Page 17 of Over You
Tom’s elbows banged on the table, and he placed his head in his hands, then shook his head. “Why am I friends with you?”
“It’s my accent.” I kicked at him under the table. “Get your books out so we can study.”
He grumbled before dragging his backpack to his lap and unloading his notebook. “Is Lottie not coming?”
A crash sounded from a chair toppling over. “Wanker!”
“What in the hell is she wearing?” Tom muttered.
My gaze went to the side of the café. Lottie stood in cotton candy pink tights, a checkered skirt, and a frilly white blouse, trying to untangle her shopping bags from one of the chairs.
“She has her own sense of style, Tom. This is nothing new.”
Lottie finally freed herself, then made a beeline toward our table.
“Wow, don’t you lookfit?” I said, giving her a once over before bringing the warm mug to my mouth.
“Check you catching on to British slang. And it only took you half a year.”
She dropped the bags to the warbled, hardwood floor before she pulled out a chair. The second she’d scooted to the table, she brushed her windblown, coal-black hair from her face.
“You look lovely,” Tom stifled a laugh, and Lottie shot daggers at him.
“You best be glad you’re pretty Tom Perry, or I’d have none of you.” Her gaze fell to my open textbook. “Humphrey’s class is the worst. I hate that dodgy bastard and his Oxford comma obsession.”
“You think everyone’s a dodgy bastard.” I nodded toward the heap of bags. “What’s with the shopping?”
“They announced a surprise guest at Glastonbury.” Excitement bubbled from her voice while my lip curled in a sneer.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to that wankfest?” Tom’s gaze strayed to a group of girls at the corner table. He leaned back in his seat, striking a suave, Casanova pose when the blonde threw a glance in his direction.
“Of course I am.” Lottie slapped a hand over the table, causing the drinks to rattle. “Glastonbury is the mother of all rock shows.”
“It sucks,” Tom said.
“Have you ever been?”
“Yeah. It’s Woodstock without all the LSD and naked people. The smell of fermented beer and piss mixed with the pungent aroma of weed takes weeks to wash off.”
“You’re a knob,” Lottie waved a dismissive hand through the air. “You wouldn’t know good music if it gave you head.”
“Piss off, Lottie.”
While most of England may have been chomping at the bit for a ticket to the sold-out event, I had no desire to go. As far as I was concerned, rock shows were a warzone, and my heart was the first causality. I knew all too well what the life of thoserock godsLottie and everyone else idolized was about, and I had no desire for the reminder.
“Guess who it is. Just guess!” She beamed like a radioactive Rock n’ Roll Barbie.
I swallowed the acid bubbling in my throat. Refusing to rain on Lottie’s parade, I played along. “Um, Asher’s Coffin?”God, they were assholes.I dumped a scoop of sugar into my too-stout coffee and stirred.
“No.”
“Pandemic Sorrow.”Super-arrogant, womanizing, relationship-killing assholes.
Lottie’s brow wrinkled. “No, Jag’s in rehab.”
Of course he is. Again. Dick.
“Midnite Kills!” she squealed.
