Read Online The Devil You Know by Louise Bagshawe - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louise Bagshawe
Tags: Romance, Contemporary
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designed to have just that effect. Poppy’s eyes flickered over tonight’s crowd, seeing all the girls in just their lacy bras, some of them with marker pen marks across the creamy flesh. The adrenaline crackling through her kicked up a notch, loadies were scurrying across the club stage, pulling away equipment; setting up other stuff. Plastic cups and other trash were scattered across the floor. Obviously one band had already left the stage, and another was coming on. That was OK - support bands
usually sucked. Poppy walked up to the bar.
‘Hey, cutie,’ the barman said.
He recognised Poppy. She was in here often enough, busting the
47
legal drinking age, but hey, it was the Eighties, who didn’t? Anyway, girls like her should be drunk. It gave you a better shot with them. Although a fox like this one had to have some big-ass metal-head boyfriend hanging around.
‘Jack and Diet Coke,’ she said, with not quite enough bravado to pull it off.
‘Coming right up,’ he agreed anyway.
Poppy took a seat at the bar and sipped at her icy drink. Oh, man, this was heaven. All the sexy dudes with their long hair and muscles . . not that she ever wanted to do anything with them. She was way too young. She was saving herself for something other than a one
night stand, even if they were cool and rock ‘n’ roll.
These boys were strictly eye-candy.
But this was her scene. Her crowd, her people, her brotherhood. It might not have been the Sixties, but there was a vibe here that her parents and Tipper Gore and the PMP,.C, the suburban moms’ pressure group that agitated to ban metal stars and their R-rated lyrics, would never understand. To Poppy’s shame, her own mom had actually joined the PMIC. But it wasn’t all about Satan, it was all about fun. Sex, drags, and rock ‘n’ roll. What the hell was wrong with that?
She thought music beat the shit out of the film business. Poppy took another slug of the fiery spirit, cool to her mouth, but burning her throat. Mom would freak when she told her she wanted to quit her acting lessons. When would they get it? She wanted to be a rock star, not some boring old actress. Going to auditions and whining at an agent, no thanks. Poppy wanted to found an all-girl rock band and get out there, banging her blonde hair all over the place and toting her axe around. Or maybe she’d be a bassist. Bassists were cool, because they had a lot less to play, so they could move all over the stage. Ideally, Poppy wanted to be a lead singer, but despite Mrs Teischbaum’s singing lessons, she unfortunately had a voice only
marginally better than a frog with a particularly hoarse croak. ‘And now …’
The lights dimmed. A huge roar went up from the crowd, who were punching the air at the ME and making ‘devil’ sounds.
‘Please welcome - Dark Angel!’
Dark Angel started to play.
They had charged on to rapturous cheering, fists thrust skywards, a surge in the club to the lip of the stage, girls pressing forwards, arms
48
outstretched in supplication. The lights played on them, red and blue and gold, and the band blasted into the first tune.
Poppy was enraptured. She gulped at her drink, mesmerised. She was too late to get a good position in the crowd, so she stayed where she was, where she had a good view. Oh, man. They were all gorgeous, and they rocked. They sounded nothing like the average hair band, but they weren’t hardcore thrash metal.
They were new, and different, and … incredible.
And they knew it, too. Look at the way the lead singer strutted over his tiny space as though he were headlining Madison Square Gardens. The guitarists were flirting with the squealing chicks in the front row, and the bassist …
He was tall and skinny and had flash rock-star pants with glitter on them, and a bandanna, and he stroked that bass suggestively, lovingly. He had almond eyes and flowing black hair, he was smooth-chested and Byronic and she wanted him. Most
usually sucked. Poppy walked up to the bar.
‘Hey, cutie,’ the barman said.
He recognised Poppy. She was in here often enough, busting the
47
legal drinking age, but hey, it was the Eighties, who didn’t? Anyway, girls like her should be drunk. It gave you a better shot with them. Although a fox like this one had to have some big-ass metal-head boyfriend hanging around.
‘Jack and Diet Coke,’ she said, with not quite enough bravado to pull it off.
‘Coming right up,’ he agreed anyway.
Poppy took a seat at the bar and sipped at her icy drink. Oh, man, this was heaven. All the sexy dudes with their long hair and muscles . . not that she ever wanted to do anything with them. She was way too young. She was saving herself for something other than a one
night stand, even if they were cool and rock ‘n’ roll.
These boys were strictly eye-candy.
But this was her scene. Her crowd, her people, her brotherhood. It might not have been the Sixties, but there was a vibe here that her parents and Tipper Gore and the PMP,.C, the suburban moms’ pressure group that agitated to ban metal stars and their R-rated lyrics, would never understand. To Poppy’s shame, her own mom had actually joined the PMIC. But it wasn’t all about Satan, it was all about fun. Sex, drags, and rock ‘n’ roll. What the hell was wrong with that?
She thought music beat the shit out of the film business. Poppy took another slug of the fiery spirit, cool to her mouth, but burning her throat. Mom would freak when she told her she wanted to quit her acting lessons. When would they get it? She wanted to be a rock star, not some boring old actress. Going to auditions and whining at an agent, no thanks. Poppy wanted to found an all-girl rock band and get out there, banging her blonde hair all over the place and toting her axe around. Or maybe she’d be a bassist. Bassists were cool, because they had a lot less to play, so they could move all over the stage. Ideally, Poppy wanted to be a lead singer, but despite Mrs Teischbaum’s singing lessons, she unfortunately had a voice only
marginally better than a frog with a particularly hoarse croak. ‘And now …’
The lights dimmed. A huge roar went up from the crowd, who were punching the air at the ME and making ‘devil’ sounds.
‘Please welcome - Dark Angel!’
Dark Angel started to play.
They had charged on to rapturous cheering, fists thrust skywards, a surge in the club to the lip of the stage, girls pressing forwards, arms
48
outstretched in supplication. The lights played on them, red and blue and gold, and the band blasted into the first tune.
Poppy was enraptured. She gulped at her drink, mesmerised. She was too late to get a good position in the crowd, so she stayed where she was, where she had a good view. Oh, man. They were all gorgeous, and they rocked. They sounded nothing like the average hair band, but they weren’t hardcore thrash metal.
They were new, and different, and … incredible.
And they knew it, too. Look at the way the lead singer strutted over his tiny space as though he were headlining Madison Square Gardens. The guitarists were flirting with the squealing chicks in the front row, and the bassist …
He was tall and skinny and had flash rock-star pants with glitter on them, and a bandanna, and he stroked that bass suggestively, lovingly. He had almond eyes and flowing black hair, he was smooth-chested and Byronic and she wanted him. Most
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