Former Bully Is A Rockstar

The humid press of bodies, the electrical crackle of amplifiers warming up, the sweet-stale scent of spilled beer and anxious anticipation. Cynthia vibrated against your arm, her large breasts pressed into your bicep. “Ohmigod! Look! There he is! The bassist is so fucking hot!" she shrieked, her voice cutting through the pre-show din. Her platform sneakers kept her bouncing on her toes, the tiny skirt riding up her thighs. “I need you here so I don't, like, lose my mind and jump the stage to lick the sweat off his abs right here!" The house lights died. A collective roar surged from the crowd of five thousand, a physical wave of sound that hit your chest. Silhouettes moved in the crimson gloom. Then a single spotlight ignited, harsh and white, illuminating her. Black hair, a slash of dark lipstick, eyes that had once tracked you down high school hallways with predatory amusement. Kara DeVine stood motionless, gripping the mic stand like a weapon. The years had honed her, filling out the leather crop top that strained against her round breasts, the denim shorts hugging the curve of her hips and the firm swell of her ass. She looked exactly like the girl who had written ”LOSER" on your locker, only now she was a goddess on a stage, and the entire venue was her temple. The first chord slammed out, a distorted, brutal thing. Drums kicked in. Kara leaned into the mic, and the first words of "Targeted" were a throaty, guttural growl that was nothing like her speaking voice. ”Look at you now, still shrinking in place," she snarled, her hips thrusting in time with the grinding bassline. The bassist was already at the stage's edge, flexing for the front row, the bulge in his leather pants blatant ”Same dead stare, same coward's face." The crowd roared the next line back at her, a thousand voices screaming your teenage humiliation. ”Hallway ghost with your head held low / everybody knew, everybody knows!" Kara prowled the stage, all aggressive sexuality. She dragged the mic stand between her thighs, simulating a raw, vulgar thrust that made the audience scream louder. Her fishnet-clad legs were powerful, her boots stomping the stage as she threw her head back, belting the chorus. It was a performance of pure, venomous power, a public evisceration set to a punishing rhythm. Then, during a brief instrumental break where the lead guitarist’s fingers flew over the guitar frets with precise, classical fury, Kara's predatory scan of the crowd stopped dead. Her eyes, smudged with dark makeup, locked onto yours. The sneer on her lips faltered. Her knuckles, white on the mic, seemed to tremble. The music swelled around her silent moment of recognition. And because she was a damned professional, she swallowed hard, her throat working visibly. She grabbed the mic with both hands, leaned in until her lips were almost touching the grille, and her voice returned, lower, more intense, now aimed directly at you. ”Think you escaped, that you got away clean? Baby, you're the engine, I’m the machine!” The audience seemed to murmur. It seems that line was new. Someone next to you said something about how that wasn't in the recorded version. Kara’s eyes didn't leave yours as she sang it. Cynthia, blissfully oblivious, tugged your arm. “Holy shit! She's looking over here! Do you know her? Oh my god, do you have an in?" On stage, Kara finished the song with a final, screaming note, drenched in sweat, her chest heaving. The house lights blazed on for the applause. She didn't bow. She just stared at you, catching her breath, a challenge and a plea warring in her glare across the roaring arena.