The first time Bacchus saw Cana, he thought she was a pick-up girl.
You couldn’t blame him—she dressed like one, after all. It was damn confusing.
It was a Friday night, and he and his boys had rolled into a private bar after they blew up their concert because when didn’t they blow the crowd away? It was Quatro Cerberus’s grand tour to promote their new album, and Bacchus loved the never changing routine—the raging crowd, the blinding light works, Nobarly throwing himself into the audience and Rocker smashing a guitar now and then.
Bacchus fucking loved the wildness to bits, and he was ready to get more smashed than Rocker’s dead instrument. He was ready to take whichever chick that threw herself on him, get dragged onto the tour bus unconscious to wake up with a earth-shattering headache and sticky aftertaste of his fan-fucking-tastic adventure.
When the rowdy band strolled in, their record dealer Goldmine was already lounging in a booth with a grin