Here's the continuation of "Perfect Shot."
"I recognize you," she says. I feel like a stray rodent caught in one of those awful metal box things. Boom -- gotcha! And, accordingly, I bristle up silently. Afraid.
"Sorry?"
"I recognize you. You sent me a message on Instagram." She is visibly unamused. I silently shiver.
"Oh, what? When?"
"Like yesterday. You want to take portraits of the band, or whatever."
"Oh, yeah. I forgot, sorry! I messaged a few other bands." Lie.
"Who?"
"Oh, I don't know if I can say. It's like, a work in progress. Or whatever." Lie.
Blue fiddles with her poorly-spiked hair and looks into the mirror, and (blessedly) away from me. I don't know if I'm supposed to leave, but I choose to stay. I reach over and grab another paper towel, awkwardly patting my face dry. If Blue notices, she doesn't say -- thank god.
"Lincoln might want to talk to you."
Lincoln might want to talk to me. Put it into third person: Lincoln wants to talk to Lola. Lincoln and Lola sitting in a tree -- oh, idiot, idiot, idiot.
"Lincoln?" Feign confusion, why me? Oh, I am so humble, so unaware. So real.
"Our singer." Faux humility met with condescension. Kill me now.
"Oh, yeah, I know. Um, why?"
"...Because you're a photographer." It's a statement, but with the judgmental tone of a question. Someone who hates kids tries to teach a preschool class; Blue can't believe Lola's slowness.
"Oh."
And a moment later, I'm following cactus-hair-Blue back through the venue (sweat glands popping back open like cheap water balloons) through to the makeshift green room, which smells like piss and cigarettes.
I scan the room, quickly, like someone in danger. Omar, the bassist, is sitting on a decrepit couch, tying his shoelaces. He looks painfully casual, dressed like a roadie or a groupie, looking entirely boring without his bass strapped around his back. I struggle not to frown at him; it's shameful imagining him up on stage with Lincoln and Blue. At least Blue is remotely interesting, something for Lincoln to bounce off of. Someone to make him shinier.
Corners of the carpet are shredded, and there's a cat eating shitty kibble in the corner -- the likely culprit. I feel a pang of sudden kinship, embarrassing, then continue looking around. There are cables strewn around the floor, some piled on the nice-ish leather recliner. Lincoln's guitar sits in a metal stand next to that chair. He's around, then.
"Who's this?" Omar says, looking at me although he seems to be addressing Blue. Blue, cruelly, lets his question go unanswered, so he speaks again. "Do I know you?"
"I'm Lola. And, uh. No." I'm just here for Lincoln.
"You're a photographer?" His eyes have wandered to my camera. I watch him, disgusted as his eyes venture from the camera to my bare stomach and hips. I'm JUST here for Lincoln. I pray he'll come in, and be wonderful, and sweep me up and out of this putrid scene.
"Yeah."
"She's doing, like, a series or something. Oh, have you talked to Jackie?" Blue says. Jackie is the lead singer of another band, Gummy Bug. I, of course, have not spoken to her.
"No, I meant to. I forgot."
"Hm." Omar cocks an eyebrow at Blue, and she rolls her eyes. Apparently they're pleased with this display of private scrutiny, because they both smirk at me at the same time.
Then we sit, and stand, in silence. Blue goes over to the couch and sits with Omar, stretching her legs over his lap like some feline god. He fidgets with the rips on her cherry red jeans, and she lets him. I look around for something to save me, and for a minute nothing does. Then Lincoln walks in.
He's beautiful, in a real way. I realize I haven't really taken a moment to checkmark his different parts, his different colors. He's a bit pale, almost freckled, but instead just has a slight scattering of moles on his face. His hair is red and scraggly. I imagine running my hands through it, feeling it -- wiry and a little greasy between my fingers. His general aura is one of miscellaneous vagueness; like he'd meant to be mysterious but got distracted halfway through. I feel like I'll be in love with him.
He smiles, empty-eyed and sheer.
"Shit, I saw you in the pit."
"I'm Lola."
"Lincoln."
"You need water or something? You look hot." I'm still sweating, little beads on my nose. Much too warm and beastly to be in his divine presence, but fuck it.
"I'm okay."
Blue and Omar watch this interaction, although I hardly notice them. The only thing I really pick up on is how unamused they look; if I was watching them, I'd see several bitter glances exchanged between the two of them. If I could hear their thoughts, I would realize that Lincoln is like this with everyone who gives Junky a bit of attention. Especially if they have something to give the band in return.
"You took a lot of pictures of us -- thank you." He smiles. His teeth are crooked, he needed braces, but never got them, I guess. It makes my heart twinge with some bizarre, lustful pity.
