Page 2 of Jinxes and Drumsticks

D-E-V-A-S. That’s what I see on his hand.

Without thinking, I snatch his wrist and pull him so I can see the other hand.

T-A-T-E-D.

It spells the word devastated, which is exactly how I feel as I look up at him.

“Hah—whoops. Busted,” he says with a beautiful, crooked smile and a wink.

I’m going to throw up. I know those hands. I have fucking Pinterest boards dedicated to those hands. I have fan edit videos saved in a special secret album on my phone of those fucking hands.

“D-Damien?” I stammer.

As in Damien Devastation? As in drummer and part-founding member of Portent? As in the legendary flirt of the band?

AND I JUST SAID THE WORDS “BLOOD KINK” TO HIM?

It’s time to go. It’s time for me to perish—to leave this realm and evaporate into the aether. I could see Nan again. That would be good.

I’d followed Damien on social media shortly after I got into Portent’s music, but he never actually posted his face anywhere. In fact, he’s notorious for not wanting his face anywhere on social media. In music videos he always wears some kind of face covering. In photos he usually wears shades and a surgical mask. Sure, there are pictures of his face floating around on the internet somewhere. But out of respect for his privacy, I purposefully never sought them out.

I try to think of something to say, but in my shock all I can do is let out a tragic little half-whimper-half-sigh.

He laughs again, a little harder this time. “Hey, hey, hey, don’t do that. What is it? Do you hate me or something? I’ve got some pretty dedicated haters out there—”

“No,” I warble. “I don’t hate you at all. I’ve been following you on Insta for years. I even watch your videos on Drummeo…”

“Are you a drummer?” he asks, perking up.

Oh, shit... “NO. I just—”

I stop myself before blurting out that I love him. That would definitely not be playing it cool. I take in a deep breath and sigh it out with defeat.

“I just said the words ‘blood kink’ to you,” I moan, smearing my hands down my face.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. For all you know, I have one too,” he teases.

“I don’t have one!” I cry.

He laughs again, offering my ticket back to me between two tattooed fingers. My gaze catches on his black nail polish that always seems to be in perfect condition, despite the toll drumming must take on his hands. “Easy, sweetheart, I’m just teasing you.”

I take the ticket and he slips his hands into his pockets, standing with just as much casual ease as before. Like we’re just two fans waiting to watch the same band. Things quickly become awkward, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or at least, if he does, he doesn’t care.

Think of something to say Lillith. Stop being a dork.

“So...” I finally manage to say as he glances down the street. “Why Del Lune?”

“Why not? It’s a pretty sweet little beach town.”

“There’s like... nothing here,” I point out.

His eyes slide to me and he gives me a lopsided smile as his eyes flick down to my feet and back up again. “I beg to differ.”

I’m going to pass out. “You have to stop that,” I plead.

His expression sobers slightly. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry. Am I being a creep?”

“No! You’re just like... I’m going to—I really suck at flirting—and you’re super pretty and I’m going to make a complete idiot of myself if you keep this up and then I’m going to lose out on my favorite band because every time I listen to your music I’m going to remember how stupid I was when I met you and want to die.”