maybe you should just go without me," I said hopefully.
"Maybe you should have started getting ready an hour ago when I told you to," she said. "Come on, I already have an outfit ready for you and everything laid out on the bed. Go get dressed," Saige ordered.
I mocked her and took great pleasure from it, but I did finally pull myself off of my ass and went into the bedroom to get dressed. She wouldn't let me stay home. Even if I wanted to. She'd gotten these tickets from Sam last week and she hadn't shut up about it since. As far as I knew, they weren't exclusively dating yet. But I felt a little bad for Sam. Sure, he's twenty-four and I'm sure he has experience with girls, but when I met him the other day, he looked like a lost puppy. So much adoration in his eyes as he watched Saige while she rambled. She'd get bored with him and move on, like she always did, and he didn't seem like the kind of guy to deserve that.
I blinked. Staring down in horror at the outfit Saige had set out for me. I lifted the top, if it could even be considered that. It was more like a cut of fabric that had push-up bra inserts sewn into it. And the pants. Oh, the pants. Ripped up and down on every visible surface of them. There were more holes than there were denim. Carefully putting the clothes back into Saige's closet, I went to my own. Pulling out a minimally-ripped pair of black skinny jeans and a t-shirt from the first show I'd ever been to with my dad. It had been his before he'd died, and it was still baggy on me, faded from years of wear. But I didn't mind. I pulled my hair free from the confines of it's ponytail, letting my dark brown hair fall freely down my back before putting on a conservative amount of makeup. Just foundation, some light brown eyeshadow, mascara. Makeup had never been my thing anyway.
Five minutes later, I walked out of the bedroom, ready to go. Saige put her hands on her hips when she saw me, eyebrow raised as she assessed my attire. "That is not the outfit I set out for you."
"You're right. In this, I don't have to have to be afraid of my boob falling out of my shirt in the middle of the show," I said with a smile.
She scoffed. Her own outfit much more liberal in the way of visible flesh. Her midriff on display along with her collar and a generous amount of cleavage jumping out at you in the bright red long sleeve crop top she wore. Long, tanned legs for days in the white daisy dukes she'd unearthed to match. And heavens... I couldn't help but roll my eyes at her choice of shoes.
"How high are those heels, anyway?" I asked her, crossing my arms over my chest.
She shrugged. "A hair over five inches."
My went so wide I was afraid I'd lose my contacts. "Five inches!" I exclaimed.
Her pearly white smile was disarming. "At least I don't have to worry about any of the boy paying more attention to you than me," she said, satisfied as she flipped her hair over her shoulder. "Shall we?" she said, wiggling her eyebrows.
With a groan of the long suffering, I nodded. And we were off to see Counterfeit.
