It's not often that Jeff really sees the people at his shows. When he's on stage, the crowd becomes a mass, some singular entity with a hundred faces, all blurring together.

But this guy and his crew, they stood out with how much they just didn't belong. They looked like the type who would light cigars with hundred dollar bills and, like, bleed diamonds or something. They looked like some kind of royalty.

Jeff's scene is just too dingy and grungy for people with that kind of money.

But boy did the guy seem to enjoy the show. It was like he was on another plane of revelry from the crowd, like he didn't need to be touched by the magic woven into every note to feel the music.

So maybe Jeff's a little distracted, even as he flops on a couch in the green room and starts chugging at a bottle of water, leaning against Ally like a ragdoll. She drags her fingers through his damp hair, teasing him about his future sugar daddy in the crowd with a snicker in her voice. He teases her back about eyefucking those fancy hookers with Mr. Future Sugar Daddy, and-- well, fuck, look who it is.

"Speak of the devil," Ally murmurs in his ear, nudging him with an elbow before getting up off the couch. Jeff stays where he's at, though he shoots a languid smile at the man and his chicks.

"Don't tell me: you guys are here for autographs, huh," Jeff teases. As if a Nervous Tix autograph is worth anything to anyone.