Club None

V.

Where peace spilled through one place, chaos reigned in another. In the security tent, huddled beneath canvas awnings, day-old coffee thick in the air, Chanden Henric was wiping blood from his mouth.

He glared at his father. "What the hell was that for?"

"That," he said, "was the third breathalyzer test you've failed this evening. If you run into another door you'll knock yourself down."

"Take me back out there and I'll save you the trouble."

"Chanden." he took his son's arm, sat him down in a folding chair. Canvas tent flaps fluttered at his leg, tugging on his ankle. "Please. I have one band whose passports were denied, a van full of groupies that just crushed the back end of a tour bus, and a manager threatening to sue me because the refreshments are lukewarm. I'm working double-duty organizer and benefactor. If you could please, please, keep yourself from a comatose position on the festival grounds and safe from prying paparazzi – that would be helpful."

Chanden groped for the ice pack a volunteer left on the table for him. He closed his eyes against the shock of cold over bare skin. "Benz-redeeming helpful?"

His father pushed coffee into his hand. "No. Your mother has the Benz for the weekend."

"I thought she was going to New York."

"LA," he said. "But I'm willing to give you an upgrade."

Squinting through alcohol-smeared vision, Chanden said: "You better, if you gave my car to mom. Any of my friends catch wind of it and I'm out of the running for – everything." he leaned back in his seat. "Prom king. Captain of – a team. Am I on a team?"

"Yes," his father said, impatient, "several. You're no good at any."

"That's cruel."

"Well." he peered out from the tent flap. Turned back to his son. "The lawsuit the school filed – versus me, and co. – is sufficiently more of a burden than your current social status."

From outside the tent, shouting split through the air. A high consistent keening pierced the remaining silence. Steady footsteps turning to scuffling, half-uncertain running.

"Stryker!"

His father ran a hand over his face. Chanden dropped his forehead on the tabletop and groaned.

"The ass. Now all the fangirls are stirred up. Prepare for rampant warfare – endless photographs and no shortage of screaming."

"I'm contacting security. Finish your coffee before you leave."

"Yes, dad," he said, and tipped the steaming cup in mock-salute. The canvas flaps parted open, then closed. Footsteps retreated. As soon as he was alone Chanden dumped the rest of the noxious liquid – decaf, at best – on the ground.

His feet were asleep. He drummed his heels against the ground, rousing pins and needles. Gripping the edge of the table, eyes searching, squinted, against the dim light, he pulled himself up.

Outside, the sun had set. Lights glowed from active tents. In the distance the scattered wings of campers and tents dotted the grounds. Twinkle lights swung from guideposts marking the paths between food trucks, bathrooms, picnic tables, and rest areas.

It would have been calm, a peaceful dark, if not for the continuous white pops cutting holes in the night. Cameras whirred and clicked. Photographers and run-of-the-mill paparazzi paced up and down in front of a holding area where a group of young starlets climbed into a jeep.

Chanden pressed his heel into the ground. His right foot was still asleep. Half-walking, half-dragging his leg behind him, he stared at the crowd.

"Oh my god!" the keener, on his left. "Stryker!"

"Well, damn you," he said, still fixated on his brother's smug face and even, white smile. "Drawing a crowd before midnight and without drugs."

In her haste, rushing up alongside him, the keener clipped his right leg and sent him staggering to one side.

He fumbled for even footing, boots catching on rocks and debris littering the festival grounds. "Excuse you –"

But she wasn't alone. There were more, an entire crowd of them – gleaming eyes and outstretched hands, frantic tears and torn cutoff shorts. They came in a vicious crush from nowhere. He succumbed to the unintentional right hook of one overeager fan.

Within minutes they were gone, jostling for a moment of his brother's attention. He was left on the ground – dirt staining the seat of his new rag & bone jeans, fingernails full of grass.

The jeep had since peeled across the campgrounds but still the fans loitered. Photographers packed up their equipment. On the other side of the grounds, up the hill where sponsors' houses stood, parties were just beginning. Music hummed into the still air. Overhead, hard white stars hung in the sky.

Chanden clasped his hands around his knees. The sour tang of coffee lingered in his mouth. Shivering, he swallowed vomit. It was dark. His friends were gone. For a moment, his reputation could afford to stand still.

Or so he thought, until a sharp crack broke against his spine. A knee collapsed into his side.

"Can I –" he started.

"I'm sorry, you're a –"

"–sit on my grounds for five minutes of my life –"

"– tremendous idiot for sitting right –"

"– did you just call me –"

"– an idiot?" his assailant paused. "Yes!"

Chanden twisted around. Pride sat scarlet in his cheeks.

"If you're the last straggler of the fangirl wave, I hate to tell you, that ship has sailed and sunk."

"If you're a loiterer, and you don't want to get caught, you might want to reconsider sitting right in the middle of the walkway."

"Loiterer?" The shadowed edges of her face hid from the moon. "Who do you think I am, some kind of commoner?"

The assailant started laughing. Her elbows were still blood-stained from the morning's adventures and she had no patience for imbeciles. "Of course not. Who else could you be, but a musician, and not as woefully human as the rest of us?"

"You're mocking me."

"Don't sit in the middle of walkways." Ellie pushed back on her knees, hands on her stomach. "This could have been a much more disastrous fall."

"Yes," Chanden said, "and you could have kicked a much more affluent backbone."

"Not man, not god, not mortal – who could you be, but human?" she climbed to her feet. "I'm sorry for tripping over you. Or maybe not. Either way, I retire. Today has been a series of ridiculous and you've just become the latest installment."

He stood, swallowing her with his eyes. The blonde hair stirring around her mouth. The purple lipstick, the hands hovering around her ribcage.

"You're pregnant?"

Ellie grimaced. "Pregnant and low on patience. Also in need of sleep. I take my leave, sir."

"No – I'm sorry." Chanden pushed his hair away from his forehead. "I shouldn't have – it's unusual. You. Being pregnant. At a festival. I'm..."

Her mouth. He was staring at her mouth, and he shouldn't be. Ellie twisted her lips into a scowl. "There's coffee I'm anxious to get to."

"Right," he said, stupid. "I'll let you go."

"Don't trip up any more strangers."

In the highlighted glow and flicker of the twinkle lights, he watched her turn.

"Don't fall."

And little by little, she disappeared into the dark.