(Shoutout to @PunkRokGirl13 for the term 'ebony waves of silk.')

- "That's it. Tonight, we shall party 'til we can party no more." 

You smile, putting down your magazine to look up at Robin. "What's the occasion?" you inquire. 

He returns your gaze with a shake of the head, a pitifully solemn look in his eye. "I don't think any of us have touched a drop of anything in over a week. I'm pretty sure that's a worthy cause for celebration, don't you?" 

- Trent laughs. "More like a remedy." 

You shoot him a warning look as he sits down next to you on the busted-up couch backstage. Though Robin's assumption about everyone being substance free for a week might have been accurate, you know he is the absolute last person in the world who can talk about needing a drink. When he starts, he doesn't easily stop, and last weekend's hangover A.B. (After Blonde,) had left you praying that you'd never see him vomit again. 

You try your best to erase that image from your mind. Luckily, Trent comes to your aid, looping his arm around your shoulders like it's no big deal at all. Then he leans into you, closer and closer to your face as you wonder what the hell he's doing, heart hammering against your chest. 

- "Let me see that."

He pulls the magazine from your hands, pulling his arm away from you. Just like that, the moment ends. Your face burns as he thumbs through the magazine. 

Of course. That's what he wanted. 

He continues flipping the pages, completely oblivious. "Are we in here?" he asks. "I could swear that feature we did last week was for..."

- You yank it back out of his hands. "You aren't in there, egomaniac," you tell him. "Believe it or not, I like reading about bands that I don't have to work with every day."

He grins. He kind of loves getting a rise out of you. "Ooh, 'egomaniac,'" he says. "You're using the big words on me today."

- You want to kiss that smug look right off his face. 

"If you don't shut up, I'll teach you a few more." You smile sweetly as you pretend to think about it. "How about... contusion?"

"Mmm..." he replies. "Now that's a good one."

"You like that, huh?" you ask. "What about afflict? Incapacitate?" 

His smile widens, eyes not-so-subtly fixed on your lips. "Beautiful," he responds.

- "Can y'all stop flirting for a second and get down to business?" Robin snaps. 

You freeze, wondering just what kind of business he's referring to. Images of waiting outside the bus last week run through your mind until he clears it up. "So, where are we gonna get our booze?" 

- "I don't really wanna just hang out backstage," Chris pipes up, throwing his drumsticks up in the air absentmindedly. "I mean, as great as this is, I figure it would be cool to go out on the town. Have a little fun." 

- Danny laughs. "Out on the town? So, you mean a club." 

Robin nods. "A club sounds good," he says. "Great opportunity to do a little dance... make a little love..."

You shake your head. "I swear to God, Finck," you say. "You have to be the lamest person on the face of this planet." 

- Choosing not to respond to your comments about his lameness, Robin looks to you, grinning. "So, what do you think, princess? You are our all-powerful gatekeeper, after all." 

Trent laughs. "Princess? Gatekeeper? Please." He stares back up at you, smiling. "She's more like our queen."

"Oh, please." You wave a hand at him, feigning annoyance, though you're pretty sure you're probably turning red, judging by how your face feels. Trying not to let him notice this, for fear of that stupid, smug smirk on his face growing wider and even more irresistable, you turn to the rest of his band, who are all eyeing you expectantly, as if you might actually be an all-powerful leader of some sort. 

Pleased that you have authority of some kind, you smile at them. "That sounds fine," you tell them. "We all deserve a bit of fun, don't we?"

- And so, after the show, you all end up at the first nightclub that you came upon in the area. At eleven o'clock, the place is packed, people all over the place, packed closely together no matter where you go. Knowing that your little clump of Goth buddy-system followers can't possibly be having any fun just milling around together, you, as the gatekeeper, are the first one to disperse. 

"I'm gonna go get a drink," you say. "You guys have fun, all right?"

You're met with a cacaphony of agreement, a gentle 'be careful' thrown somewhere in the midst. 

Happy to have a little alone time, you head off. 

- You aren't completely alone for very long, however. As you lean against the bar, you feel someone brush up against you. Expecting this in a place this crowded, you shuffle to the side, only to find the person resting an obviously deliberate hand on your arm. "Hey."

A bit anxious, you look up, only to find that the features underneath the neon lights are rather familiar. You just can't quite place them. 

- The guy smiles, looking rather kind. Your nerves settle down a bit. 

"I've seen you before," he says, causing your anxiety to spike again ever-so-slightly. "You're s roadie for Nine Inch Nails, right? The one that's practically their manager at this point?"

You smile back at him gingerly. "Yeah. That would be me." 

"Good. I thought so." The guy's grin broadens, crooked and kind of endearing. "I just got back from the show," he continues. "I'm on the street team. I only caught the tail end of it, but it was pretty radical, don't you think?"

Radical? What a cliche word choice. You don't tell him this, though; rather, you nod. "Yeah. Radical."

Judging by the guy's face, he's picked up on the fact that you perceive him as a dork, -- and yet, he doesn't really seem to mind. "Can I buy you a drink?" he asks. 

