Author's Notes

I am experimenting. I wanted to get that out of the way. I wanted a style that was different from Naomi's, and noticeably so. The problem is that I don't know how well it translates, or how difficult it is to follow. Please let me know. This is the ONLY time I will ask for feedback. It is usually against my moral code. But if this proves to be too difficult to follow then I will either leave this chapter as it is, use it as an introduction into the new story, and write the remaining chapters in a more coherent fashion (which is probably what I'll wind up doing anyway, because the style may prove to be too difficult to maintain), or I may have to completely rewrite the chapter.

Note to those who haven't read Abnormally Attracted to Sin: Go do so now. You will NOT understand this story unless you have.

Warnings: actual insertion of reader into narrator's head (style experimentation mentioned above), slutty!Emily, the entrance but non-action of Naomi

Disclaimer

I do not known Emily, Naomi, or any of the opening chapter lyrics. The characters belong to the Skins folk, and the lyrics belong to The Mars Volta.

Octahedron

Chapter One: Since we've been Wrong (Part 1)

By Persephone's Nautical Nun

Do you remember how you wore that dress?
It slit my sight beneath the eyelids.
Do you remember what you said to me?
What course has given you the right to stray?

And in your living tomb, I'm stuck but safe.
The clocks are ticking fast with every breath.

Since we've been wrong
I've been part awake
Since we've been wrong
You will never, ever know me
What took you so long?
I'm not sure all the way

But my heart, it asks, just one more time
Are you still a mess?

Move stage left, you've been ignoring them for the past few minutes. Sink your voice down, make it growl, get right in close. The lights are hot, and there's sweat trickling down my temple. Hand through hair, sling it at the audience, and watch them revel in it. People are gross. God, I need a drink. Time to signal Jazz for her solo.

Drink fast, shake it off. My glove is soaked, now. Wish Jazz hadn't insisted on me wearing it. Concentrate, Ems. Don't fuck this up.

Back to the front, full of energy now, make it hot. You're tired, but it's almost over. Last number.

Darkness. Don't breathe, yet. Grab equipment, and scurry away.

Now you can breathe. There's Jazz, saying encouraging things. This was the largest stage you've ever been on, but you rocked it.

Now to wait for the results.

Heart slowing down. That's good. Maybe my head will start working normally soon. Chug a fresh bottle of water, that's what you need. Never realized that stage presence gets harder the larger the stage gets, and this wasn't even in the ballpark of large.

But I had only managed small venues when I was with the boys. Though I guess that comes with the territory of joining a group with a built in fan base. Automatic larger venues.

Band battles are lame. Everyone knows this. But when the prize is studio time, and a local area single release, and the consolation money isn't bad either, exceptions can be made.

This last band isn't bad. The vocals suck, but the bass matches Jazz. But we were better. I think some of the earlier bands were pretty good, but I was too concerned with the stage, and figuring out how I was going to move across it, and under those lights without dying. It's a wonder you managed to sing at all.

Must be why most performers are so skinny. Yeah, we'll go with that.

Someone's nudging me. I can feel myself leaning in regular intervals. Lean… lean… lean… Jazz. "What do you want?"

"Just to say, once again, that I love your fucking accent."

Don't respond. There's no point by now. It's all been said before. I am fully aware that one of the only reasons I was chosen as replacement singer is because of how I talk.

The other is because of how I love.

I know this, because she's told me on several different occasions.

The lights go out on stage as the last note from the last band fades out. "Come on, let's go," and now I'm being dragged by the wrist through a door, and out into the muggy night air.

"You look like you need this," Jazz says. She pulls a bump out of her pocket. I don't need it. Do it, anyway, though. I know I'll want its social skills later. She probably knows that, too.

Cigarette time. Into the fire it goes. Fuck the voice. Smoking gives it an interesting range. Sometimes, I think I just like to breathe things other than air. I like the heat. Jazz is good. She knows what I want, and what I don't need. I think I'll keep her around.

Though I think it may be the other way around at the moment.

"You did good work out there," she says to me. I guess so. Could have been better. Tell her as much, but she just shakes her head. "Compared to what you're used to, you were the best damn front woman here." The important parts of that sentence are the words "compared to." Might actually mean I fucked us all over.

Aw. Cigarette's done. Time to go inside. Maybe they'll announce the winner. Maybe the night can really start.

Inside feels cold compared to outside, and I think I miss the lights. No I don't. They made me feel like I would spontaneously combust. I just want to be outside again, with another cigarette.

The crowd gets quiet. This must be it. I watch some kid walk across the stage, paper in hand, and feel nothing. I am not expectant, though I can feel it coming from my band mates.

