The Devil's Metal by Karina Halle Page A

the moment. I thought I saw something
that…well, that certainly wasn’t there.”
    A flash of something dark went through his
yellow, hawk-like eyes. Then they relaxed and he grinned with
mismatched teeth. “I’d stay away from Graham’s punch then.”
    I smiled uneasily back at him and focused my
attention back on the end of the set. As expected, it went off
without a hitch. Whatever had Sage all shook up earlier wasn’t
affecting him anymore, and when I thought about it, that was
probably in my head too. They were tighter than ever. For their
encore, the song “Wet Lips” was played as heavy as possible, with
the band knocking over their chairs and Robbie jumping about the
stage, wailing and hollering, as if they were all plugged in. The
crowd surged and cheered and I knew the Red Rock owners probably
thought another Jethro Tull riot and extension of the rock ban was
on, but “Wet Lips” ended with Robbie on his knees, singing, as the
lights went down. There was an eruption of applause, whistles and
lighters waving, but the barricade held, everything was contained,
and Hybrid gave their appreciative waves and stepped off into the
darkness of the backstage.
    I turned to the crowd and soaked up the
accolades as if they were for me. Then, with a newly found smile on
my face, I followed Jacob backstage, giving Chip a thumbs up for a
job well done as we passed him.
    The rest of the night was a bit of a blur. I
can say this was completely my fault, as no one forced me to drink
a fifth of Jameson.
    Jacob and I had entered one of the doors
built into the rock face and we emerged in a lounge area that ran
along the dressing rooms. Hap Starts, the straggly singer of Pretty
Mary, was just leaving his band’s dressing room for the stage and
gave Jacob an appreciative head nod. Journalists with media passes
lingered about, picking at the spread of finger foods while
normal-looking patrons, who I could only assume were friends and
family, drank cheap cans of beer from the ice bins. Then there were
the groupies, a gaggle of girls my age or younger who were
drop-dead gorgeous—no special passes needed for them. They eschewed
the food and chose to remain by Hybrid’s door. They only moved when
Noelle came out, her hair wet from a shower, her eyes cutting into
them like a butcher knife. I could see why Noelle was paranoid
about me being a groupie. I really had no idea that so many
beautiful, albeit skanky-looking, girls were after Hybrid. I mean,
Jacob had told Barry that the reason I was there was to lure in
more women, though I suppose he meant more women “fans” not
groupies. There was a difference.
    Then again, I couldn’t really blame them.
When I got over the fact that they weren’t about the music, it was
no wonder they were after the band. Robbie had a reputation, and
I’m sure he wasn’t above turning down the occasional groupie. Same
went for Graham; though he was a bit abrasive and scary in his
weirdo faux-Satanist ways, some chicks would dig anything with a
bone. Mickey was taken, but that wouldn’t stop some girls from at
least trying, and Sage, well, once again I had no idea about him,
whether he was a man-whore or not. I had heard somewhere that he
had been married at some point but judging by the lack of ring, I’d
say that definitely wasn’t the case anymore. Secretly, Sage’s love
life was one of the things I wanted to get to the bottom of. Did it
belong in Creem Magazine? No. Did I want to keep the information
for myself, and possibly Mel? Hell yes.
    I wasn’t sure what to do while the band was
still in the dressing room. I assumed that people just sort of
waited out here for them after the show and then they’d appear and
everyone would party. I didn’t belong with the heavily bosomed
groupies, nor did I have the casual appearance of friends and
family. Normally I would have said hello to the journalists but
even they all seemed to know each other and they probably wouldn’t
have taken me