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‘No harm done,’ she said kindly.
Sure enough, the only evidence of my stupidity was the big slop of cream sliding down the side of mug. And it was getting away. I lunged forward to ‘save’ it—which makes it sound as if I actually had a choice in the matter—and blocked its path with my finger. The cream with its dusting of cocoa settled along the length of my finger. I had it now. Dipping my head to meet my finger halfway, I shoved the gooey spoils into my mouth and moaned as my taste buds took over.
The woman laughed and said, ‘I’d have done exactly the same.’
Oops!
I’d forgotten I had an audience. I offered her a feeble smile, my cheeks warming rapidly. She patted my shoulder, then turned and walked away, but I’d barely managed one bite of my pain-au-chocolat before she was back.
‘Get those down you,’ she said, indicating the painkillers and plonking a glass of water in front of me.
Man, I must look bad.
I half expected her to watch me take the tablets, as my mum used to do when I was little, but she shuffled back behind the counter and left me to it. Only when I was certain she wasn’t about to pop up over my shoulder again did I risk getting the crumpled sheet of paper out of my bag. Even then, I kept it out of sight beneath the table, too ashamed to be caught with it. I grabbed my phone out, too, and checked for messages. Nothing. Good. So I put it on the table next to my mug.
After another quick scan of the baker’s-stroke-café, I was satisfied no one was watching me. A tingle of excitement buzzed in my fingertips as I spread the page across my thigh, pressing it firmly with both hands to ease out most of the creases. Time to check out the nominated ‘candidates’ and also try to come up with a few of my own. I’d read only halfway down the list when the door opened, drawing my attention, and in walked one of the guys from college. I knew that only because I’d seen him on the same bus as I’d been on nearly every weekday since September, the mysterious emo guy who always sat at the back with his headphones in his ears and his eyes closed.
Fascinated to see him with his eyes open and actually moving, I watched him stride over to the counter to place his order. His body language and his voice exuded a level of confidence that made me pay close attention whether I wanted to or not. He was dressed all in black, his skinny jeans and black T-shirt a complete contrast to his pale, angular face. His long, midnight-black hair fell loose over his shoulders, easily as long as mine, reaching past his shoulder blades. When he turned to look around for somewhere to sit, his bright green eyes met mine.
Who is he?
Instead of being embarrassed, caught staring, there was something hypnotic about him that stopped me from averting my gaze. One side of his mouth cocked into a half-smile and he gave me a single nod by way of greeting, breaking eye contact only when a hand tapped him on the shoulder. His order ready, he turned his back to me and—just like that—the spell was broken, releasing me. I reached for my latte, drinking deeply with my eyes closed, gripping the mug to stave off the sudden chills.
Sensing movement near me, I opened my eyes. A tall, dark figure appeared in my peripheral vision and my heart fluttered. Emo Guy was already halfway across the room, mug in hand, and the list was spread out on my lap. Lunging for my bag would be too obvious. I had to think fast. The fluttering sensation turned into a hammering but my fingers still worked. Keeping my movements small, I folded the list in half, then discreetly slid it between my thighs and crossed my legs to hide it.
Close up, he seemed even more vampire-like—in true Gothic style—and I half expected to see fangs when he opened his mouth. Emo Guy wasn’t my usual type at all, but he was definitely hot in his own kind of way.
‘Hi, Lena isn’t it?’ he asked.
The words for my planned introduction dried up in my mouth—he already knew my name—so I gawked up at him and nodded like an idiot.
‘Mind if I join you?’
This time I shook my head, still scrambling to find my voice.
‘Thanks.’ Emo Guy cocked another grin, as if pleased with the effect he’d had on me. I’m glad it pleased somebody, because it was doing my head in. He put his mug of steaming black coffee onto my table, then nimbly eased into the seat opposite. ‘My name’s Hayden.’
Hayden.
Why did his name sound familiar?
Hayden did most of the talking—the usual small talk—and the next half an hour flew by. I wasn’t at all surprised to learn he was a musician—it was either that or acting. After two failed attempts at eating my pain-au-chocolat without making a mess, I gave up and wrapped it in my napkin, but it gave me the excuse I needed to grab my bag. I stowed the shortlist at the same time as the pastry.