He tries. He tries so hard to make it suspenseful, but it doesn't work out for him. Poor guy. He calls out the winning band and the runner up, and I feel the vibe deaden.

But, hey, like I said, the runner up prize money is nothing to scoff at.

Mm, money burning in your pocket. How you love that feeling. But where to go? Usual club circuit, I think. Hottest girl there, too. Nothing's impossible, tonight.

It's a good turn out tonight. Options, without the spotlight. No one sticks out. Not yet, anyway. Go buy yourself a drink. The night is young.

Keep your eyes peeled. Look for her; you know she's here. The girl you're going to go home with. Down one shot. One more. One fluid motion, girl, you know it looks good. See? Nearby eyes on you.

The things I learned from my sister.

Rule number one: No one is safe from the Fitch twins, male or female. There's one for either gender. And I've learned that the two aren't entirely dissimilar. A vast majority of what works on men also works on women. In fact, I'd say that in the pickup and sex department, men are the real pussies.

There she is, out on the dance floor. Circle around. Don't approach directly. She's dancing with a tall blonde, so intercepting her is going to be delicate. Brush up against the blonde first, and make her turn. Use the space to slip between them.

There's the look. Flash your smile, and watch it fade. She knows she just upgraded. Move in close, try not to touch. Fall into sync with her dancing. Don't make her work. At least not yet. She will make the first move, though. She always does.

Sure enough, her hand reaches out and comes to rest on my side. This is a done deal. "Do you want a drink?" she yells, and my smile grows wider.

"How about I buy you a drink?" I ask, leaning in close to her ear so that I don't have to yell. I have to invade her personal space to do it, and it's inappropriate. But they like it when I turn that offer around on them. Makes her feel special.

Walk away slowly. Don't ask her what she wants. Pretty much everybody will drink a screw driver. Bar tender is easy. Toss my hair, and the flash of color easily catches her eyes. Drinks come fast, but don't deliver straight away. Tardiness just makes them want you more.

I can play this game all night.

Rule number two: Always make them wait.

Eager, this one is. I extend her drink in her directions. She's one of those girls that sip from the straw, and it's amazing she had the initiative to offer me a drink. I already don't like her.

Perfect.

Don't look at her too much. You're only mildly interested. She just tries harder. Notice her give you the once over out of the corner of your eye. Nothing but meat to each other, but that's okay. Keeps things simple.

Wow, I'm impressed. Didn't think she'd have the balls to touch me again, let alone drag me across the room. She shoves me down on a couch and straddles me. So impersonal. So violent. And exactly what I need. Tongue down my throat, and I know tonight's going to be a good night.

This is the best part. She thinks she's going to take the lead; has forgotten that every time she tried to, I took it back. Has even forgotten that we don't know each other's names. She already thinks she owns me, and when she finds out she doesn't… well, the look in their eyes is almost something worth living for.

Shiver. What is that? Something is not where it's supposed to be. Take control, and flip her over. Move her from your direct line of sight so you can figure this out.

There, at the entrance. The flashing multicolor lights cannot mask that particular shade of blonde. Looks like she's let her hair grow out. What the fuck is she doing here?

We have to move. And quickly.

Give her a minute. Let her orient herself, and move into the crowd. Kiss your girl here; you'll leave in a minute. Who is that she's talking to? Some grungy fellow. He seems out of place. This may be harder than originally thought.

There you go. Both of you move forward. "Let's get out of here." Whisper in the ear; nip the lobe. "I want to fuck you. Hard." It doesn't really matter what I say, as long as it's dirty. The girls over here swoon at the sound of my voice. I can feel her tremble.

Now. Lift her up off the couch, get her on her feet. Lead her out, but stick to the wall. Don't linger outside. Don't even linger on the street. "Where's your place?" I usually don't push so quickly. Better to let her ask which place we're going, but I can't wait tonight. We have to get out of here.

Ah, the lower head, lip biting, and grin combination. If I didn't know it was done before, I do now. She pulls me by both hands a few steps before turning around and leading me. Walk faster. Not too fast. Make her think you're just eager to get there, rather than away from here.

That's right, girl. This night's all about you.

And when we get to your place, you're the only one I think about. Honest. The girl I ran away from doesn't even factor. If she did, there's no way I could take you this way; up against the wall, and half-clothed.

Yes, you mean so much to me. Just like all the others. Now get on your knees.

Jazz is still awake, but that's to be expected. This is what we do. Close the door. Lock it. Flop down on the couch beside her. Load a bowl.

