Restraint is Useless Here

“Long Beach, we’re here to get fucked up!”

Anna looked up from the MGD she was pouring for Tony—his seventh, for those keeping count—just in time to take in the sight of the sweatiest, most colorful behemoth of a human she’d ever seen.

Being 11pm, the dimly lit bar buzzed with conversation competing against the pulsing upbeat music, the dance floor densely packed with waves of bodies swaying rhythmically, but this Goliath’s battle cry carried over it all. He must have been six-and-a-half feet tall, limbs as long as a gorilla’s. His dark brown hair, chin-length and choppy in front, adhered to his face as if he’d just walked a mile in a downpour. Whorls of color painted his inked arms and his upper torso—okay, yes, that was his baretorso in this public establishment—while his fingers drummed the air idly to the beat of the music. Anna knew a man with these features combined should’ve given off a air of foreboding, but there was a playful glint in this giant’s eyes. Still...no shirt, no service.

Anna smiled at Tony as she passed his draft beer—the perfect ratio of drink-to-foam, thank you very much—and excused herself. She narrowed her eyes at the newcomer, clearing her throat and preparing her best managerial voice. This guy was vulgar and shirtless and, as likely as it was that he would gladly drink enough to chop her tuition debt in half, she preferred if she could talk him down before security got involved. The last thing she needed was chaos on such a busy night.

Weaving through the throngs of guests with a courteous yet serious smile on her face, Anna’s eyes met his. He grinned wolfishly as she approached.

“Well, hello there. Are you my personal welcoming gif—“ the man was interrupted by a whirlwind of blonde hair, winged eyeliner, and red lips crashing through the door. If Anna didn’t know any better, she’d have guessed the Tasmanian Devil had donned a blonde wig and dressed in drag. Unable to keep the smile from spreading across her face, she’d know that whirlwind anywhere: Val.

“Jimmy. Jesus. I told you to wait!” Val scolded, thrusting a black cotton t-shirt into Jimmy’s hand and smacking his arm. “Decency. Have you none?”

Jimmy cackled at the suggestion, but obligingly threw the shirt on over his head. “Lost the last shred of it when I tripped balls at Disneyland. Those little people in that tunnel fucked me up, man. Fucked the decency right out of me.” He looked down at the blank shirt and let his arms fall slack at his sides, dejected. “This isn’t my Sunday best.”

“It’s Friday, Jim,” Val said, but no longer paid him any mind, her eyes finding Anna’s and filling with tears of joy. “Anna Sinclair, where have you been all my life?”

Anna opened her arms just as Valary crashed into her, knocking her backward. The two girls were a tangle of flailing arms and contrasting hair as they tried to regain their footing, but Val’s taller stature provided the wrong kind of leverage and she landed on top of Anna, pinning her to the floor.

“Oh my God, yes. This is exactly what I came for,” remarked a voice from the entrance. A stout man walked in, rubbing his hands together as if beholding a feast after a famine, and walked toward Jimmy. What he lacked in height, he made up for in Mohawk; the tallest, blackest Mohawk Anna had ever seen. Despite the vertical supplementation from his hair, he didn’t even reach Jimmy’s chin. He was cute in the way that a pit bull puppy was cute; mischievous and scrappy, but a complete teddy bear otherwise.

Jimmy shoved him in response. “Don’t be a shithead, Christ. There are ladies in need.” Jimmy reached both hands down and pulled the girls to their feet in one fell swoop. Jimmy’s grip lingered as he knelt stoically before Anna, lightly pressing his lips to the back of her hand. She felt the cool metal of a labret piercing against her skin. “My lady.”

Anna laughed and, playing into his medieval gesture, placed her other hand atop Jimmy’s head, feeling the wilting spikes that graced the crown of his head. Huh, business in the back and party in the front. That’s one way of doing it, I suppose. “Good sir, you’re relieved of your knightly duties. And thank you for covering yourself so I didn’t have to kick you out.”
Jimmy popped up with a grin, shooting a finger gun in response and began erratically drumming the bald side of the shorter man’s head, who just as quickly swatted him away. Making a beeline for the bar, Jimmy announced, “Now that all damsels are out of distress, it’s time for my nightly duty of getting fucked up!”

“Give it up, Jim,” Val laughed, hands wiping her eyes, then dusting off her black pants. Turning her attention back to Anna, Val grasped her hands and smiled apologetically. “Okay, so that’s one way to come back into your life with a bang. You’ve already met Jimmy and the crude one who can’t keep it in his pants is Johnny, our bassist. Johnny, meet my oldest friend in the whole world, Anna.”

Johnny shrugged, guilty as charged, and held out a hand to shake Anna’s. “It’s nice to meet you, Anna. I’m surprised Val has any friends besides us.”

“Hey, she was mine first, so you should feel honored I’m sharing her,” countered Anna with a wry grin.

Behind Johnny and Val, three more men walked through the door. The first man donned a bandanna and aviators—at 11pm, even—and strode up behind Val, pulling her into his muscled embrace and lightly pressing a peck to her cheek. Flanking him were two dark-haired men, one with viper bite piercings hugging his lip, a bow tie hanging loosely around his neck, and the most electric green eyes Anna had ever seen. For not the first time tonight, she was amused by so many contradictory attributes this group of men displayed.

