I'm just a musical prostitute, my dear

-Freddie Mercury

#

Wiping the foggy mirror clean with her wet hand, Bonnie ruffled her damp hair and brought her arm up over her head so she could smell her armpit. She was wearing a faded Runaways T- shirt that had been stuffed in her dirty laundry only an hour ago. Excavating through her bag for her trusted red lipstick, she wondered for a minute why she was trying so hard to impress some wild Alabama rock-star who had stumbled into the rock scene years ago. It was nineteen-ninety seven and grunge music was slowly dying out and with it the likes of Damon Salvatore. Pressing her lips together, she dabbed the corner of her mouth with a tissue before sucking in a sharp breath and shutting her eyes.

Growing bolder with every breath intake, she crumpled the ball of tissue and threw it into the trash bin making a half-court shot.

"Bam! Knicks got nothing on me" she laughed throwing her head back and rotating her stiff neck. She had this, wild butterflies in her belly or not, she had this.

When she finally exited the toilets, she found Damon sitting comfortably in a corner booth with his long legs propped up on the table and his finger drawing circles on the trail of salt he had made on the red table top.

"You look… pretty" he smirked waggling his eyebrows as he dragged his eyes over her sloppy band t-shirt and jeans combo.

"Do you put hot sauce on everything? "Bonnie collapsed on the red leather seat opposite him as he began to turn his grits red with glistening sauce.

"Yes, mam"

"Guess you can take the boy out of the South…" she rolled her eyes, raised an arm and sniffed her armpit before setting her tape recorder on the table.

"Pretty much, "he said with a mouthful before adding, "guess you can take the girl out of the Bronx…"

"Me, the Bronx?" she shook her head knocking back a whiskey shot "not a chance"

"Well, if it quacks like a duck…"

"I'm not from the Bronx"

"Thought you were a former New Yorker"

Bonnie narrowed her eyes trying to remember when exactly she had divulged her life story to him.

"I also did my research" he winked as if reading her muddled mind

"Well you got your wires crossed; I wasn't born in New York" a wry smile twisted her crimson lips.

"Yeah, we're all implants…what's your lie?"

"This is about you remember, you're the big rock-star celebrity"

"Now, "she drew in a deep breath and lifted her shoulders "When did you first fall in love with rock n roll?"

"That's it? That's your big opening?" he chuckled looking at her with dizzy sea blue eyes, the nerves on his jaw ticking.

"Just answer the question, Alabama"

"When did I first fall in love with rock n roll?' he smirked into his glass rattling the crushed ice around in it.

"When I first heard Iggy Pop on stereo, my brother and I would sneak the radio into our-"

"Barnyard?" she chuckled allowing the whisky to ravage her throat.

"You're adorable," he winked before he continued "we'd sneak this tiny portable radio with this sad broken antenna and crouch under our bed listening to the late night show playing Iggy and the Rolling Stones"

"So, you have a brother back in Alabama?"

"I used to…" he mumbled shifting in his chair and Bonnie felt the mood change.

"What are your dreams?" she thrust her chin, plodding along with a shrug in her shoulder as she took in another unwarranted shot.

"Legend…I don't know"

He ran a hand across his face, peering at her between his fingers. Bonnie stalled watching him.

"Who are your musical influences?"

"Jimmy Page, Paul McCartney" he replied with a shrug followed by a hint of a smile.

"What's next for you?"

"I don't know and I don't care"

He answered pouring himself another stiff shot of whisky before tossing back the drink.

#

Damon was a fake, a phony, a pretender and he loathed himself more the more he responded to her questions.

He didn't care.

OF COURSE HE FUCKING CARED! Why move to fucking Seattle? He fucking cared about the music, he fucking cared about his artistry, and he fucking cared about being a fucking legend. He fucking cared about still having it and making it. He was only alive when he was on that stage, only alive when his demons didn't keep him awake at night. They stayed away when he was sweaty, happy and spent on stage sweat, spent on guitar riffs, whisky stains and lipstick stains.

Damon Salvatore was only alive when he knew that his art, his music was making a difference in the world, when he knew that he wasn't wasting his good shit away jerking off in front of some computer screen in Middle America caught in the matrix.

You don't come back clean from that regret shit, he knew that. As a Buddhist he believed that the mistakes you made in this life carried on to the next, you carried your debt from this life to the next and the thought of not living up to his expectations kept him up most nights.

His Karma was the monkey on his back.

He took another swig of whisky; lips wound around the bottle this time and watched her.

She was flustered, ruddy cheeked with damp hair and talking faster than she probably realized but for once he didn't care. He liked the stupid gold rhinestones on her pretentious Joan Jett t-shirt, he liked her messy curls tumbling around her uneasy shoulders and he loved the way she took her whisky shots in an obvious attempt to show him up.

She was Joan Jett without the guitar, Janice Joplin without the gin voice, hell she was an angel without the ridiculously epic white wings. This Evergreen didn't need showpieces or dancehalls; she did not need the bravado. Damon thought she was real and that was good enough for him.

"Hey," I have an idea; he heard his crusty voice speak up against the diner crowd noise "I'm auditioning for Restless Soul in a few weeks' time. Why don't you shadow me?"

"Shadow you?"

"Sure, write an in depth piece. It would be about Restless Soul of course. Yada yada…the epic romance of grunge music"

"The epic romance of grunge music" she repeated biting his bait.

Definitely better than raspy Janice Joplin, this girl was going to be epic. Epic for him anyway.