"That was quick," she says. I catch the glow of the ember on the spliff as she moves it to her mouth.

"Quick find." Shrug. Light the pipe. Hand it to Jazz after she extinguishes the joint.

"Not good?"

Shrug again. "They're all pretty much the same." Watch Jazz try to blow smoke rings. It's entertaining, if nothing else.

She laughs. I don't know why, but she does. There are some things that are only funny to her. "Yeah, I guess. I mean, if you've got the game down to be home by now…" She lets the sentence hang, but I know the rest of it.

Jazz doesn't usually say anything she doesn't have to.

"Did you even bother to wait until she was asleep?" She shakes her head. Pretends to scold me. "You're not a gentleman, anymore."

I could tell her. I will tell her. Not now, though. Not tonight. It's a conversation for tomorrow. Take the pipe. Breathe deep. "What about you? Shouldn't you still be busy?" Gesture to her room. She knows what you mean.

"Not tonight." Well, that's unexpected. It's a rare night that I come back to the loft to find her alone.

"Don't tell me you're moping about the loss tonight." That's not why, but I might as well take a stab in the dark. Keeps the conversation going, and there's nothing else to do. Should probably care what the real reason is. Will eventually. Just not right now.

She shakes her head. "Now that I've got you out every night, there's no reason for e to be seen as much. People recognize the singer over the bassist much more readily."

I nudge her thigh with my foot. "Are you calling me a whore?"

"No, you are. You are the one who said that all the girls are pretty much the same. I am calling you free publicity, though. While a vast majority of people won't care, there will be an underground zine somewhere retelling the story of your seduction of yet another one of San Francisco's finest."

Steal the pipe from her. Cunt. "You think we're far bigger than we really are." Okay, so you probably don't. When I joined up, you already had a fairly decent following; one that you were relieved didn't run along with your singer, and excited when it grew because of the replacement, but that's beside the point.

Wait. What is the point?

Oh, right.

There is none.

But at least I'm useful.

"One of these days, some one who matters will take notice." Humor her. We have a shot, but there's no guarantee. There's never any guarantee. Learned that one the hard way.

"Besides, I knew that when we got a lesbian with an accent, I knew it would just be a matter of time. Every credible girl-band has a lesbian. And everyone knows they're into the Europeans. Don't bother denying it."

Heard this speech before. Could recite it by heart. Not that it bothers me. When shit hit the fan, I was glad to have Jazz around. Lucky that her previous singer quit. Right. I believe that for one fucking second.

She grabs a remote and changes the music. The Album Leaf. Tosses a few glow sticks at me. "Go on; let's see what you've got."

I'm tired, and don't feel like raving. Do it anyway, because my bed is occupied. Her loft, though, so I can't really complain. Just a song. That'll be enough.

"What's wrong?" she asks, halfway through the track. Don't dignify it with a response. She doesn't need to know everything. "I know you. You enjoy the game way too much for a 'quick find.'"

Fuck. Just leave it alone. Just for tonight. Toss the glow sticks back at her. Let her be the lab rat. "Guess the performance wore me out more than I thought." Lame. No one's buying it. But maybe she'll take the hint.

"Yeah, I'm calling bullshit." Off the couch she gets, sticking a freshly lit spliff in my mouth. "Try to get some rest if you're so tired." Fat chance. "We'll talk about it tomorrow."

This is the first time I've seen Jazz go to bed before dawn.

Turn the music off. Light the spliff. In that order. This requires silence. Stretch out on the couch and prepare for sleep that won't come. Haven't really slept since I've been here. Think she knows that. Inhale and free your mind.

Don't think about it. Not tonight. Don't think about how you knew she was there before you saw her. Don't think about why she's here. Probably a field trip. And don't worry about how to stay lost. San Francisco's a big place. She's not looking for you anyway, or she would have found you earlier. Same way you knew where she was.

Fuck, it may not have even been her. It's not like you got a good chance to look at her, and it was so dark and disorienting that it really could have been anyone. You reacted to someone that you thought look like her, and that was all. It's all in your head, Ems. You know that. You know her. It's not what she would do, picking up and leaving like that. She has responsibilities and shit. At least to herself.

Don't think about her at all. Close your eyes and smoke your spliff. Pretend to sleep. None of it even happened. None of it's real. Just rest. It'll all look better in the cold light of morning. Or in the very, very warm light, as the case may be.

But after the spliff's gone, my eyes keep opening, and my head won't stop. Check the clock. Over and over and over. The ceiling fan turns at a rate of 2 rotations per second. Turn to the side; bury my face in the cushion. Seems to me that daylight can't come fast enough.

Why is she here?