The Rush (The Siren Series)

CHAPTER Five



They were gone for ten minutes before I let myself move. I had to be sure they were gone. I had to know they weren’t coming back and I was free to do as I pleased.

So when I was sure, I tore from the bathroom floor and ran to my room. It was still early in the evening, but Wednesdays were a bit of a ritual night for me and since I would be taking the bus I needed to get my ass moving.

In my room, I changed again. I was in what I called my “Mom-approved-skanky-casual.” This included nice, expensive clothes that were at the same time subtly revealing and not at all age appropriate. I was a sixteen year old girl that rarely got to act sixteen except on Wednesday nights when I was in Omaha. And this was my first Wednesday back in over six months.

I ripped of my cami and shorts and shot to the very depths of my closet, the depths on the opposite side of my tattoo cover up, because both secrets were very closely tied to my heart and I couldn’t have one giving away the other, just in case of worst-case-scenario-secret-exposing-Armageddon.

Which was obviously the worst kind of Armageddon.

And could happen at any time, day or night.

People get ready.

I pulled from the bowels of my clothing sanctuary the most depressing, most soul-baring, most emo clothes I had been able to stash away over time and grinned like an idiot. I peeled, tugged, yanked and scooched my tightest black, faded skinny jeans on and paired them with depressingly worn out Chucks.

They were worn out because in my entire short-lived life I had only ever had one opportunity to sneak a pair of black and white Chuck Taylors into my wardrobe. And I knew, without a doubt, if something ever happened to them I would never get that opportunity again.

I pulled on a faded to gray Johnny Cash t-shirt and inhaled the musty smell that came with being tucked into a hole in my closet for too long. And then to finish my glorious ensemble, I zipped up my plain black hoodie. I almost squealed with delight. A hoodie. A freaking hoodie!

It had been six months since I’d been able to wear something as comfortable as a hoodie.

I always carried one around with me in my backpack, but I never wore it. It was like a security blanket for me. And maybe something more, something like the Promised Land.

I pulled a hair-tie off my vanity and wrapped my hair into a knot on the top of my head. I darkened my eye-liner to Goth-gorgeous and painted on some bright red lipstick. I stepped back so I could approve of my look in the full-length mirror.

Then I really did squeal.

If I had complete freedom, as in the ability to choose small aspects of my life without having to answer to anyone other than myself, this would not be the wardrobe I would choose. I wasn’t some closet monochromatic safe dresser or even someone that belonged in a Goth sub-culture, but I also wasn’t the glamorous uber skank I usually dressed up as either. I was somewhere in between.

And in my daydreams and all the thoughts I had that centered around two years from now, I pictured myself one day having the opportunity to discover and explore what my real tastes and opinions were. I could not wait to try something on in a dressing room, decide I looked great only to hate it the minute I got home. Then, in these pipe dreams, I would complain about having to return it, go to the store anyway and purchase something as equally unflattering. Rinse and repeat.

As it stood now I didn’t get to choose my wardrobe. I barely got a say in what I wore on a day to day basis. And then I very secretly rebelled by going in the exact opposite way I lived my everyday life just because it was rebellion. I had no attachment to these clothes other than memories of concerts made of horrible music and boys not giving me even a second glance. I didn’t care for the way the pants clung to me and when I got sweaty they really clung to me, the shoes were well beyond their good years, hell they were way beyond retirement and my t-shirt and hoodie were just meh. But they were something my mother and Nix would disgust and even possibly not even recognize me in. And even better they made me feel, even if it was just for one night…. they made me feel alive.

And I desperately needed to feel alive.

Because if I didn’t feel alive, then I would feel…. dead.

And dead was unacceptable, because dead would mean giving up hope.

I shook my head to free myself of those thoughts and grabbed my ID, my regular, real school ID, not the fake ID from Nix, and a wad of cash and stuffed it all into my pocket. Yep, not even a purse. And then I took off for the long journey across downtown Omaha to NoDo, North downtown, via bus for my Wednesday night ritual.



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The sleek, trendy concert hall was packed with bodies, both underage and of-age. Partly because Wednesday nights were huge at the Slowdown with the under twenty-one crowd and also because the main stage was curtained off and the band was positioned at the back of the room on a mini-stage.

