As the opening band—an absurd group of screeching men calling themselves Sheriff Goodnature—wrapped up, people started to gather at the bar again, refreshing their drinks before the main act appeared. Ruby swayed a little in front of me, putting her half-finished drink down on the bar and excusing herself to the restroom. I followed her into one of what appeared to be a number of small corridors, and met her back in the hall when she emerged, taking in the sight of her excited grin as I bent to kiss her.
“Couldn’t wait for me to come back?” she asked with a giddy flush.
“Guilty,” I murmured into her mouth. “You’re absolutely lovely.”
With a little squeak, she pulled me back to the main room and deep into the throng of sweaty, pulsing bodies, all anxious for Bitter Dusk to appear onstage. The band members came out, plugged in their guitars, tested the mics, and ducked in and out of the backstage area. I could feel Ruby trembling excitedly against me and watched as she absorbed every move they made. It was too loud to speak to her, but even though the packed room wasn’t my scene and I was sure to complain later about the noise, seeing her this happy erased any reserve I felt. I could watch her all night and enjoy each and every second.
A hush fell over the crowd as the lead singer approached the microphone. He didn’t say a word, only looked behind to his bandmates and nodded. The drumsticks met in a sharp crack once, twice, three times.
And then the room exploded into noise.
It was drums and ba.s.s and raw guitar layered together in a way that could only be described as pure beauty. In an instant, it fed into my blood, made the hairs on my skin stand up. The music was wonderful: full and rich, clean bluesy guitar and precise drums with vocals that astounded me. I knew at the end of the night my ears would ring and Ruby would need to shout into my brain to be heard, but it was a kind of magic I’d never imagined: I felt the music as a physical presence all along my skin and inside me.
Ruby hadn’t said anything about what to expect, and maybe she’d a.s.sumed I’d done this before—but the truth was, I never had. I’d seen the symphony, the ballet, and endless musicals with Portia over the years in the London theater scene, but never had I experienced anything as visceral as this.
The lead singer’s voice in one song was smoke and rough pavement, and then in another was honeyed and smooth. The lyrics made my imagination do things I’d never expected, made things like regret and guilt, antic.i.p.ation and relief bloom thickly in my chest. I felt oddly nostalgic for my wasted years of misery, and ma.s.sively hopeful about what life could be, starting from this very point in time and onward. It was nearly too much, too intense with the lights bursting across the crowd, and Ruby lifting her arms over her head and singing along to every word of the song.
In front of me, she danced in a hip-swaying, shoulders-dipping move that had me mad for her, wild to grab and pull her backside directly against my lengthening c.o.c.k. My fingers gripped her hips, my eyes rolled closed, and I relished the sound penetrating every inch of s.p.a.ce in the room, relished the seductive movement of her against me. Her hands reached up behind her, tangling into my hair and pulling my face to the side of her neck.
I sucked and bit, groaned into her, and then—when I began to harden, my mind turning away from the song and focusing solely on the gorgeous creature in front of me—I had to decide whether to pull her into one of the many tiny alcoves or let her remain here to enjoy the music. I stood up straighter, deciding to simply let the moment wash over me.
The band tore through the set, barely stopping to greet the crowd or take a sip of the beers precariously perched on their amps. It was unlike anything I’d seen or heard, and I felt as if I was getting a glimpse into Ruby’s heart: her love for energy and adventure, spontaneously nabbing tickets to see her favorite band in an unfamiliar city. I admired the trust she put in her own instincts, bringing me here. She knew all along that my reaction to the music and the lights and the pulsing rhythm of a hundred people jumping all around me would be profound.
At nearly six foot seven, I’d grown accustomed to bending to hear others speak, to instinctively ducking through doorways, to standing on the outside of circles to not feel as if I was crowding anyone away. But on the subway home, as we stood rocking with the motion of the train, I could tell Ruby wanted me stretched to my full height, holding the bar overhead so she could lean into me, wiggling and practically climbing me in her post-show excitement.
Her belly rubbed my c.o.c.k again, and again, while her hands slipped beneath my open coat and under my shirt so she could press her cold hands to the flat of my stomach. Fingertips teased at the hair on my navel, at the buckle of my belt. I felt her slip an index finger just below the waist of my jeans.