falling in love in an empty theater

Chapter One

If my college professors had told me that my work assignments would involve going out every Friday night, I probably would have laughed in their faces and proclaimed I was the next Jane Austen.

    Magazine journalism hadn't been my ideal career path when I graduated with a degree in writing, but it wasn't the worst way to spend my time, either. I always pictured myself as a novelist, living out my days in a low-key cafe sipping tea and writing fantastical tales of adventure and true love. Reality had other plans, though, and it turned out that I was better suited for sarcastic commentary and music critique than Victorian romance.

    Not that I was complaining - I got paid to write a witty section of The Stage magazine dedicated to live music reviews. Which meant that I got paid to go out to bars and listen to the rising stars of the season, all with a drink in my hand and a man around my waist. It wasn't a bad deal, if you ask me. The nights started to blur together after a few months, tequila shots and vodka sodas becoming as regular as a cup of joe with breakfast, but I never got tired of the LA lifestyle. While my friends were back home, working nine-to-fives, taking out mortgages they'd never pay off, and popping out kids they couldn't afford, my only worry was remembering to pay my tab and taking enough legible notes to decipher for an article.

    I shuffled through the crowded bar, finding an open seat and ordering a drink. The place was packed, although that wasn't very surprising: the head of my department had already briefed me on my target troupe for the night, a rock band that started in a garage somewhere in the Midwest. They'd already acquired a loyal mass of female followers, meaning that my article was hopefully going to be a hit. I prayed to whatever god listening that the band wasn't shit, so that I wouldn't receive any more death threats in my work email.

    The crowd wasn't as coordinated as I expected, though - normally, I could size up the vibe of a performer before they even walked onto stage, just by glancing at their fans. There was something enticing about the element of surprise, so I never read up too much on the musicians, but black boots and chokers versus flared jeans usually gave me a heads up. However, the mob for Bent Cords (quirky, right?) was a headache-inducing rainbow of clothing choices.

    After a few minutes of sipping on another overpriced Cosmopolitan, I checked the time to see if I'd arrived too early. I hadn't, of course, but the band was already fifteen minutes late and I was on my second drink of the night. Thankfully, I didn't have to wait much longer.

    There was a cacophony of screaming and applause, and I found my gaze drifting towards center stage, where lights flashed as the five band members made their appearance. I instantly understood the appeal: with their black form-fitting clothes and tattoos, they were the epitome of 'don't bring home to Mom' that sent most women into a frenzy. They didn't even have to be good, I realized, because their sex appeal did most of the work for them. I could already see it - Bent Cords would charm their way into the hearts and pants of girls across America, and succumb to scandal in a few years. I knew the type - I was the one who wrote about them.

    They didn't seem much different than the other bands I'd seen. That edgy, tousled look, all messy hair and skinny jeans and, probably, a touch of eyeliner from the night before. But the energy that pulsed from the stage, even without a word - that was something I rarely witnessed, like I'd just stepped into a bad-boy-gone-good movie set. 

    There was no introduction. I wondered briefly if I had come to the wrong show, but with a nod from the lead singer, a harmonic sound reverberated from the guitarists, followed by a thunderous crashing of the drums.

    The music pulsing from the stage was unlike anything I'd heard - no, it was familiar, as if they'd taken pieces of every song and somehow made it all work together. I couldn't do anything but stare, almost hypnotized, at the movements of the musicians that rivalled the grace and precision of dancers at the Paris Opera Ballet. In an odd way, it was beautiful.