On autopilot, you look over the shoulder for your band. Seeing that they aren't making any obvious trouble, you turn back to your suitor. "Sure."

- His name is Jeremy, you learn.

And he is a bit of a nerd, but you don't mind. He's just a kid, really, just having dropped out of college, ("my parents just about had my head," he said, "but I knew I wouldn't survive 'till the end of the year,")  and it is so very obvious that he's trying to impress you. As much as you value poise and subtlety, you like the attention; it's not something you get often from certain other people, and he is pretty cute. You'll give him a chance. It's not like waiting around for someone else will do you any good. 

So when he asks you if you want to head outside with him while he takes his smoke break, you accept. 

Apparently, however, the world has made different plans for you this evening. Because as soon as you reach the door, someone who is very obviously not the guy in front of you takes your hand, pulling you back. Startled and annoyed, you turn around, only to find that Trent is right there, smiling that easy smile of his, negotiating with your suitor. "Mind if I steal her for just one dance?"

Before you can protest, Jeremy shrugs. "Sure."

- Just like that, you're dismissed, being pulled towards the dance floor by a guy that you know for a fact does not dance unless he is smashed, which you can tell that he isn't yet. 

And yet, he just seems so very proud to have your hand in his as the neon lights flicker over his face. 

He slides his arms around your waist so easily, -- too easily. It's almost like it's something normal, something he does often. 

When you get that fluttery feeling again, you quickly ground yourself, making sure he knows just how displeased you really are. 

"What the hell was that?" you snap. 

- The smug look on his face quickly fades, only to be replaced by one of annoyance. He shakes his head, ebony waves of silk falling in front of his eyes, keeping you from reading him as well as you usually would. 

"Look," he says, voice somewhere between concerned and condescending. "I've been around that guy, and I figure it's best for you not to bother. He's just a kid. He doesn't have any of it figured out; he's not the most stable person in the world--"

"Like you are?" you fire back.

Watching his face change, it doesn't take you very long to realize your mistake, even without the benefit of seeing his eyes. "When did I ever say anything about me?" he asks. Behind that thin veil of faux-confusion, you can tell that he knows exactly what it has to do with him. Hell, he's probably known since you have, given how you so often turn from viciously stern to a blushing mess around him.

You either want to cry, slap him, or crawl into a hole and die. 

Maybe all three. 

- But you don't do any of that. Rather, you just go with it, being as honest as you can afford to be. Maybe even more so.

"Are you just gonna act like you weren't all over some groupie just a week ago?" you ask, willing your voice not to break as you picture her, disheveled blonde hair, pretty, youthful face. "Jesus, Trent. How old do you think that girl was? Do you think she has it 'all figured out?' Do you think she knows that you're never going to call her, that she was just a way for you to blow off steam while your band waited outside? Because, as someone who has had their heart broken, I'll tell.you now, -- no. She probably doesn't. She probably feels special." You can't help it; just then, your voice does crack. You can just see her; hopeful, and him, smug, satisfied, if only for the moment. 

And you hate both of them, -- her, for being so hopeless, so like you, and him, for being so selfish, for making everything so difficult. 

And you don't think you can do it. Not anymore. 

- Meanwhile, Trent looks equally hurt and confused, trying to convince you of his innocence, how he's just looking out for you. Oh, how he cares for you.

Oh, please. 

"This isn't about that," he finally says, as if it's his place to decide whether it is or not. "I just know that you aren't right for one another. If you started something, especially on the road, it definitely wouldn't work out. You're too mature, he's too scattered, -- look, I don't even know what I'm saying anymore, but I know you, so please--" Much to your dismay, he grabs your hands, holds them, once again, like this is a natural thing for the two of you. "Please, just trust me on this."

You want to scream, asking him why he's so sure that he really knows you, why you should trust him, of all people, but you can't. Instead, you grit your teeth, offering him four very clear, very concise words: "let go of me."

He just keeps looking at you, still pleading, sounding like a broken record. "Please, just calm down--"

"I said let go of me!" With that, you pull away from him forcefully, just before turning on your heel, heading back for the door. 

- You know he's following you, can hear him calling your name amidst the cacophony of club noises, but you pretend not to care, head held high. Apparently, the act works, because he doesn't follow you into the parking lot. 

Alas, Jeremy doesn't seem to be there, either. 

But there's Robin, leaning up against the wall, cigarette hanging from his lips. 

"Hey, Finck!" you call. 

He raises his head, eyes falling on you as he pulls away from his smoke. "Yeah?" 

"Three things." You lower your voice. "One, I'm gonna be hitching a ride out of here, -- I'm thinking I'm gonna bribe Brian to come back over here with the Spooky Kids bus, -- so don't worry about me. Two, if you see that Jeremy guy, tell him I'll get back to him after the next show. And three --" Despite that nagging feeling of dread in your stomach, you smile. "If you happen to meet another girl who's good at lifting gear and putting up with Trent, then tell her that she's welcome to take my place."

(I don't reccomend hitching a ride with Brian, for liability's sake.)