I flash Zip a small smile, and he pops up his chin in acknowledgment. Hatch moves me through the crowded bar. The room tilts and he holds me closer, keeping me steady. We emerge from the bar and into the cold mountain air. I breathe in a deep, sobering breath.
He lets me go and moves to his Harley. “Hop on.”
“Why are you doing this?” I sway on my feet. “You don’t even like me and I’m pretty sure I hate you.” Although at this point I’m in no position to rule out anyone as a friend.
“You took a punch. Didn’t even cry.” He looks around; then his eyes are back on mine. “I don’t like you, but I respect you.” There’s a flash of something behind his eyes, but it’s gone to quickly for my drunken thoughts to process. “Now get your tiny ass on the bike before I send you home with a dude who doesn’t.”
Better to be cared for by someone I can’t stand than to be rejected and tossed aside by the love of my life.
I take a few dragging steps toward him, throw on my backpack, and saddle up behind him. “Should I grab my helmet?”
He fires up the bike; the ominous growl of the engine vibrates around me. “No helmet law in Colorado.”
Sadness slumps my shoulders. I wrap my arms around Hatch’s middle and lean my cheek against his cold leather-coated back. “Perfect. Take us home.”
Twenty-one
Georgia McIntyre.
Gia McIntyre.
Mac In Tire.
Mac Entire.
Mac Ellenshire.
RIP Georgia McIntyre
--Mac Ellenshire, Age 17
Rex
The sound of my phone blowing up on my bedside table pulls me from a dreamless sleep. The double dose of Trazedone I took last night knocked me out cold. After celebrating Blake’s win and mine for all of ten minutes, my body gave in to fatigue.
I blink open heavy lids. My phone stops vibrating, and I let them fall closed. Muscles like concrete and blood like molasses, I sink back to sleep. Jackhammering sounds against my bedside table, and I force my eyes open.
Who the hell is trying to get a hold of me so bad?
A voice in the back of my head whispers that it could be Mac. Gia. The thought pushes my hand from beneath the warm covers. My sore muscles protest the movement. I face the lit up screen toward me.
Not her.
Fuck, it’s almost noon.
I slide my finger across the screen and press it to my ear. “What.”
“Dude, where the hell were you last night?” Talon sounds as if he woke up a few minutes before I did, but had a much rougher night. “Mario threw a huge deal for you at The Blackout.”
I had a feeling he might, but there was no way I could show my face there after what happened with Mac. When I told her I never wanted to see her again, I wasn’t kidding.
Rolling to my back, I rub my eyes. “Yeah, dropping weight did a number on me.” Lie. “I was exhausted.”
“Ha! Too tired to celebrate your win?” He chuckles. “Pussy.”
His lighthearted insult does nothing to my anesthetized state. “I’ve been thinkin’. We’ve been playing The Blackout for years. Might be time we find a new regular gig.”
“What? You’re kidding, right? That place has supported our band since we were wearing eyeliner and painting our nails black.”
He’s right. There’s no logical reason to stop playing at the venue that has always been our biggest supporter. But I can never go there again. “Just an idea I was kickin’ around.”
“Yeah? Well kick it right the fuck out of your numb-nut skull. I agree we need something new, but that’s why I’m callin’.”
New. New is good. I’ll have to figure out how to avoid The Blackout later. Maybe fake a stomach bug? Flu?
“Last night I met Carl Simpson. Carl fucking Simpson, man!”
A tiny rush of adrenaline fights its way to my brain. We’ve been trying to make contact with the booking agent for The House of Blues for over a year.
“And?”
“He said he’s been hearing about the band. Good things. He wants to see if we’d be willing to open for Smythe at the end of the year.”
Excitement pushes through my drug-sludged blood. I sit up. “You fuckin’ serious? Smythe?” They’re on fire right now. “Aren’t they finishing up a tour with Five Finger Death Punch?”
“Yeah. They finish in November and agreed to play a few smaller shows to round out the year. Fucking kick-ass, right?” His enthusiasm is catching.
“I can’t believe it.” A spasm ticks my lips. A smile? Never thought I’d do that again. “You hooked it up. Ataxia opening for Smythe.” I shake my head. “Never thought I’d say that.”
“So no pussin’ out on any gigs. We need to do whatever we can to up our fan base.”
I hear what he’s saying. We can’t ditch The Blackout. Fuck. My fifteen-second high plummets.
How the hell am I going to face her?
“We still rehearsing tonight?” Maybe when I’m there I can talk to the guys about taking a few weeks off to work on new music. It’s my only hope of gaining some distance.
“Yup.”
“Cool. Later.”
“Late.”