“Matt, this is the Anna you've heard so much about," Val said, while he reached forward to shake Anna's hand, flashing a brilliant dimpled smile. Possessing every bit of boyish good looks she'd have imagined a front man of a pop band to have, Matt fell far outside what she'd have thought a metal singer to look like. This guy just walked out of an underwear shoot next to Marky Mark circa 1990. Valary could have likely snatched up Mark Wahlberg himself, but perhaps opted for an edgier, pierced and inked version just to spite her parents.

“I respect any man who can handle this firecracker," Anna said, nodding her approval to Val.

“She keeps my shit together. She keeps all our shit together," Matt replied, pulling Val close and resting his cheek on her head. "Anna, I've heard more about you than you could imagine. All good things, don't worry. This is Zacky," he gestured to Green Eyes, who nodded in acknowledgment. "And this is Bri--. Well, what the fuck?"

Suddenly, a riotous whoop beckoned from the bar, snapping Anna back to reality. She cursed under her breath and shot an apologetic look to her friends, gesturing for them to follow as she made her way back to the bar she'd neglected for the past 10 minutes. Fortunately, Maria seemed to be juggling the drink demands perfectly fine. Once Anna had taken her place behind the bar to rally the drink orders, she saw that Matt, Johnny, and Zack had been flagged down for by some local fans. Val held up a finger, exasperated, signaling that they’d be awhile.

Jimmy sidled up playfully. “Oh good, you heard me,” he said, forming a frame with his thumbs and forefingers and closed an eye as if he were taking a photograph. "She's beautiful and she pours my lifeblood. I should write a song about this woman, Gates. I should paint portraits in her honor. Oil paints too, not like, water colors, so you know I’m serious," he mused dreamily to his companion and obviously the fifth member of their ensemble. "Goddamnit, this is my new favorite bar!"

Anna shook her head and failed at hiding her smile. "What can I get you gentlemen?"

“We're feeling pretty classy tonight. Make it two Glenlivet on the rocks," ordered Jimmy, glancing to his friend for approval.

“Not that classy. Just a tall High Life for me, please,” he—Gates?—corrected politely.

This one has manners. As Anna muttered her acknowledgment and began preparing their drinks, she allowed herself a glance at him through lowered lashes. Shocks of black hair were spiked haphazardly every which way. Enviously, Anna concluded this man was one of those. One of those who could stand outside in a hurricane and his locks would end up gloriously tousled to perfection. Dark eyes gazed at the dance floor from under hooded lids, almost lazily—but in a laissez-faire kind of way, not the medically diagnosable sort. He seemed to be mesmerized by the bar’s atmosphere, almost calmed by it. Like he’d been waiting for this moment of stillness after long months on the road. Tattoos, as seemed to be a requisite for this gang, colorfully snaked their way up his forearms and biceps to a hiding spot beneath the sleeves of his white v-neck tee. Anna thought it peculiar for a man to sport such a top, as the Southern California v-neck’s purpose was typically to accentuate an ample amount of cleavage. Instead, she glimpsed the strong line of his collarbone, mentally tracing the ridge from the hollow of his throat to just beneath the neckline of his shirt. Anna blinked her eyes rapidly, shaking herself from the intrusive and unexpected thought, and realized he was staring at her. His kohl-rimmed brown eyes, the color of melted chocolate, met her blues and she smiled politely.

“He lives the high life, he drinks the High Life,” she quipped as she slid his drink across the bar top, hoping to make light of her intrusion and internally scolding her eyes for betraying her. “I’m Anna, Val’s friend. Given your close proximity to Jimmy, I’m going ahead and assuming you’re with the band. Gates, is it?”

A corner of his mouth curved up. “It’s Brian, actually. Gates is sort of a stage name.”

Anna raised an eyebrow in question.

Just then, the music changed. Jimmy forcefully set down his glass and grasped Brian’s arm tightly. “Dude, it’s the fucking Macarena. When is the last time you heard this song? What year is it? Who requested this?!” Without waiting for an answer, he sped off to the dance floor, dragging Val from Matt’s side to join him.

Anna giggled at the sight while Brian shook his head, almost as if he expected nothing less than bombastic from Jimmy.

She couldn’t withhold her curiosity. “So, this stage name...”

“It’s, uh, it’s Synyster Gates,” he clarified, dragging a hand across the back of his neck.

Anna detected a tinge of pink to his cheeks. Catching the hint, she pursed her lips and nodded in exaggerated consideration of his name. “That’s very metal of you.”

To her surprise, he let out a loud chuckle at that. “Well, good, that’s what I was going for... when I was eighteen. It mostly ends up being shortened to ‘Syn’ or ‘Gates’, but it is what it is. It’s a persona.”

“Synyster Gates: the Grim Reaper’s right hand man,” Anna joked, immediately cringing at how ridiculous she sounded. She was losing her edge, her composure. Was this all because of a collarbone? She was cool, she was calm, she was a fucking cucumber.

He laughed, amused at her attempt at humor and pulled out rumpled pack of Marlboros. “It’s a decent tag line, but I think you can do better. We’ll regroup a bit later and you can show me what you’ve got.” He rose to his feet and took several gulps to finish his beer. Anna’s traitorous eyes trailed back to his v-neck, which had inched down to provide a peek of his flexed chest muscle, a byproduct of lifting his glass. Stop it, Sinclair, or we’ll rip our own eyes out. Her eyes found his, once again caught dead in the middle of her visual feast. He held her stare as he drew out a cigarette and placed it in his mouth, letting it hang loosely from his lips. STOP LOOKING AT HIS LIPS. With a lazy wink, he turned toward the exit.

Notes