Page 12 of Revelry

“Right.” I nod, and then let out another frustrated huff. “I just got my foot in the door. I worked my arse off for years and in one split second of douchery I’ve been reduced to ‘Red, the Coffee Girl’.”

“So you really are into this music thing, huh?”

“This music thing?” I question. “Wow, Zed, I feel like I should strip away your rock star badge for that comment.”

“Well you know, a lot of chicks get into this biz for the perks of fucking rock stars.”

“Such as yourself?”

“Maybe.” He grabs a pastry from the bag and ploughs into it, speaking again before he’s swallowed everything in his mouth. “I do alright with the ladies.”

“I’ll bet.” I squeeze my hand tightly around the cardboard cup, relishing the warmth against my fingers, and sip it slowly.

“You can drink it.” Zed tilts his head toward the cup. “I’ve already had two this morning.”

“You had two coffees this morning? It’s not even—wait, what time is it?”

“Six thirty.”

“Holy crap. You guys didn’t finish in there until after two.”

He shrugs. “None of us sleep much.”

Yawning, I say, “Do you think that has something to do with all the coffee and drugs you filter into your system?”

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

Zed balances his empty cup on top of my car, and then without another word he gestures for silence by pressing his hand to his pursed lips. He closes his eyes and crushes the cup with his forehead, finishing with his palms in prayer.

Did he roofie my coffee because … really? Did I seriously just witness that?

“Are you really sleeping in your car?”

I sigh, and decide to answer him truthfully, because right now I’m tired of lying to save face and secondly, if I don’t get a shower in the next few days, then it’s gonna be pretty hard to hide the fact that I’m homeless anyway. “I lost my apartment. Got kicked out, actually.”

“You can stay at my place. I’ll even let you be on top.”

“Excuse me?”

He shrugs. “I have bunk beds.”

“You have bunk beds?” I question, because there’s no way in hell I heard him right. One look at his face tells me that I definitely did. I shake my head. “You’re not even kidding, are you?”

“Nope.”

“You’re a grown man, Zed. Possibly even one of the best drummers of our time, and I’m not going to lie, you’re definitely the hottest drummer of our time, and you sleep on bunks?”

“I like bunks. They make me feel safe.”

I laugh, because the idea of a big-arse giant like him needing to feel safe is about as ridiculous as the idea of him having bunk beds. “How do you even fit on one of those?”

“King size.” He grins. “Custom made, baby.”

“You’re insane.” I laugh.

“Probably.” He smiles.

A shiny Maserati, more than likely belonging to the owner of Decker’s Studio, pulls into the lot. A man gets out of the car and I’m surprised to find his clothes are just as casual as ours. He greets Zed and gives me a small nod before disappearing inside the studio.

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