How Not To Be A Groupie

Chapter Eight: The Python

"...No," I said. I couldn't really go around with the name "Cancer", could I?

"You...have a twin?" he asked. 

"No," I said with a smile. He stared at me a moment before shaking his head.

"Interesting name," he said giving me what he thought was a flirty smile. I took a step backward. "That one..." He pointed to a tall young woman wearing high heels making her bump heads with the cobwebs. "Her name is Shooting Star. Supposedly named herself after Sable Starr, you know who that is?" I nodded. "And...her." He pointed at another woman with earrings for days. "That's Paradise. Know why she's called Paradise?"

I shuddered at the thought. Was my body language not enough for this guy? I almost wished I had taken my ace pin with me. Not that they'd know what it meant. Or believed existed. What did this man think he would gain by name dropping?

I shook my head. "Guess the name speaks for itself," he chuckled. "Anyway, Gemini's a new one, never heard that one before." Splendid, I'll be an original down at the race track. "Met the band yet?"

"Just Bon," I said. He smiled knowingly. 

"Should have known. He's always ahead of everyone when it comes to meeting new people." Right then I wished Bon were there to whisk me away from this discomfort. But I could handle myself, right? I wasn't some tiny, timid woman who was the grand pooh-bah of social ineptitude. I didn't need someone else to save me!

Except that I was...

"Where is Bon, anyway?" I asked getting the conversation off of sex. The man who still hadn't told me his name looked around the room. 

"Dunno, getting laid, maybe." I rolled my eyes. This had to be a joke, this couldn't be what was on people's minds every minute of every day. It was a joke I wasn't in on. "You can talk to me in the meantime," he said smiling. "You're American?" 

"Yes," I said drinking more water. Maybe if I drank enough I could excuse myself to use the restroom. But if his ass thought he was going to follow me...

"Neat, I've got a lot of American friends." I nodded again, looking around the room for an escape. I had to have whatever wits I possessed about me. I wouldn't leave by force yet. I had to outfox him. "How old are you?"

A little light bulb went off in my head. Perhaps this would scare him off.

"Fifteen," I mumbled, pretending I didn't want anyone else to hear. His smile disappeared, replaced by questioning. No one likes a teenage jailbait, right? I waited expectantly for his response. 

"Serious?" he asked and I nodded. "No, you're not," he said, the smile returning. "Nah, I don't believe that for a second. You would have been carded at the door."

"I came in through the backdoor," I said. The smile fell again as he followed where I pointed. Us groupies weren't carded at all when we came in. It appeared the man didn't know what to say so I took my belongings with me back to the chair I was sitting in. He didn't follow me. Without missing a beat I opened my notebook and scribbled furiously. 

When I looked back up I saw him talking to Malcolm. Right as I looked at them...they both looked at me.

Why did I suddenly feel the need to melt into the floor?

Malcolm Mitchell Young...my favorite member of the band and guitarist...was about to heave me over his shoulder...and throw me out on the street. Don't let his size fool you, the man is a beast. I quickly averted my gaze and pretended to write something really important. 

Look on the bright side. If he does throw you out for being fifteen, at least you know what his morals are. I'd go out with a salute. 

Neither one of them made any move toward me and I counted my last minutes of freedom. Any second now...