Pure Blood_ A Nocturne City Novel - Caitlin Kittredge [17]
I ordered a whiskey on the rocks from the bartender for show, because I didn’t want to embarrass Trevor with my usual club soda with a twist. Whiskey had been my choice poison before I’d largely stopped drinking.
“Hey.” Trevor’s smooth voice washed over the crowd via a crackly PA. “Thanks for coming out. I’m Wicked, and we’re the Exorcists.”
Someone flung a bottle that shattered at Trevor’s feet, but he ignored it and strapped on his black Fender to play the opening chords of “Deadly Sin.” I sighed. “Deadly Sin” was an ode to Trevor’s ex-girlfriend, the one who ran off with the Exorcists’ former drummer.
“Something wrong with your drink?” the bartender hollered as the rest of the band joined Trevor for the industrial-heavy chorus.
The bartender was big and heavily pierced, so I shook my head. “Don’t blame you!” he shouted. “This shitty music would put me off booze too!”
I dropped my forehead onto my folded hands. Sure, the Exorcists were a goth band in a post-industrial world, and they had a stupid name, but they weren’t that bad.
“Deadly Sin” died away with a moan from Trevor—Wicked was his stage name, another thing I’d tried to talk him out of—and he grabbed the mic stand, leaning on it and breathing heavily.
“That was for Sherrine,” he whispered. “The dark goddess who broke my heart. Sherrine, mistress of my soul…”
I looked back at my glass. Suddenly, the whiskey seemed mightily appealing.
“This next one is new material.” Trevor abruptly straightened up and handed his Fender to his roadie. “It’s about being delivered from the darkness.”
He started to sing. “Black like the face of a brand-new moon, Never seen eyes hold a love so true.”
I froze, certain that every head in the place was turned to me.
“Luna, my Luna, I’m mood-mad for you.”
Oh, Hex me. This could not really be happening. Dating for a couple of weeks and he was writing songs in my name? Could an offer to join him forever in the dark pit of his bleeding soul be far behind? And gods, couldn’t I have inspired something other than a power ballad?
The bartender noticed me hunched in abject humiliation. “You Luna? He singing about you?”
I threw back the whiskey and jumped off my stool. “Not anymore, he’s not.” I took off at a run for the ladies’ room, shoving my way through leather-and-spike-clad patrons, all of whom were transfixed by Trevor’s earnest shriek.
“Luna, my Luna—Luna, where are you going?”
I managed to slam the door and slip the bolt lock, face heated past boiling. What in the seven hells did Trevor think I was? His dark goddess, 2.0? And why did he have to sing about it? In front of people?
I banged my forehead against the door. It just figured—I attracted one man who ran off never to be seen again, and one so clingy that he wrote poetic songs in my honor after knowing me for less time than it takes to obtain a new driver’s license.
Breathing deeply slowed my pounding heart and I stayed leaning against the door for a few ticks of the clock, trying to convince all of my were parts that Trevor was just a plain human, foolishly in love, and didn’t mean to turn me into a laughingstock in front of the entire club.
That, and I owned the deed to the Siren Bay Bridge.
If I stayed in here long enough, I could slip out during “Devils in My Mind,” which involved a strobe light. And then I could move to an obscure third-world country, dye my hair, and forget this ever happened.
Opening my eyes and moving toward the sink, I caught sight of a crumpled male figure on the tile floor. He was in a pool of vomit and blood, body curled rigid like a seashell.
“Aw, shit.” I dropped to my knees and half-slid over to him, rolling him onto his side and moving his head to clear the airway. I felt for a pulse in his neck, but nothing beat under my fingers.
I examined his open, bloodshot eyes and clawed fingers, nails digging into the palms so hard they rent flesh. Hex it.