Sweat, beer and the faintest hint of weed wafted through the air. The space was almost completely dark, with every overhead light in the exposed ceiling turned off. Only the stage lights and dim bar lights over a large selection of alcohol illuminated the room. Tables were spread out in between the t-shirt stands in the back and the space in front of the stage where standing fans congregated. Board games were stacked unceremoniously on a cluttered bookcase near the front door and the stairs leading to the balcony were roped off. Welcome to the Slowdown.

The opening band was blasting on stage, their drums beating so loudly my heart was forced to keep quick rhythm and I felt the reverberation of the bass guitar to my very bones. I didn’t know their name, and really I didn’t need to. I just wanted to sport my under twenty-one wrist band that declared under no circumstances should I be served alcohol, even though the bouncer tried to convince me I looked twenty-one and would totally get away with a real wrist band…. come on…. what will it hurt?

His words not mine.

I said, “It will hurt me, damn it! I will obviously drink cheap tequila until I’m obliterated, then leave with some random, way-too-old-for-me-stranger, get knocked up, get into a drunk-driving accident and then I will die! And then you will be responsible for the death of a sixteen year old minor! Damn it!”

My exact words.

Then he shrunk back on his stool and gulped, “Sixteen?”

And then I walked into the music hall completely satisfied with how that went down.

Despite my aversion to certain libations tonight, I was still thirsty after two and a half hours on and/or waiting for various public transportations. So I pushed my way through the pressing crowd and to the bar. In the trek over I had to weave through lots and lots of bodies and then in order to get a place at the bar I had to stand near the back of the room where the t-shirts were being sold, and elbow my wait to the chest-high counter.

I didn’t mind it back here. The air was fresher and cooler and it was decidedly less populated since most of the crowd was currently trying to press into one solidified organism, like the human centipede, against the stage. It wasn’t going to work, but there was no use telling that to them.

“Water!” I yelled when I caught the bartender’s attention. He gave me a questioning look so I waved my wristband his way and he nodded in a disappointed but resigned way.

Once upon a time, before I could hold my liquor, Nix had taught me to order a Blue Dolphin when at a bar, which was essentially water on the rocks. He said ordering it that way would make me sound more sophisticated. When I ordered water now, I did it with a smile and hoped to God it made me sound as immature and pathetic as possible.

I gulped the deliciously cold tap water down in two huge swallows as soon as the bartender handed it to me. Before he could get the chance to walk away I made a circle motion with my pointer finger and yelled, “keep ‘em coming!”

That earned me an amused but slightly predatory grin from the college-aged bartender with floppy black hair and neck tattoos. I had a thing for tattoos, it was like a weakness of mine, but I was so off the clock tonight.

So I turned my head away from Mr. I Dig Minors bartender and out to the riotous crowd. This was it; this was why I loved Wednesdays. There was too much adrenaline pumping in the shared air for people to really notice me. I mean, if I was talking one on one to someone they got the vibes, but usually people were so absorbed in the music I was hardly noticed at all. And the smells of cheap liquor and vomit helped put them off the scent.

Not to mention I had a deep and abiding love affair with music.

All music.

It didn’t really matter what kind or how good. If it, whatever it was, was put to music I could easily lose myself completely. Seriously from bad pop to heavy rock to my favorite classical composers, I loved it all.

Well maybe except the Jazz Flute. Regular flute was fine. But jazz…. that was an entirely different circle of hell as far as I was concerned.

An ugly, confusing, shrill sounding circle of Hell.

Just don’t tell Ron Burgundy I felt that way.

It was during this perusal of my environment that my eyes fell into, not to, but into the gray depths of Ryder Sutton. I felt my mouth fall open; literally my bottom lip detached from the firm hold my top lip had on it and my jaw followed.

He glared at me from across the room. Glared at me. He had his back to the far wall and one foot propped up with his knee bent. His arms were folded across his chest and even from here I could see ripped biceps tensed and flexed. He was in the same outfit he wore earlier today, the only difference was his hair was slightly bigger. It wasn’t like his hair had multiplied or anything, but it just stood out from his head a bit less controlled…. crazier…. no…. sexier. Like he had his hands in it, or someone else had their hands in it.

Like Kenna Lee, who had just walked passed me without even noticing I was here and straight to her cliché-rebel-boyfriend. Ryder then proceeded to take his eyes off me, put them on his girlfriend and then rock her world by pulling her into the most disgusting display of public affection I had ever seen.

Gross.

I so did not get people kissing in front of other people.

Hell, I didn’t even get how people liked other people enough to like kissing them.

Romance was weird.

