Several sets of male eyes wandered over me as I passed by. I nodded to the people I recognized and gave cool stares to those I didn’t. Acting coy would have been like begging for those stares to turn into Bonecrushers’s version of being hit on, which frequently consisted of being tongue-kissed before introductions were even exchanged. Shame to end my no-shooting streak on such a silly thing as an unwary flirter.
“Hank,” Billy called out once he reached the bar. “Two brews.”
The band began playing something that might have been Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” The music here tended to be at least a decade behind the times, and the band’s look was something from a former era, too. The musicians were pale even by Nocturna’s standards, with dark circles under their eyes and clothes that hung off bony frames. The lead singer had no microphone, electricity seldom working in this realm, but he managed to keep his voice louder than the chatter or the continual smashes of drink glasses into the fire pit.
“Someone should tell those guys that the ‘heroin chic’ look went out in the nineties,” I noted to Billy when I made it next to him at the bar.
He grinned, handing me a beer the bartender thunked on the counter. “Help ’em out. Bring some new Rolling Stone magazines next time you come over.”
Better to let him think I was indecisive than tip him off to my goal. “Maybe there won’t be a next time. I like sunshine, cars, electric toothbrushes, iPhones… all those things Nocturna will never have.”