Phew.
The alarm on my phone sounded, signalling that my free period almost over. I had to get going: I couldn’t afford to miss another English lit class, but I didn’t want to appear too keen by asking to exchange numbers. Hayden followed my cue, though, and walked back to college with me; he even carried my bag. As we went our separate ways to get to class, I hoped I’d see him again, especially once I realised why his name was familiar.
I didn’t have to wait long. Hayden sought me out on the bus home and plonked himself into the empty seat beside me. I almost cheered out loud, the envy of half the girls on the bus. His leg brushed against mine and a faint zap attacked my senses. When he invited me to come and watch him play on the Friday night, I couldn’t hold back my smile, and with his name already on the shortlist, there wasn’t a single valid reason to say no. Operation: Popping the Cherry was go-go-go.
Chapter Three
STRANDED
It took me the rest of the week to come up with my own candidates, what with all the umming and ahing. Despite my reservations, I had to admit the list of candidates was looking dang fine. It was impossible to not feel even a teeny bit excited.
‘We’re off in a minute, love,’ Mum said, poking her head through the gap of the open door.
‘Oh, OK,’ I said, trying to sound natural and not burn myself as I straightened my hair. ‘Have fun. I hope you win.’
‘So do I. It’s been a few weeks and your dad’s poor ego’s getting dented.’
I forced out a laugh. ‘I bet.’
Mum’s smile faded and her brow creased into a frown. ‘So how do you know this Hayden again?’
‘He goes to my college, except he’s in Upper Sixth.’ My hand started to shake, so I put the straighteners down.
‘What time is he picking you up?’
‘The band are swinging by to pick me up on their way to the gig. They should be here in about ten minutes or so.’
Mum’s lips pursed and her right eyebrow twitched. ‘The band?’
Oops. I must have forgotten to mention that bit.
‘Yeah. Hayden’s the lead guitarist.’ Probably best not to mention the band was called, Screwed. ‘They’re quite good, apparently.’
OK, so I’d never actually heard of them until that week, but Mum didn’t know that. I couldn’t even tell her what kind of music they played, let alone if they were any good or not, but it was safe to assume they were more likely to be a heavy-rock band than a boy band.
Mum tried to give me the all-seeing-eye treatment and I had to fight the need to flinch. ‘And how long have you known him?’
‘Since September.’ I stretched the truth to get her off my case. ‘He even gets the same bus to college as me,’ I said, boldly meeting her gaze.
‘Hmm …’
In the silence that followed, we both heard a car pull up outside the house.
‘Is that your taxi?’ I asked.
She crossed to my window.
‘Yes it is,’ she said, looking out. ‘I’ve got to go. Just …’ Mum hesitated then let out a sigh. ‘Be careful,’ she said eventually. ‘And make sure you take your phone with you.’
Too damn right.
‘Will do.’
Going out with Hayden was one thing, but the prospect of getting into a van with a bunch of strangers was making me nervous enough without Mum adding to my paranoia. Not now I’d finally convinced myself it would be fine. That was before I knew I’d be crammed in the back of an old, beaten-up Ford Transit with Hayden, two other guys, a set of drums, two amplifiers, three guitars, a keyboard and some microphone stands.
Every time the van screeched around a bend, we all slid from one side to the other, trying not to get crushed by the equipment falling and rolling everywhere. The pain didn’t end there, either. Once they started their set, my eardrums hurt, too. Appropriately named Max, the lead singer preferred shouting and hollering to actual singing, with the band thrashing out one song—ha!—after another with no respite.
Just great.
Heavy metal was so not my thing. I was in the minority, though—again—and the pub was full to bursting. The dance floor had become a writhing mosh pit and the only safe spot I could find to avoid being whipped and potentially blinded by all the flying hair was wedged in tight next to a speaker.