In my life, romance didn’t even exist.

The bartender handed me my second glass of water and when I was finished with that one, I slammed it down on the bar like I had just finished the proudest kind of awful-tasting-shot. This earned a throw your head back kind of laugh from Neck Tattoos, to which I had to agree, I was hilarious.

It was amazing how escaping my life for even just three hours took the weight off my shoulders and allowed me to have some fun. If I could let this loose after three hours, imagine ultimate freedom in two years.

I winced in anticipation. I could make it. I could get through two years.

“Ivy?” someone yelled from behind me.

I gave the bartender a desperate look for more water to which he shook his head, amused at me, and then turned around praying it wasn’t Ryder and Kenna.

Some prayers are answered with a “yes.”

Some prayers are answered with a “no.”

This was a “no” kind of situation.

“Hey!” I shouted over the music. “What are you doing here?” I forced myself to keep my eyes on Kenna and not look around for Ryder who seemed to have disappeared. He hated me that much he couldn’t even stand to have awkward small talk with me?

I seriously had to get to the bottom of this.

“My boyfriend is playing tonight,” Kenna shouted back. She was dressed for the girlfriend-of-the-band part in a fifties style red and black polka-dot wrap around dress. Her long, black hair floated around her shoulders in silky straightness that remained perfectly unfrizzed and untouched by the humid atmosphere of the bar. She was wearing a proud smile and bouncing in her vintage ivory pumps showing off her extreme excitement.

“Ryder?” I clarified.

Instead of trying to beat the volume contest she nodded, flashing a smile full of affectionate pride.

“Cool!” I offered back and then turned my own attention to the stage. I wasn’t sure if she wanted to hang out or not and it was way too loud to try to carry on a conversation. Plus, I didn’t really have anything to say…. so there was that.

We bobbed and swayed in the general vicinity of each other for twenty more minutes, rocking out to some grass-roots kind of blues sung by college aged boys with underdeveloped voices and wardrobes straight from the Kurt Cobain catalogue.

Perfection.

Kenna didn’t exactly engage with me, but she didn’t walk away either. I didn’t know what to do, or say, so I stayed near the bar and slammed another shooter of water. I didn’t have to look back at Kenna to know her eyes were on me and my tumbler full of ice and clear liquid. She would assume the worst.

I would let her.

The opening band finished up their set and the loud music was replaced by a quieter but none the less angsty speaker sound. I finally turned back to Kenna to force myself in to small talk. I was out of excuses and some irrational part of me wanted to prove to her that I was still lucid despite the three supposed shots of vodka she assumed I had taken. I sucked in a breath, prepped myself with a faux mental face slap full of cocky self-assurance and opened my mouth to make a comment about the last band but the menial opinion died in my throat because Ryder was standing next to her now.

With his gray eyes watching me intently, I lost the nerve to say anything and instead my attention fell to the toned arm he had wrapped around Kenna’s waist. I grunted when I noticed the green and black tattoo marks snaking up his forearm. Didn’t I just say I liked tattoos? But his… he was so cliché. I swear he had read some kind of bad-boy handbook and followed steps one through twelve to pull his dangerous rep together.

Plus a band? Seriously.

“You here for an AA meeting?” Ryder asked from the other side of Kenna.

“Obviously, those are anonymous,” I retorted, with attitude. Let the record show, I answered with attitude.

“Right,” he smirked. And for a moment, for like a moment and a half, I thought he was flirting with me, but then his hand squeezed Kenna’s side and she giggled happily before swatting his chest.

“Dedicate a song to me?” she asked in a cute pout I would never stoop to.

“Of course,” Ryder smiled down at her. This was his get-lucky-later-play. And Kenna was eating it all up. I of course, rolled my eyes. I had to. The situation demanded an eye roll. “I’ll dedicate one to you too, Red.”

“I’m a recovering sex-aholic, be careful with your promises,” I shot back snidely.

“No worries,” his smile turned genuine and he looked down at his girlfriend again. “I’m faithful to the girl I love.”

Holy hell. It was a warning. He was warning me! He thought I was into him!

I rolled my eyes. Again. And he disappeared to go start his sound check after another agonizingly long public display of affection with Kenna.

She had to fan herself when he finally walked away.

But true to his word, she did get a song dedication by him and his band Sugar Skulls. So did I, it was a song called “Crash and Burn,” and he dedicated it to me and Folgers Dark Roast.