"Oh, yeah, of course! It's nothing." I smile too, after quickly wiping my upper lip with my shirt sleeve. God damn humid White Swan.
"Let me get you a beer."
"Oh, I'm okay."
"Come on, let me."
Prayers are answered, angels sing. Et cetera. He looks strangely hollow; I just want to fill him up. So I nod, and we walk out together into the venue again.
---
A few hours later, I have amassed a tiny army of beer cans around my feet. I imagine that when I get up to leave, I'll kick them over one by one and Lincoln will think I'm funny and wild. We're sitting together outside, on the ground. Alone. To be honest, my ass hurts a lot from sitting on the crunchy concrete, but I don't complain. Lincoln has stayed talking with me the whole time -- long since Blue, Omar, and the rest of the concert-goers left.
I don't remember Andie and Jay leaving, shamefully. It occurs to me that I should check my phone, figure out a way home. But I'm too busy with Lincoln, so I don't. In the middle of laughing at something not-that-funny that I said, he swipes his hair out of his face with a middle finger and smiles softly at me.
"Can I see the pictures, Lola?"
I would show him, but they're all of him.
"I have to edit them first." His smile drops, just a shade darker, maybe a few degrees. Poor Lincoln, I hurt his feelings. "I'm sorry."
He nods, smiling less intently than before. And in a blink, he's standing. I half expect him to hold a hand out to me; maybe he wants to go for a walk! Maybe he wants to drive me the hell out of here! Maybe we'll go to the beach, see the midnight moon, maybe we'll see a movie, maybe we'll drive to Austin, maybe we'll go to a bar together, then home to his place and I'll see his old guitars he probably has and he'll play me a song and. And, and.
And then he's shaking his hair out, looking down the street. Lighting a joint quickly, staring at some point away from me. Letting the smoke circle him like an aura. I wonder, suddenly, if it's to get the air of me off him. I fear that it is, because he's now looking awfully cruelly at me. I wonder if I'm imagining the harshness in his gaze. I worry that I'm not.
After a second of wide-eyed-bitch-and-moaning-face from me, I realize he's getting ready to leave.
"Oh, you're leaving." I stumble over the words. Baby deer, fresh out of the womb. Can't walk, can't see. I find myself to be, oh, how to say it: stupid and clumsy.
"Yeah, sorry." He's checking his phone. He fakes checking a watch, then smirks at me. It reminds me of Blue and Omar, and it scares me. "Time flies when you're having fun. But I gotta run."
"You have an Instagram? I can, um. Send you the pictures." He waves his hand loosely at me, and again there's the sudden gaping feeling I have that I've made some irrevocable gaffe.
"You can send 'em to Blue. I don't use that shit."
There's some deep judgment in that quick line from him, but I don't have time to think on it because in a flashbang of a moment he's jumping off the little staircase where we'd spoken together (all these hours), and going, then gone. I shout after him, pathetic.
"I'll be at the next show!"
He turns around at this, smiling brusquely, and gives a little salute. He heads down the street, heading to some shitty car, no doubt, and I find myself in the middle of Second Ward, at midnight, alone. What the hell went wrong here, I wonder, what the fuck did I say.
Truly, I don't know. I call an uber (phone on 4%, dying right as I get into the car). Miraculously, the driver plays the most depressing music I've ever heard. She looks young, but her face is leathery from cigarettes or meth or something. I try to figure out what's playing, but all I can pick out is a lyric: He could be cool and cruel to you and me. Knew we'd put up with anything.
I dig my fingernails into my stomach, carving little crescent moons. Tomorrow I will DM Junky's token eccentric #girldrummer the best pictures of Lincoln, and he will respond. I know it. And, you know what? Blue and Omar be damned if they think I'm a freak for only taking Lincoln's pictures. They'll survive. Call it a study in portraiture. My head is full of flames, croons the crappy CD player. God bless you, depressed bitch Uber driver.
That night, I finally finish working at 5AM after editing the hell out of the pictures. Lincoln will care, I know. They're stunning photos; he looks real. Not like these bullshit phony bands that fill most of the Houston venues on a typical weekend. I wonder (suddenly at peace with our entire interaction that night) what got into him to make him leave so suddenly? At once it strikes me: he must have been embarrassed he asked to see. He's an artist, after all. He probably respects the sanctity of my craft, as he must expect I'd do for him. I go to sleep, then, exhausted but satisfied; renewed.
The next day, Blue responds to my DM (a Google Drive with 45 pictures of Lincoln, edited to perfection) with a single "thumbs up" emoji.
Thank y'all for continuing to read!! Hope you're enjoying the story :-) Hoping to be done in the next 2-3 weeks.