Chapter Text
“Of all the things for us to go out and do, this is what you chose?”
Daryl gestured furiously at the doors to the club. The ground itself seemed to shake with the volume of the music blasting inside, and when Rosita put a hand to the window, she could feel the vibrations.
Pulling her hand away, she shrugged at him.
“I thought it would be something different. Something fun.” A shot of cold air blew through them, and she tugged her fleece closer to her body.
“Somethin’ different and fun is going to the arcade or trying pot. This is just stupid.”
“Can’t you give it a try?” she pleaded.
“You don’t even like rock. You haven’t since the third grade,” Daryl drawled, crossing his arms.
Rosita scoffed at that, but she knew deep down he was right. It wasn’t like her to go out on the town, so when she’d asked Daryl, he’d practically laughed in her face.
They were both in their sophomore year at the university. And so far the most social they’d been were study sessions in the library. They’d been best friends since they were eight, and as far as friendship went, Rosita was enough for Daryl. But Rosita was feeling cooped up, hungry to get out of the dorm and do something new.
“We can stay for a few songs with the live band. And if we don’t like it, we’ll go straight home,” Rosita promised, squeezing Daryl’s shoulder.
He sighed in defeat and nodded, pulling the door open.
***
The greenroom they were in was cramped and dingy, cobwebs lining the upper corners of the cracking gray walls. It would’ve freaked Rick out if he wasn’t already so nervous.
Tara blew out a ring of smoke and went to join him on the couch, which sagged in the center from their weight.
“God, look at these stains,” she groaned. “You don’t think people have…”
“Oh they definitely have,” Rick chuckled, rubbing his forehead. He was only twenty and he looked only twenty, with his jet black curls and cut jaw, but all of his mannerisms were of a man much older.
She put a hand on his back to stabilize him, wincing at the sweat she felt soak his shirt.
“You know it’s gonna be alright. We’re playing to drunk college kids on a Saturday night. No one cares about music theory or whatever, they just want to party.”
He shook his head.
“I still wanna do good. You don’t know who could be out there watching.”
Tara scoffed.
“What, like the girl with the dreads you’ve been mooning over in bio? How many times do I gotta tell you she’s dating the blonde she sits next to?”
He pushed her off of him.
“Not like that.”
“So like a record deal then?” she chided.
“No,” he groaned, Southern accent making it sound more like naw. “Just don’t wanna look stupid.”
“That’s why we’re playing classics, daddy-o. It’s hard to mess up the classics. What are we playing first?”
“Cherry Pie?”
“Jesus, I hate that song.” Tara grabbed her guitar off the wall and checked the strings, making sure they were in working order.
“I know, me too. But the crowd loves it.”
“So Cherry Pie, then I Love Rock n Roll, finish out with You Really Got Me? Unless they want an encore,” Tara grinned, wiping her guitar strings down with a cloth. It was a 1971 Stratocaster, body outlined in black that faded into an oak color in the center. She’d saved up money mowing lawns since she was fifteen, and was able to buy the instrument when she was seventeen. She took amazing care of it, the guitar’s body shone like glass and the neck was absent of any chips or damage, despite being twenty years old.
Rick was a little less picky with his instruments, having picked up a drum set from a yard sale when he was sixteen, and teaching himself on the weekends. Once he got to college, he couldn’t keep the set in his dorm, so he did the best he could with a practice pad in his room, sometimes going into clubs or rec rooms to practice on the empty sets.
It had been Tara’s idea to start the band. She’d seen Rick tapping away on his practice pad in the quad, and asked him if he wanted to jam with her someday. The rec room in the college had a drum set, and they played Green Day songs late into the night, until the rec director finally kicked them out.
She also came up with their name, The Ladykillers. It had initially confused the hell out of Rick.
“Why that?”
“Because we both like girls.” It had slipped out unintentionally, it was 1995 and people were okay with Tara being a lesbian for the most part. But she’d never said anything to Rick.
She braced herself for backlash, but he just shrugged and said “okay.”
The club manager poked in through the door.
“Two minutes, folks.”
Tara waved at him and stubbed her cigarette into the couch, adding to the polka-dot pattern of burns that lined the upholstery.
She clapped Rick on the shoulder and pulled him up.
“We’re gonna rock it. Alright?”
Rick grinned sheepishly, giving Tara a tight hug.
“Alright.”
***
Rosita started sweating as soon as she walked into the club. The walls, the floor, and the furniture were worn and cracked, colors fading and blurring. But the bodies on the dance floor didn’t seem to care, all of them pressed into each other in a mass that reminded Rosita of cells under a microscope, how the heat made them vibrate and move erratically, into each other and away from each other and back and forth.
“Still wanna have a night out?” Daryl raised his eyebrows at her. His chocolate brown hair hung around his ears and eyes, sweat beginning to make it stick to his forehead, strands crisscrossing and making little Xs on his forehead. His leather jacket clung to his body, the color matching his combat boots perfectly. If he didn’t hate socializing so much, he’d fit right in with everyone else at the club.
“I still do.” Rosita peeled off her fleece and left it on a rack near the door, which was already overflowing with hoodies and jackets.
She folded her arms over her chest, pressing them into the white Selena shirt she was wearing, something she’d picked up in the mall on summer break. It paired perfectly with her black skinny jeans and white Converse. That would be one nice thing if she made going out on the town a habit; she loved putting together a good outfit.
“Taking the stage right now, please welcome, The Ladykillers!”
