Worlds Apart

Chapter Twenty Two

“You’ve performed here before.”

The fact it was a statement caught me off guard, and I found myself glancing around, half expecting to be faced with all sorts of photographic proof. As it happened, I just saw the change room I’d gotten acquainted with long before complete with the scuffed up wood floors, plain walls, red curtains and ratty leather couch, not to mention the Rubbermaid’s full of ice and booze.

In the corner Danni and Al were sitting on the ground, talking with frowns creased into their foreheads while Pat was lying flat on his back. He had no guitar in hand, but his fingers were working their way through the chords of the set list.

To say the least there was a bit of a tense atmosphere.

“Jude?”

This time I blinked, looking back at the person who was supposed to be interviewing me. Apparently I only did questions or else I was severely distracted.

In a thick pair of glasses and Republican hair cut that had prompted me to call him Clark and refuse to acknowledge his real name, he was observing me closely, a speculative look on his rather mossy face. I’d always thought that music journalists had chosen that job because they couldn’t cut it as a musician, and I always liked pinpointing why. This guy I thought suffered from a severe lack of charisma.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, running a hand through my hair as I leaned back on the seat I’d taken up residence of. I’d chosen it simply for the window above my head that let in a slight breeze, though it brought in an odd scent with it. “Have I played here before?”

Clark Kent just nodded at me, providing, “Red Riot’s first UK tour.”

With that I glanced around again, trying to dig even the slightest resemblance from my memory. No such luck. “Can’t help you,” I informed him with a casual shrug. “I don’t remember most of those shows, so it’s not that much of a surprise.”

Although he did his utmost to hide the reaction, I saw the slight flick of the eyebrows before his eyes darted to the glass I had in my hand. He’d been here while Pat had been mixing drinks earlier, and had accepted a couple on his own accord before we’d even started with the interview for what was supposed to be my cover story on this music magazine over here. I could almost see the thoughts racing through his head, wondering if I’d be able to remember this show.

There was a smirk playing around the corners of my mouth as I lifted up the glass, sent him a mocking little salute before putting it to my lips and draining what remained. I’d have to see if that got into the article.

What I wasn’t going to admit was that it was only the second rather watered down drink I’d had all day.

I was as sober as I ever was, but that didn’t fit the rock star image, did it? And as Logan had said to me, image is everything.

“Do you have something to prove with this show?”

I resisted spluttering my drink all over him – it was a close call, though. Yet there was no doubt my eyes had bulged at that question. That speculative look was back on his face, eyes narrowing on my reaction. There was that aura around him that most musical journalists had, where they were willing to write a marginally good review but would like nothing to slate me altogether.

I was used to that, though. What I wasn’t used to anymore was being talked to so bluntly, letting me know that they thought that I was going to fall flat with no trouble. When Red Riot had first started getting attention it was all I heard, they’d all expected us to get nowhere. I’d heard constantly how girls in rock bands were laughable, how I didn’t fit the profile, how we couldn’t shape up live to other bands around – the list went on and on.