Adrenaline

07 | australian grand prix pt. ii

        "Fine." Brendon makes a show of pulling out his wallet. Noticing he almost stumbles over in the process, I realize he's already drunk. "How much to get you to sing tonight?"

        I pretend to mull it over. "For a small fee of a million dollars, I'm all yours, baby."

        Brendon lowers his wallet.

        "You drive a hard bargain, Stevie."

        The music picks up again and since the server hasn't come back with Brendon's drink, he moves toward the dancefloor, his fingers tugging on the end of my coat in an attempt to coax me out of my seat.

        When I don't move, he takes a step back. "Come dance. I promise we won't make you sing."

        He's running high on adrenaline from his win so I don't blame him. I'm not sure what it is, but maybe I'm just too out of my element. It's not my usual style anyway, and Brendon of all people knows that.

        Suddenly, the air around me begins to stiffen until it feels like something pressing down against my chest. I shake my head, pulling back slowly until his hands drop to his side.

        "What's wrong?" he asks with concern.

        Guilt prickles at my conscience. We've only just arrived and I don't want him to feel like he has to stay behind to help me feel better about being at this party. He deserves to celebrate his win.

        It happens every once in a while. Most of the time, I can manage a quick getaway, often finding myself alone at a party with the man trying to convince me to leave my safety net. But being a staunch introvert in a band full of extroverts can be a difficult minefield to navigate. They don't pressure me to be present when I'd rather be a wallflower, but it's hard not to feel like I'm some sort of burden.

        I push him away with a playful shove. "Nothing. I'll come out later after I finish my drink."

        "You're not telling me something."

        "I'm taking advantage of this open bar."

        He doesn't look convinced. "You're sure?"

        "Yeah," I nod again. "You can show me that shiny trophy after and I'll even pretend like I'm one of your groupies."

        "I don't have groupies."

        "Really? But you're such a catch."

        "Now you're just teasing me."

        "It's what I do best."

        Before he can push for details, Rix comes and grabs him by the shoulders, shoving him into the sea of people until the current pulls him beyond our lonesome shore.

        I switch seats for the one Rix previously occupied, sliding my drink across the glossy tabletop. I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes for a brief moment to help wash away some of the anxiety building up. A spot on my wrist begins to itch and I pull up my sleeve to scratch at it.

        A chair scrapes across the ground, the grating sound muted by our loud surroundings. I peek my eyes open to see Rami lowering himself onto a stool. He rests his bottle of water on top of one knee.

        "Can I be honest? I hate parties."

        I turn to him without a shred of shock. "You? Not a fan of being surrounded by a bunch of inebriated people who can't stop shouting about wanting to eat chicken wings and cheese straight out of a can?"