fuck is she doing with our music?” he asked.
She knew “our” didn’t mean he was acknowledging her part in it. He was talking
to the punk rockers, working the crowd. “Our” meant Kradle fans. And they were looking uneasy. They’d
been enjoying themselves, as far as she could tell, but it had probably been a
guilty pleasure. Now they were turning sour.
“And
who are these people? These pansies in faerie wings and light
sticks and pastel hair. And my God, mohair leg
warmers!”
The
couple kissing in the back looked up. The ravers were beginning to edge back to
the left of the room. They might outnumber the Kradle fans, but they clearly thought they were the prey. No, Angus wasn’t stupid
enough to storm the stage. He was trying to start a riot instead. Kat didn’t
think he was going to succeed, because she respected her fans more than that.
Some of her songs might have a violent edge on the surface, but her fans
weren’t crazy. They understood the difference between being pissed off that
things weren’t right and actually hitting someone. She hoped. In any case,
ravers might be strange, but they weren’t the people to be pissed off about.
She
needed to sing something, get people together. She’d been doing it all night,
and now, suddenly, she didn’t know how. But she stepped up with the microphone
anyway, and Cindy, who’d been taking a break, slung her guitar back over her
shoulder in response. She still didn’t know what to sing.
Then
she saw Brett walking up to Angus and locking eyes with him. Somehow, she knew
then it was going to be okay. She might not think much of the way he ran his
relationships, but the man was as solid, in a way, as any man she’d ever met. Solid. She didn’t know of any better way to put it than that.
“‘Liquid
Dreams,’” she murmured to Cindy. “Hit it as soon as you’re ready, and play it
loud. No bass.” It was one of the songs Kradle had
never played, so Angus couldn’t claim it was his. He’d complained the bridge in
the middle was too melodic, and Kat thought it was perfect, so she wouldn’t
change it. Hopefully by the time they got there, the situation would have
defused.
Angus
yelled. Cindy played louder. Kat screamed the music as loud as she could while
still having a prayer of hitting the notes. At least she had a microphone, and
Angus didn’t. They were halfway through the first verse when Angus finally shut
up. He stomped out. Brett was with him. A dozen or more people followed, but
everyone else stayed. It was all over by the time they got to the bridge, and
Kat hurried back to the computer to add in some bass and get people dancing
again. And dance they did.
BRETT
HADN’T BEEN in a fight since he’d been on the force, and then he’d had a gun, a
club, and solid steel handcuffs. But he knew the image Angus had created for
himself with Kradle and knew the other man couldn’t
back down from a challenge. Kat was creating something special and unexpected,
a strange blend of electronic dance music and hard, driving rock that had
captured the crowd’s imagination, and he couldn’t let Angus spoil that, so he’d
gone ahead and said, “Step outside and say that.” He felt like a walking
cliché.
Angus
had nodded and gone outside. A small crowd gathered to watch the fight, which
apparently was going to take place on the sidewalk out in front of the Caravan
Club. Brett knew the crowd was not on his side, but he thought he heard Kat’s
voice get mellower as they all walked out.
He
had a couple inches of height on Angus but suspected he was giving ten pounds.
Any idea he had of reasoning things out once they were outside had vanished as
the two men were circled by the crowd. Angus had his fists up. There were a
couple of heavy rings on them, not quite as bad as brass knuckles but close. At
least he didn't have a knife like the LSD-hyped kid who’d cut Brett years
before. Brett waited, in no rush to get hurt or to hurt anyone. The whole
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