Page 57 of Dirty Roulette
“No, wait!” With my elbows, I prop myself up and reach for the cell, but Charlie slides off the bed and answers it.
“Why are you calling her like that? Pretty sure I’m not blind and it’s the third time in a row!”
Ryder’s voice is muffled, and I’m unable to hear a word he says. “Uh-huh... yeah... sure.” Maybe I shouldn’t care, but deep down I do. “Okay, but you’re not explaining to me why you are calling, and she’s sobbing right now. So, what the hell have you done?”
I lace my fingers tautly until my knuckles turn white. I choke on the sob and climb off the bed to reach for the phone. “Just hang up!” Charlie shoos me away. Her brows furrow and her eyes search as if she’s trying to soak in whatever he says.
“Charlie!” I rip my claws into her hands, grab the cell phone, and pitch it against the wall. Sinking back to the bed, my hands tangle into my uncombed hair.
“What the hell...” She huffs and scratches the back of her neck. “That’s it! We’re hanging with Noah. Put something decent on and grab a swimsuit. You’re not ditching me tonight!” She swings open the closet and tosses a top at me with a pair of leggings.
I put my big girl panties on, wipe the tears off my face, and change. Luckily, my cell screen didn’t combust as I snatched it from the floor. Ryder’s name pops up again, and this time I power off the phone, yelling at myself to keep it off. We leave ten minutes later and get into Charlie’s Civic.
***
It’s a thirty-minute trip down the freeway to a random neighborhood with cars littering the street. In the distance, the pounding of drums shakes the metal of the car. The different strings of a guitar playing hit my bloodstream.
I climb out of the car to the wet concrete with little streams running along the sidewalk. Cold rain and wet soil hit my lungs when I slam the door. A three-car garage is wide open, with a complete drum set and guitars connected to speakers.
Charlie takes the lead and I follow her to a group of guys huddled in the garage. Noah sits on top of a speaker with a notebook and pen in his hand, and a computer resting on a stool. “I dig this cinematic beat. It’s like the song can be put into a movie.” Noah clicks on the mouse pad, then lifts his head up.
“Hey, you!” He pushes himself off the speaker and wraps his arms around Charlie’s neck, planting a kiss on her forehead, then heavy on the lips.
“Hey, I remember you.” Noah’s friend with the man bun lifts his chin up at me.
“Oh yeah. I never got to introduce you to Omen.” He holds out his hand while Omen waves at me with a friendly smile.
“We should probably take a break. We’ve been messing with this song all day.” The guy sitting on the drum set taps his foot, playing a low thump on the bass, then dribbling his sticks across the snare, toms, and crashing into the symbols.
“That’s Vince.” Noah dips his head to him, as he swirls the sticks between his fingers.
“Tony.” Another guy with a tangled beard hanging down his chest chimes in. He lifts his hand. “We should grab some drinks.”
“I haven’t eaten since this morning. Let’s order some hot wings while we’re at it.” Vince slides off his stool and pushes back his chocolatebrown hair. It’s not as long as Noah’s mermaid disaster that gives my hair a bad name. Vince’s wavy mess falls to his shoulders. Tattoos climb up his neck, and he has sleeves on both arms.
“Hey, you wanna get a tattoo? I see you staring at Vince. I can draw you one right now?” Omen asks me.
I bring my shoulders up to my neck and shrug. “I have no idea what I’d get.”
“What do you feel like right now?” Omen opens the garage door and I step into a dimly lit living room. A faint hint of pot and smoke fills my lungs. A black lab whines and paws at the stained-glass door leading to the patio. Noah and Charlie weasel outside. The dog barks, leaping up and down, licking her to death as she pets him.
“I don’t know, maybe I’m depressed.”
“Aren’t we all?”
I stroll with him into the kitchen. He pries open the empty fridge with condiments and rows of beer cans. He pulls one out, and cracks it open. “I’ve always wanted a tattoo,” I say.
“Well, if you let me paint a canvas on you, the beer is off-limits.” He slurps, “But it’s up to you.”
“Do you always ask people if they want a tattoo?”
“No, but it would look hot on you.”
Empty beer cans lay all over the kitchen counter. A faucet drips steadily on dishes stacked up to the brim in the sink.
“Come look. I got a room set up.”
“Okay.” I stroll down the dark hallway into a room with lights a shade of blood red.
