#lamour

When I wake up on Friday, it’s pouring, the sky out the window a monotonous grey. I sit up in bed, cracking my neck and looking blearily over at Susie. She is still asleep, her striped pajamas mussed, and she is breathing softly. I quietly slip out of bed, wondering what I’m supposed to wear to a show of my almost-boyfriend’s band. That’s another thing: I’m not completely sure where we stand in our relationship. I mean, we’ve been going out for about a month, but it’s been kind of casual and I don’t know where he stands on what we consider ourselves to be. I suppose I’ll have to address that at some point.

Now in front of my closet, the clothing stares blankly back at me as I stand, almost frozen, trying to figure out an outfit. I finally retreat, shutting the closet doors and giving up for the time being. Peter isn’t picking me up until 4:30 anyway.

Later on when I return to my closet, I finally decide on a leather skirt and long-sleeved maroon shirt, pulling out my raincoat because it seems that the rain has turned to a steady drizzle that will likely last all day. I sense Susie’s judging stare, so I turn around, exasperated, to see her, lo and behold, sitting in her bed, still in pajamas, and I confront her: “What?”

She shrugs. “Well, if you quit sassing me, I was gonna offer to lend you my fishnets.”

“Oh.” I feel a bit ashamed that I assumed she had something annoying to say. I grin sheepishly, thankfully, at her. “Thanks.”

And so, that afternoon I find myself around 3:45, sitting before a mirror at my desk, doing my makeup and wearing Susie’s fishnets as well as my shirt and skirt. After putting on mascara, eyeliner, and some burgundy eyeshadow to match my shirt, I finally deem myself ready, and all I have left to do is wait until Peter arrives to pick me up. I anxiously fidget with my handheld purse, butterflies swarming my stomach.

With 4:30 approaching, I decide to head downstairs and wait just indoors, seeing as the rain is still an ever-present factor of the day. Before I know it, Peter is pulling up in that funny little green car of his, hopping out and quickly making his way up to the dorm entryway, hunkered down under his rain jacket. Which was a rather humorous sight, considering his tall stature. I can’t help the smile that forces its way onto my face and the flicker of excitement in my abdomen.

I duck out into the rain, hood of my jacket pulled up, meeting him about halfway. He grins down at me when we get close, speaking above the steady rain. “Hey Donna.”

“Hi!” I reply, smiling back. I can’t help but stare up into his intense eyes, once again caught off guard by how much taller than me he actually is. It feels like I really have to look up to make conversation.

“Shall we? Don’t want you standing out here in the rain!” He takes my hand in his large, warm one, much to my nervous delight, and leads me to the car, opening the passenger door. I hop in, glad to be out of the rain, as my curls certainly would misbehave if they were to get wet.

As soon as he hops in on the other side, we sit there for a moment. 

In a desperate attempt to make acceptable conversation, I comment, “Really is raining.”

“No shit,” he replies, and we both chuckle at the obvious nature of my words. “You look really nice, by the way,” he adds, shyly glancing down at the fishnets underneath my skirt and then back up to my face and light makeup.

I thank him as I feel my face heating a bit and I hope I don’t look too ridiculous with the blush taking over. He starts the car, hand on the gear stick, pulling out from where he’s parked by my dorm. 

“So, I think we’ve got a good set tonight,” Peter begins. “I’ll hafta introduce you to the guys. Keith plays guitar and Louie, the drums.”

“And you do bass…” I recall from some previous conversations we’ve had. I’m pretty sure he’s mentioned his bandmates’ names before, but I of course don’t comment, instead letting him speak. The band is his passion, and Peter always seems to get so excited when he speaks of it.

As we pull up to the venue, I gather that it’s called “L’Amour: Rock Capital of B'klyn” due to the signage out front. Peter parks around the back and gets out, zipping up his raincoat, as it is still raining. I pull on my raincoat’s hood and step out of the car, shutting its door behind me, and Peter comes over to my side, ushering me through the drizzling rain, a light hand on my lower back. The contact, despite being through a couple layers of clothing, thrills me, but I try to keep my chill.

We enter through a side door, finally pulling off our hoods as we enter the building. We are in a short hallway with dark walls, one end leading to the bar (evident due to the light chatter), some bathrooms towards that end, and the other part of the hallway with a few doors, one of them ajar. 

Peter leads us through that door, entering a room with some different instruments and speaker system parts. It’s a bit cramped, some old leather seats and a couch crammed into the somewhat small space, but it’s not bad.

