Arrogant Brit

“Alright, alright…”

I pulled down my medical kit from a shelf. Popping it open and spreading a few supplies along the bed, I sat down beside him and dabbed rubbing alcohol onto a cotton ball.

“This might sting a little,” I explained.

“Pfft. I can take it.”

The slight waft hit my nostrils as I pressed it to his cheek, bringing me back to when I was a child. It was one of the few memories that really stuck out, patching up my stepfather after one of his famous barroom brawls.

I shook the thought from my head. I couldn’t help but wonder why alcohol seemed to be the common denominator in pretty much everything I did, despite how much I hated the stuff.

Dabbing lightly, I checked his cuts and bruises. After applying some of the rubbing alcohol to his wounds, I ducked out of the room and came back with a hot, soapy rag.

“Nothing broken,” I observed. “Worst thing I’m seeing is a few deep bruises and the lump on your head. Still not sure about that concussion, but you don’t look too worse for wear. It’ll hurt later. But you probably don’t need a doctor.”

It was clear that he was starting to finally remember things as I cleaned him up.

“What happened after I hit the floor?”

“You’d be surprised how fast a bunch of fat ass bikers can run when you point some buckshot in their direction.”

“Remind me never to piss you off,” Trent said, letting out a low laugh. “Did they hurt you?”

“I’m fine, thanks to you,” I replied.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. You were a beast. You kept taking punches and returning them harder. Those bikers weren’t exactly pushovers. And you took on four of them at once.”

“You had two of them distracted.”

“Still. That’s no easy feat.”

“You sound impressed,” Trent said, cocking a smile.

“Maybe a little, but let’s not forget that I saved your ass too. With a shotgun and everything. I mean, I’m not gonna lie, it was pretty epic. You should have totally been there, instead of unconscious.”

He smiled at me for a moment, before the grin faltered. “What about the bikers, though? Are they coming back, or…?”

I shook my head. “Called the Sherriff. He picked them up on the interstate headed west. They won’t be bothering me or anyone else for awhile.”

We sat in silence for a moment while I wiped him down. There wasn’t a lot more I could do. He was going to need some painkillers for the morning, which I didn’t really have access to, so… yeah.

“So, who are you, anyway?” I asked him.

“I already told you. I’m Trent Masters.”

“Yeah. Doesn’t exactly really ring a bell.”

He flashed a cocky smile, as if he was about to announce himself as the lord of some distant land. “You ever heard of Trent Masters and the Whiplash?”

I laughed aloud.

I didn’t think this could get any dumber.

“Yeah, your name probably would have tipped me off if that meant anything to me.”

Trent looked a little disappointed.

“I figured,” he murmured with dejected irritation. “If you didn’t recognize me when I came in, you probably weren’t going to, anyway.”

“So, enough with the bullshit. Who are you? What’s this about whiplash?”

Trent grinned cockily. “We’re a rock band.”

“Funny,” I chuckled. When his grin only grew wider, my face only hardened. “Wait, you’re serious? But I’ve never heard of you…”

“You’re right. I clearly made that up. I mean, I can’t imagine how a tiny, backwater town halfway up the ass of Alabama might have missed a band that tops the hottest Top 40 stations.”

“I’m more of a country girl,” I conceded. “But we get radio here. Wait…”

It started to dawn on me.

“Wait, no, there’s this one rock song that comes on every once in a while, what is it…I can never hear the name, they never announce the band or the song title…”

“How’s it go?” He asked.

“Nuh-uh. I can’t sing.”

He shrugged. “Recite some lyrics.”

“Um.”

I thought for a second.

“Reeeeaad my bones, whispered, taken?”

Trent laughed with amusement.

“That’s…wrong. That’s really wrong. But yeah, that’d be us. You’re talking about a song I wrote, Wicked Wilds.”

“I see,” I thought aloud. “So, that’s you?”

His eyes glistened with delight. His voice began to sound more familiar now – it could definitely be close enough to be behind that song. I mean, I hadn’t heard it often, but it was one of the few rock songs that really drew my attention.

It had always been sung so soulfully.

The singer’s voice really rang with emotion.

But he could still be making this shit up. Wouldn’t be the first time some asshole came into my bar pretending to be something he wasn’t.

“Sing it,” I demanded, crossing my arms.

He looked surprised. “You want me to sing for you?”

“If you expect me to actually believe this bullshit you’re spewing, then yeah, I definitely do.”

“You do realize that people usually pay me thousands of dollars to sing, right? And I just saved you from, from…”

“Classy as fuck, Trent,” I laughed. “You’re right. You just saved me from being raped. Low blow, much? But I distinctly remember whipping out a shotgun when you went down, so I think you and I are one for one. Besides. I don’t think it’s that big a request. You’re making a total fuss over a few lyrics?”

Trent flashed a grin. “Good point.”

“So, go on, then,” I waved at him with my wrist. “Prove that it’s you. Work your magic.”

“What if I’m an impersonator?”

“I’ll know if you’re full of shit.”

Trent shook his head, smiling softly. He looked deep into my eyes, as if searching to see if I was being serious. After a moment, he smile settled in a big, arrogant grin.

“Fine. Have it your way, then.”

While I sat next to Trent Masters, he turned to me, looking deep into my being, and his sturdy voice yarled the rugged chorus to his alleged rock hit single:

“Reeee-yee-yee-ead my bones… broken, laid, and / Heeee-yee-yee-eed my moans… whispered, taken / Seee-yee-yee-eee my frown… buried, bathed in / Feee-yee-yee-eel my crown… dust and vapor”

Trent’s deep voice rang in the small space, digging into a dark octave and pouring out his very soul against the walls.

My head flashed to the alternative rock heroes of the Nineties – Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, Stone Temple Pilots, guys like that. They’d never been my jam, but as I listened, I knew the truth. I was tending to the wounds of a real-life rock star.

He was so young, and oh so fucking hot.

Maybe I could give up on country… Just this once…

“You believe me now,” he smiled cockily.

“That’s…definitely you, on the radio.”

“Me, and my band,” he added.

“What the fuck are you guys doing here in the middle of nowhere?” I asked breathlessly. “I mean, what brought you to Riverton? How did you wind up in my bar?”

“We’re playing the RipFest, just an hour or so over from here. It’s the biggest music festival in the state. The after-party wasn’t my scene. I decided to hit the road and find somewhere a little quieter to nurse a beer.”

“Well, if you wanted quiet, I guess you probably picked the wrong bar…” I told him.

“No...” Trent said, his hand covering mine, “I think I came to the right place.”

I gulped. It was a total move,

but it was working.

“Is that so,” I strained to say dispassionately.