But I want to. I want to help her in every way possible, and that can only lead to trouble.
Although, if the trouble came in a form as sweet as Ali, it might be worth it . . .
16
ALI
IT’S BEEN THREE days since I left Los Angeles, but it feels like an eternity has passed. Jace has been strangely quiet since our awkward, bumbling conversation the first evening of my escape. I keep catching him frowning at me like I’m some sort of baffling jigsaw puzzle, but every time I try to talk with him, he shuts down the conversation the moment it starts to get personal. With the adrenaline of my escape wearing off, and with no one to talk to, boredom is starting to gnaw at me.
I click on the desktop’s coding icon, bringing the program to life on the computer screen. Ever since Jace told me I could use the computer, I’ve been madly coding every moment I have. All my works in progress are trapped on my computer back in Los Angeles, but I’m almost glad I have to restart all my projects. It means I’m going to have to spend hours re-creating things, and the intense work is a welcome distraction from the monotony of traveling.
There’s a tiny window right next to the desk, and I’ve opened the shades just a sliver, so I can watch our progress as we travel. We’re still in the desert and surrounded by rocks, rocks, and more rocks. There’s not much sand anymore. The RV caravan is stopped at a rest station for its usual afternoon break, and even though we’ve only been here for ten minutes, I’m already itching to get moving again. We’re only seventy miles outside of Albuquerque, the city Tone Deaf will be stopping at for the next three days, and the city where I’ll branch off and start traveling on my own.
I give up on the coding program, having made no progress since we stopped. I’m thinking too hard to focus on something as difficult as this. I click on the little Internet icon, silently cursing Jace for using Internet Explorer instead of Google Chrome. I hate Explorer, but it’s easy enough to pull up a search engine and type in “A–X Lyrics Database.” Aside from coding, that’s the other thing I’ve been doing to keep busy: surfing the Internet and reading Tone Deaf’s lyrics. About two-thirds of the songs aren’t half bad; they’re typical, cliché pop-punk songs about relationships and parties and other stuff I have no experience with. But they’re catchy, and I can see why so many fans love them.
Then there’s the remaining third. They’re songs like “Criminal,” and they’re probably what made Tone Deaf famous. Dark and depressing, the lyrics would fit death metal songs better. But, somehow, Jace manages to make the lyrics beautiful and haunting, almost like a well-written eulogy at a funeral. His style is a huge variation from the normal pop-punk stuff, but, put to music, I can see the lyrics being enchanting, in an oddly morbid way.
A hand taps my shoulder, and I give a little yelp of surprise as I whirl around. Killer stands there, although I’m not sure exactly when he came inside the RV. He peers over my shoulder at the screen, and, even with his nerd glasses, he has to squint.
Killer nods toward the laptop. “What’cha doing on a lyrics site, darling?”
Without any invitation, he sits on the edge of the desk and leans in to get a closer look at the screen. I take a deep breath and resist the urge to shove him away. Killer seems to take the hint, because he backs off like half an inch, which I have a feeling is a pretty big move for him. Then he proceeds to nudge my hand away from the mouse, click on the History bar, and scroll through my latest page visits. He turns and grins at me, like he’s not doing something totally invasive and annoying.
“Sooo,” he says, drawing out the word. He clicks open a blank text document and tilts the keyboard toward himself, his fingers flying across the keys as he types out a message: You like Jace’s lyrics?
I shrug. “They’re all right.”
He rolls his eyes and types a little more, then spins my chair so it faces the screen directly. Millions of girls don’t fall in love with “all right.” Jace’s lyrics are phenomenal. The dude’s got talent.
I raise my eyebrows. “You do realize you’re calling your own band talented, don’t you?” Killer just busts out laughing, like my response is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. Then he squeezes my shoulder in an awkward little hug. “Darling, I like you,” he announces.
“Um, okay?”
You’re cute, you know that? he types, turning back to the screen. I forget how cute girls can be. It’s just not cute at all when they’re strangely obsessed with you. But you’re not obsessed, and that makes you cute.
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I just nod. Killer smiles in return and, to my relief, backs away another inch.
Then he wags a finger at me, like I’m a puppy who’s peed on the carpet, and types out another message. And Jace is a fabulous musician. His lyrics are awesome, and his music is awesome, and you can’t deny it.