“So this is where we usually get ready,” Peter explains as he takes off his raincoat, placing it on a hook on the wall and then looking back at me. “Keith and Louie aren’t here yet… It's a bit early. I figured I’d bring you extra early so you can get used to the place.”

I smile at his consideration, looking over at a spare drum kit. “Do you guys play here often?”

He nods as he takes a few steps to the couch and sits down, sprawling his long limbs across the deep brown leather. “We’re here pretty often. It’s probably the place I’ve performed the most.”

I stand there awkwardly for a moment, just looking around, then pull off my raincoat, hanging it beside his. I turn back to him— to find him already gazing at me, a certain intensity in his blue-grey eyes. He tilts his head, speaking, “You can sit down, if you want.”

And so I sit by him on the couch, sinking into the cushioned leather, soft and creased with time. I swivel my head to take in the sight of him. He seems so large on the couch, legs stretching out as he’s slumped a bit, lazily comfortable, one arm slung over the armrest and the other on the back of the couch, behind my head. His face is somewhat close to mine, and I realize his lips are looking very kissable, so I do the natural thing and lean in a bit. 

Peter must get the hint, because next thing I know he sits up, also leaning in, bringing a warm hand to my hip. I catch a whiff of some sort of cedar-scented cologne as he presses his lips to mine, his lips soft but a slight stubble on his cheeks brushing against my face. All thoughts are just gone from my head as his other hand comes up to cup my jawline, pleasant shivers running through my neck and back. 

As I part my lips a bit, I get the feeling that he’s trying to consume me, tongue in my mouth, pulling me a bit closer to the heat of his body.

Suddenly, we are interrupted by the raucous bustle of two men around Peter’s age entering the room. I jerk away from him, his hand still on my waist, keeping me close, and I look up to see them— one with short hair, and one with longer hair and bangs. They’re carrying all sorts of things, including what looks like some sort of fur garment. 

The guy with longer hair seems to then realize me and Peter, dropping his armful of stuff with a large thump  and grinning. “Hey, I’m Keith. You Peter’s girl?”

I nod, pushing myself off of Peter’s lap and standing to face Keith. “Yeah, I’m Donna. Nice to meet you.” I frown, looking at the stuff he dropped on the floor. “What is all this stuff??”

The other guy, I’m assuming Louie, drops the stuff he’s carrying as well. “It’s our battle armor!” He laughs, baring his teeth a bit. 

I nod, pretending like I understand, and take a closer look. “It’s…” I squint, trying to decipher what I’m seeing.

Peter suddenly appears at my side, leaning a bit over my shoulder, voice in my ear. “Mutilated hockey gear.”

“What?” Somehow the words don’t compute in my mind.

“Hockey gear. We put nails in it. And we’ve got some belts and stuff…” Peter moves to the pile, picking up a belt with some bullets. “We wear it during some of our shows. We’re gonna wear it today.”

Later, closer to when the show starts, I walk out to the actual bar, choosing a seat where I can see the stage. I order a beer and drink it while I observe the interior of L’Amour. The atmosphere of the place is cool; definitely not a big place but not super tiny either. It’s a place I could see myself returning to for other shows.

I finish up my beer as they begin letting people in for the show and I migrate closer to the stage so I can get a good spot and see well. As the club begins to fill up, I do my best to stand my ground, wanting to keep my good view of the stage. Butterflies fill my stomach as the energy builds and the show’s start time approaches.

Eventually, the lights dim, focusing on the stage— and Keith walks out, decked out in their homemade props, and Louie follows, taking his place in a seat behind the drum kit. And last but not least, Peter. His face is shadowed under the lighting and he seems larger than life, the fur hanging off his back and modified hockey shoulder pads making his shoulders appear even wider. He stalks out to his bass, picking it up and adjusting how the strap falls across his chest—is that a fucking chain for a strap, yes it is—and he then tilts the mic to his face. 

I’m so entranced that I don’t even notice how rowdy and loud the crowd has gotten. I plant my feet firmly and return to ogling this man who somehow is even cooler than I originally thought.

Flipping his wavy hair out of his face, Peter speaks to the crowd, “Welcome, Brooklyn. Louie on drums, Keith on guitar. And I’m Petrus.” He bares his teeth at the audience, then his eyes find mine and he grins a bit more tamely. “You ready?” The crowd cheers and I’m pretty sure I hear someone to my right cussing the band out.

