Restraint is Useless Here

Brian pushed through the front door of Diamond Bar, greeted by a balmy California breeze against his face. God, how he had missed California. Two more shows after what seemed like a lifetime on the road. Two more shows and he was home bound to Huntington Beach until God knew when. And he didn’t care that his next departure was yet to be determined, because that meant more time at the beach, more time surfing, and sleeping in his own goddamned bed. Seeing a group of approaching women down the block, he sneaked around the side of the building, concealing himself from the glow of the marquee to enjoy a smoke break without the possibility of recognition. He bit the tip of the unlit cigarette and rolled it back and forth between his teeth, suspending his craving for nicotine to first fill his lungs with saltwater air from the Pacific a block or so away. The scent of home. It was truant high school mornings spent getting stoned with Jimmy and any number of nameless high school girlfriends, depending on the day. It was his shitty blond highlights and forty ounce Natty Lights, wiping out on his surf board and never being able to get the sand out of his ass crack. It was bonfire nights under his dad’s tutelage. Brian Sr. was always teaching, always performing, his son’s fingers forever trying to match pace with his father on the fretboard—perfection in his picking, strumming, tapping. He got better. And better. He got good and he fucking knew it.

His stage name was the result of trying to fit a death metal motif, a fondness of purposeful misspellings, and the fact that on stage, he really could’ve been the Grim Reaper. Cliche as it sounded, he took people’s breathe away. Synyster Gates could shred like a motherfucker, garnering screams, tears, and torpedoed panties from thousands upon thousands of girls of all ages. He fucked some of them, of course, because drugs and bad decisions tended to go hand-in-hand. Plus, two years spent celibate would be an insult to his rising fame. And his dick. All the pent up testosterone and adrenaline would’ve launched it straight to the moon if he’d kept it in his pants. But man, was he tired of the randoms. It was all fangirl bullshit and lackluster orgasms and playing STD roulette.

Zacky plucked the still unlit cigarette from Brian’s mouth and lit it for himself, inhaling deeply before releasing a cloud of smoke into the night air. He leaned against the gritty brick building next to Brian. “Thanks for the smoke, man.”

Brian hadn’t heard him approach. “Where did you even come from?”

“I was talking to you for at least thirty seconds while you were stargazing,” Zacky moved his hands in a circular fashion to the sky, apparently signifying mysticism. “And not lighting your shit. I saw an opportunity; I took it.” He blew smoke rings into the night sky, the heavy bass from the hip hop music inside ever so slightly vibrating their backs. “What‘s up with you? You’re all spacey and shit.”

Brian fetched another cigarette from his crushed pack of Marlboros and took the lighter from Zack’s outstretched hand. Flick. Light. Deep inhale. “Just glad to be back.” Long exhale. “And thinking about rockets shaped like dicks.”

“Sounds about right,” laughed Zack with a shake of his head. “You’re a weird sonofabitch, Gates.”

At the mention of his stage name, Brian thought back to the bartender girl, Anna. He’d caught her watching him twice now, which didn’t necessarily surprise him. He was no stranger to being the victim of mental undressing. Her stare was different, though. She stared at him like she was trying her hardest to see him, to really see him. He’d ordered his drink and raked his eyes over the crowd to locate Matt and the rest of the group, but found himself enamored and comforted by the mass of writhing bodies on the dance floor. Messes of hair and tanned skin illuminated by the soft glow of the track lighting overhead writhed together in synchrony; such a contrast to the violent shoves and jumps of the pits at their shows. He loved the pits, of course. He loved how the wild cadence of The Rev’s drum fills set the rhythm for his face-melting solo—which he always conquered with confident precision. Shadows’ gritty yet somehow melodic vocals soared high over he and Zacky Vengeance dueling guitars in tandem, exchanging smirks at how the women would scream and cry when they approached center stage. Johnny Christ became a beast of a man when left to his own devices, wielding his weapon and the bass did his bidding, the deep tones enriching and completing their Avenged Sevenfold sound. The adrenaline rush was addicting and he loved sharing the limelight with his crazy, shithead best friends. But this...the soft waves of these bodies moving rhythmically was California culture, through and through, and it reeled him in for a welcome home embrace. When he’d spun back around to fetch his drink and found Anna’s eyes silently observing his reverie, he’d felt almost violated, like she was trying to peel back his skin for a peek at Brian. For months, he’d been an object to their hungry fans begging for more of their music, more of his time, more autographs, more more more. This girl examined from the sidelines quietly, a genuine curiosity about... him. It jarred him, knocked him off his pedestal for a moment. Once her eyes dipped to his chest and her lips parted involuntarily, his ego regained its previous momentum. Hell yeah. He mentally patted himself on the back for using the dumbbells on the tour bus as more than just paperweights. It obviously paid off. She became visibly flustered when she found him watching her watching him, the cat caught with the mouse, and it satisfied the fuck out of him.
Of course she had to be Val’s friend. Not just a passing acquaintance, which would leave Brian with only minimal remorse for bedding and forgetting her. The girls had a long history, like single-digit age childhood history. The possibility was... an impossibility, so he shut it down. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy making her squirm a little with well-placed flirtation. Her sense of humor endeared him and she carried herself well, a pert little package dangling right in front of him. Never one to back down from a challenge—even if just for sport—he rehearsed ways to pique her intrigue, to see those pink blossom lips part speechlessly once more. Since he couldn’t fuck her, he’d add her to the spank bank lineup.

Around the corner of the building, the volume of music rose and abruptly cut off by the clang of a metal door slamming shut. A guttural roar, sounding only half-man. Hushed male whisper-shouts were met with a pleading female.

Zack wasted no time in smashing the butt of his cigarette with the toe of his boot, proceeding to tip-toe sprint to the side of the building and watch the scene unfold. He called to Brian with a hushed chuckle, “You’re not trying to miss out on some trouble in paradise, are you?”

Brian waved a hand and scoffed dismissively, taking a final drag from his smoke before flicking it to the ground and watching it roll off the curb, the ember quickly extinguished by a puddle. Quiet was what he wanted.

“Oh, dude,” Zack whispered, turning back to Brian and motioning to join him. “It’s Val’s friend. Man, she is catching hell from this guy.”

Brian snapped to attention, feeling equal parts curiosity at drama that wasn’t his own and some sort of unexplained anger that someone had the balls to raise their voice to the pretty, funny redhead who’d made him smile 10 minutes prior. He barely kept his feet in check, gravel crunching beneath his boots as he swiftly approached the alleyway. Fortunately, he and Zacky were mostly concealed by a bulky blue dumpster.

“The fuck’d she do?” Zacky asked.

Brian didn’t speculate. It wasn’t his place to intervene. He did not know this girl or her history, but she obviously had baggage. Walking away would have been the smartest option; it wasn’t his business. Then again, he wasn’t exactly known for taking the high road. Anna’s guarded expression wavered as she withstood this man’s fury, the volume of his voice rising along with Brian’s blood pressure. He felt the sting of brick digging deep into his fingertips as he expended every ounce of strength to hold himself in place.

Notes