“See, the band is going up.” Rosita jerked her thumb towards the stage, dragging Daryl to get a closer look.
“Have you seen these guys?” a man with slicked back black hair asked Rosita as she pushed toward the band.
“No, I haven’t.” She kept trying to push through the crowd.
“They’re pretty good. New on the local scene, the girl’s a real piece of ass. Not like you, though.” He tried to reach towards Rosita, who promptly spat at him.
“Fuck you,” she growled, trying once more to fight the crowd.
“What was that, baby?” the man sneered.
Daryl put himself in front of Rosita.
“Wanna say that again, sunshine?” Daryl seethed.
“Daryl, let’s go.” Rosita pulled him through the crowd, finally finding an opening.
“Why do you wanna be in a place like this?” Daryl demanded over the sound of the lead guitar tuning.
“Alright motherfuckers! Who is ready to rock?”
Daryl’s question forgotten, Rosita looked up towards the stage at the source of the voice.
“One, two, three, four!”
“Watch where you’re going, bitch.”
“Daryl, let’s go!”
“Hey!”
“Excuse you!”
They made it to the edge of the stage, Rosita too focused on the music to think about how she’d managed to irritate the entire mosh pit.
She’s my cherry pie
The same voice that had shouted to the crowd. But now she was singing.
Her voice was perfect, low and husky and perfectly in tune with the music.
Cool drink of water, such a sweet surprise
Rosita looked up at the stage and saw her.
She could see from the crowd that the singer’s eyes were dark, scrunching as her jaw fell and rose with the lyrics. Her almost-black hair curled around her ears and neck, parted straight down the middle, slick with sweat and reflecting every light in the club.
Her long, slender fingers moved up and down the guitar, making Rosita’s stomach flip. She’d always had a thing for hands. She just didn’t know she had a thing for women’s hands. The pads of her fingers worked deftly at the strings, moving down the neck and across the body like they were made for just such a thing. A navy blue flannel hung off her frame, crisscrossed with gold stripes. Black carpenter pants were cinched around her hips with a grommet belt, and her black Converse were covered in Sharpie doodles.
Tastes so good, make a grown man cry
Sweet cherry pie
“This is for all the ladies in here!”
Her fingers flew across the strings so quickly Rosita couldn’t follow them. The solo hooked the room, as everyone around her was cheering, completely thoughtless and lost in the music. The singer threw her head back and soaked in the praise.
When the solo finished, she slung her guitar behind her back and grabbed the mic.
“Come on Ricky, show ‘em how it’s done!” she crowed, waving to the drummer, a skinny man with dark black curls. He played his drum solo with the same fervor as the guitarist played hers, and Rosita was sure she would’ve loved it if she wasn’t so busy gazing at the singer, who watched the drummer with utmost adoration. When he finished his drum solo, the singer looked back at the crowd, then down.
Right at Rosita.
It might’ve been the heat or the sweat or the noise, but Rosita was almost sure the singer was smiling at her.
She didn’t smile back, she could only gape at this woman, this guitar goddess with a voice from the heavens. And it was so corny to think things like this, but Rosita thought if the guitarist dropped to a knee and asked Rosita to run away with her, Rosita would have her bags packed in minutes.
“Rosita!”
Daryl’s voice snapped her back to attention and she turned to face him.
“You good?” he asked.
She nodded quickly, turning back to look at the singer, but she had gone into the next verse of the song.
Rosita’s head was a blur for the rest of the performance, watching the woman sing, getting lost in the feel of the music.
“Thank you for watching tonight! I’m Tara, and that’s our drummer Rick!” She gestured to the drum set, where Rick waved bashfully.
“C’mon, let’s step out,” Daryl insisted, tugging Rosita towards the exit.
She followed him, but it was just her body taking over. All her mind could think of was
Tara. Her name is Tara.
***
Rick came out of the venue through the side door, after Tara promised to clean up their equipment. The chill of the evening made him shudder, and he crossed his arms over his body trying to warm up.
“Hey,” a voice greeted through the darkness. It was raspy and husky, yet somehow warm.
Rick heard a match strike against a box, orange flames lighting up the dank alleyway. He leaned against the brick wall as he watched the match travel up, lighting a cigarette. The cigarette lit up the source of the voice, a man with shaggy brown hair and a leather jacket that shined in the moonlight.
“You were the drummer, right?” the man asked Rick. Rick nodded quickly in response, unsure of where this was going.
“You sounded good.”
“Thank you,” Rick stammered. With his hair in his eyes and the cigarette lighting up his face, the man looked like an angel.
“M’ name’s Daryl. You?”
“Rick.”
“Rick.” Daryl grinned. “You look cold.”
“Oh, uh, yeah.” Rick looked down self-consciously at his black tee shirt, a perfect choice for being indoors, but not for a December night.
“Here.” Daryl put his cigarette to his lips and held it there, all while peeling out of his leather jacket. He handed it to Rick.
“Are-are you sure?”
“Go on. I’m warm blooded,” Daryl assured.
Rick took the jacket and put it on, the jacket hanging off his shoulders. He was thinner than Daryl, but the jacket didn’t look too bad on him.
“Daryl!” A woman with long black hair and choppy bangs called from the alleyway entrance, holding a paper sack from the corner store.
“I got us snacks, let’s go!”
Daryl stubbed out his cigarette on the wall.
“See you around, Rick,” he grinned.
“Wait, your jacket-.“
“Keep it.” And with that, Daryl left the alleyway and followed Rosita, leaving Rick standing, completely dumbstruck.