They get immediately into their first song, which starts with an ominous beating of the drums, and then Keith joins in on guitar, and finally Peter with the bass. I don’t even know where to look—well, nevermind, that’s a lie, because the obvious choice is Peter. His head is bowed, wavy hair looks very majestic as his fingers dexterously pluck the strings of the bass. When the vocals start, it’s all you could really want with thrash metal: primal, aggressive, fast.

They finally get to the chorus, Peter wailing the lyrics— “Armageddon!! Armageddon!” as Keith and Louie echo him.

As the song enters a slower section, the bassline shines through, dripping slow and satisfying like honey to the ears, sweet and thick and full of character. Peter is amazing on the bass, and the fact that he can sing and play at the same time is impressive to me.

When the song comes to an end, Keith grabs his mic. I can’t see his face in the shadows the stage lighting creates, but he growls his words into the mic— “This song goes out to all the women in the audience. It’s called… Male Supremacy.”

My eyes widen. I have faith in Peter, but I really hope he’s not some sort of misogynistic guy. I highly doubt it, cause he’s been so sweet the whole time I’ve known him… so I just stop worrying about it and enjoy the song. 

It begins fast-paced and full of energy, giving me the urge to headbang. I look up at Peter, where he’s headbanging, his hair flung back and forth, and his fingers are moving with lightning speed over the strings of the bass, and my thoughts butt in: what else could those fingers do?! I feel slightly feral and very in awe of both Peter and his music. It’s genuinely good thrash metal.

He moves to the mic, beginning to sing out the lyrics, hair in his face and biceps flexing as he plays his instrument. It’s beautiful and I barely even realize that he is singing “male supremacy” over and over. I mean, whatever you say, gorgeous man. I really couldn’t care less. I catch myself absolutely fangirling and feel slightly silly, but I mean, what girl wouldn’t? Especially because I’ve been with him for a while now and I know that in person he is the absolute sweetest guy ever.

The song begins to slow down, the guitar curling deliciously into my mind. As the song truly slows down, with just Keith playing gentle notes on the guitar, a few people in the crowd begin to whistle. I guess this is the good part of the song.

Peter begins to sing again, voice deep and slow, not like his growls earlier in the song. The lyrics tell a story of a man coming home from war, and I picture Peter coming home to me— a concept I find quite appealing, if I’m being honest with myself. Peter’s voice is easy on the ears, and the underlying bass beneath the guitar is mesmerizing and suddenly he’s looking directly at me, crooning into the microphone with his deep voice, “Woman it’s true, I do battle for you…”

I feel my cheeks heat, a smile forcing its way onto my face. Peter looks back to his bass as the song begins to pick up again, but I’m left feeling insanely giggly and delighted. Is this what it feels like to have a boyfriend in a rock band? Cause I could totally get used to this.

The rest of the show is wonderful and I greatly enjoy the music, cheering very loud when it’s finally over. I slip down the hallway and backstage as people begin to disperse, somehow successfully finding where I’m supposed to go.

I enter the open door of the room where Louie, Keith, and Peter are sitting, drinking beers. Peter looks up to see me, and gets up, coming over to grab my hand. “Donna!”

I smile at him, feeling my face heat again when I think back to him singing those lyrics to me earlier. “I loved your show.” I look around to make eye contact with Keith and Louie too, telling them, “You guys were all great.”

Peter grins, sitting down on the couch and pulling me down onto his lap. “Not too excruciatingly painful to the ears?”

I roll my eyes, gently swatting at his upper arm. “Stop it Peter, it was great.”

He takes a swig of his beer, then questioningly offers it to me. I nod, moving to grab it from his hand, but instead he lifts it to my lips and tilts it. I blush a bit. He seems a lot more confident now than other times I’ve been with him— perhaps it’s the lingering adrenaline from the show and the alcohol in his system.

Peter reclines into the couch, sighing. “We should get outta here,” he suggests. 

Keith nods. “Let’s go to a bar—”

I swallow nervously. I don’t generally go out to bars, but I know Peter would watch over me if we were to go to one.

Peter shakes his head, though. “Not me.” He then focuses on me, staring up at me to where I am on his lap, eyes soft and intense at the same time. “You wanna come back to my place?”

This is a first. But…I feel like saying yes. And I know Sally would kill me if she heard I turned Peter down. In her opinion, I don’t get out enough or have enough fun or do enough for myself. So, I smile, excited. “Yes, why not?”