Hayden played guitar brilliantly, his performance faultless. He looked the part, too, dressed in his uniform black, this time wearing leather trousers and a sleeveless vest, showing off the tattoos on his arms, his green eyes ringed with a heavy line of black. Sadly, this other side to him just didn’t do anything for me. I was more inclined to ask him for some tips on applying kohl eyeliner than try to discuss anything else. Thankfully, he was too caught up in the music to pay any attention to me; they didn’t even take a half-time interval, so I got away with playing Candy Crush and Angry Birds.
By the time Screwed reached the end of their set and completed their second encore, I’d drained my phone battery and was convinced my ears were bleeding internally. More alarmingly, I hadn’t figured out how to politely decline if Hayden asked me out again. He stepped off the foot-high stage and came straight for me, his eyes wild, pumped from all the energy in the room. Trapped with no way out, I felt my pulse spike and my heels smacked into the speaker. He wasted no time in grabbing me and pulling me against his soaking wet body, dripping with sweat. I opened my mouth to protest but he took the opportunity to plunge his wet, slimy tongue inside, shoving it so far back he triggered my gag reflex.
Hayden tasted of stale cigarettes and salt, and I barely controlled the urge to retch. A shudder ripped through me, which he immediately took the wrong way. He dropped his hands to grope my backside, pulling me even more firmly against him so I could feel something else stirring to life inside his leather trousers. It was exactly how I imagined being a groupie to be, all I needed was ‘property of …’ stamped somewhere on me. How long until he asked me to step outside, or to pop back to the van, or maybe he was happy to get it on right there under cover of the speaker. Losing my virginity with a guy I didn’t remotely fancy any more in a crowded room full of pissed-up metal-heads didn’t appeal. Neither did the kissing, or, rather, the gross tongue-thrusting.
He had to notice I wasn’t joining in soon, surely.
Apparently not.
Hayden shoved his hand down the front of my jeans and roughly fumbled to get past the next barrier blocking his path. No way was he getting his fingers—or anything else, for that matter—inside my lacy hipsters. Not now, not ever. I raised my hands to his chest and shoved so hard he went flying backwards, tripped over some guy’s foot and ended up on his arse. His wide eyes narrowed and he closed his gaping mouth, then he sprang back onto his feet and lurched towards me, his whole body tense.
‘What the hell is your problem?’ he hissed.
‘My problem?’ I put my hands on my hips and matched his aggressive tone. ‘Do you make a habit of shoving your hand into a girl’s pants on the first date?’
The last thing I expected him to do was laugh.
‘Oi, Hayden,’ Max called, his voice hoarse after all that shrieking. ‘Put your piece of arse down for five minutes and get over here, this stuff doesn’t pack itself away.’
Piece of arse?
‘Be right there,’ Hayden shouted, not even attempting to put Max straight or stick up for me.
My hands clenched into fists. ‘I am not your “piece of arse”, Hayden.’
‘No, you’re not, are you? You’re feisty.’ He stepped into my space again and circled around me, trailing his hand over my butt. ‘I like it when a girl plays hard to get.’
‘I am not playing hard to get.’
‘No?’ Hayden aimed his lopsided grin at me, back on the charm offensive. I swear he must practise the look in front of a mirror every night to get it just right. It wasn’t working on me any more, though; my fingers itched to wipe it off his face. ‘So would it be OK on the second date, or are you going to push me all the way to the third?’
Jeez, the guy was delusional. And a little bit creepy.
Why hadn’t I just bailed when the first song drilled a hole into my sinuses?
If I had any battery left on my phone, I’d be using it right now to get someone to pick me up. I didn’t have enough money for a taxi, I didn’t even know where I was, which meant I was stuck with Hayden and his stupid bandmates for the time being. Hayden misread my sigh and shot me a wink as he backed away to join the rest of the band on stage.
‘Don’t go anywhere,’ he said, putting ideas in my head.
Like hell was I going to stand around like some kind of trophy! I wandered out into the car park the moment his back was turned and sucked in a deep breath. The car park was virtually empty already, just a couple of cars and the band’s van, parked side on with its rear doors wide open, illuminated by the car park’s up-lighters. Waiting in the van was better than standing around like a fool, so I set off towards it. Hayden would find me all too soon, anyway. I climbed aboard the van just in time to disturb the drummer, Pete, as he snorted a line of white powder.
Oh, man!
He turned to face me, his eyes glazed and unfocused. ‘Want some?’ he asked, offering me the straw he’d just a second ago had up his nose.
‘No, thanks.’
‘Suit yourself,’ he said, putting the straw back up his nose and blocking the other nostril with his index finger.
Unable to tear my gaze away, I watched him hoover up the last of the dust before unrolling the straw to reveal a twenty pound note, which he slipped back inside his wallet, then into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall of the van, inhaling deeply through his nose, then exhaling slowly through his mouth, looking utterly at peace as a contented smile teased the corners of his mouth.
Pete heard the voices the same time I did. He opened his eyes and stared past me, his pupils the most dilated I’d ever seen on anyone. Hayden appeared at the door first, his guitar slung over his back as he carried an amplifier in his arms. The bass guitarist, whose name escaped me, rammed the microphone stands into my outstretched legs.
‘You could have just asked her to move her legs, bro,’ Hayden said, finally coming to me defence. I wish I could say I was relieved to see him. He hopped up and came to sit right beside me, grabbing hold of my hand. Pete stayed at the far end, the bass guitarist stepped over me to join him, closely followed by Chris on keyboards, then Max climbed in and closed the doors behind him so we were all crammed in the back of the Transit. Just when I didn’t think things could get any more surreal, Max held the van keys out to me.
‘I don’t suppose you drive?’ he said.
‘N-no,’ I stammered. ‘Not yet.’
Max cursed and shook his head. ‘Here you go, then, Pete, it looks like it’s up to you to get us home tonight.’ Max tossed the keys over to Pete, who missed them completely and they crashed to the van floor.
‘Pete?’ I blurted, my voice raised enough to bounce back of the walls. ‘But he’s—’
‘Hayden, why don’t you and your lady come up front with me?’ Pete asked, cutting me off. ‘Give the boys some room to spread out?’
‘Lady’ was a darn sight better than ‘piece of arse’ at least.
‘No, it’s OK.’ Hayden put his arm possessively around me. ‘Lena’s cool.’
I am?
Max shrugged. ‘If you say so, bro.’
By way of assurance, Hayden shoved his hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out a couple of bank notes, one folded into a small square, the other folded in half and slightly rumpled from being wedged up tight against his arse. If it was possible to feel sympathy for a piece of paper, then I did. He reached into his other pocket and pulled out a bank card, the same bank as mine as it happened, not that I was desperate to find anything in common with him or anything.
Mesmerised, I watched him turn the card over so that the magnetic strip faced up and prop it on his bent knees. Hayden pressed the crisper banknote against his thigh to straighten it, then nimbly rolled into a tight cylinder.
What the …?
Oh, Valentina Bell, you are so naïve.
It wasn’t just Pete on the happy dust: they were all at it. The puzzle pieces that had been bugging me all evening suddenly slotted together to form a complete picture in high definition: the pre-gig pep talk that I wasn’t invited to, the high-energy performance, the sweating, the copious amounts of water they’d all been drinking, Hayden’s wild eyes, his personality transplant … And there was I thinking Hayden had been on a natural high when he’d come off stage. No wonder he’d always come across as mysterious on the bus: he was more than likely either stoned or coming down.
With his straw constructed to his satisfaction, Hayden unfolded the second banknote carefully, then bent it in half horizontally. Keeping his knees perfectly still, he tipped a line of white powder onto the back of the bank card. As if he could feel my boggle-eyed gaze boring into him, Hayden turned to look at me.
‘Do you want to go first?’ he asked, offering me the rolled-up twenty.
‘No, you’re OK,’ I said, ‘Thanks, though,’ I added, trying not to sound like a total dork.
‘Seriously, I don’t mind sharing,’ he said. ‘Besides, I can pick up more at the party.’
‘It’s just that … well … I don’t really do drugs.’
