Scar Girl (The Scar Boys #2)(41)

“You know, you never told me why you decided to get a job,” he said.

I couldn’t tell him the real reason, so I just said, “I was bored.” I guess the answer was good enough, because he nodded.

Johnny was about a third done with his beer when my glass was empty again. Now I was feeling great. I waved my hand, and another pint appeared in front of me. The buzz in the room was starting to build as the clock crept toward midnight.

We talked some more, except now I think I was doing most of the talking. I honestly don’t remember what I said, but when I looked up again, Johnny still had some beer in his glass and I was on my fourth. Or was it my fifth?

“Chey?” Johnny asked. And now the room was starting to spin a bit. “I think maybe you’ve had enough.”

That was classic Johnny. Not don’t you think maybe you’ve had enough? No. I think you’ve had enough.

I just waved my hand like I was literally brushing him off. “Lighten up, Johnny. I’m fine.”

He let it drop until the bartender was putting yet another beer in front of me. This time, Johnny talked to her.

“Don’t you think she’s had enough?” The bartender, a skinny white girl barely able to keep up with all the people ordering drinks, stopped and looked at me.

“You okay, sugar?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” I said, though I wasn’t sure that either of those words came out as something another human being could understand. I think they might’ve sounded more like whale song.

The bartender shrugged her shoulders and turned to the next customer. I wasn’t her sister or her daughter or her girlfriend, so I wasn’t her problem.

I stuck my tongue out at Johnny, trying, I thought, to be playful.

He looked at me, shook his head, and mumbled, “Happy New Year, Cheyenne Belle.” Then he walked away.





HARBINGER JONES


I was leaning against the outside wall of the club, smoking, when I heard the New Year’s countdown begin. I’m big on symbolism, and I felt like the whole world was counting down to the beginning of my new life. It reminded me of the day of the thunderstorm. That day, I was counting Mississippis after each flash of lightning, trying to figure out how far away the storm was. A part of me thought that this new countdown would finally wipe that one away. Stupid, I know, but I thought it just the same.

“Ten!” came the muffled shout, from not only inside the club but from half the apartments in earshot.

“Nine!” I closed my eyes and tried to picture where I would be in twelve months.

“Eight!” Would I be standing outside some bar, waiting for another gig?

“Seven!” Would I be home from college for the Christmas break and watching the ball drop on TV with my parents?

“Six!” The door to the club slammed open, and a drunk girl came stumbling out, landing both hands on a car parked right in front of me.

“Five!” She hurled. Right on the car.

“Four!” I tried to go back to actualizing my future, but the damage was done and I was pulled out of the moment.

“Three!”

“Oh, shit!” the girl said. She looked around in a panic, like something was wrong. “You!”

“Two!” She took a step forward and grabbed me by the collar.

“Prepare to be kissed,” she slurred in my face.

“One!” And the girl planted a big, sloppy, vomit-ridden kiss on me. What is it about girls and me and throw-up? She took a step back and looked at me for the first time. “Whoa,” she said. “I must be more drunk than I thought.”

There were two obvious choices: One, I could just push the girl away and go back inside, thoroughly disgusted. Or, two, I could make out with her.

I did the only thing I was wired to do. Option three, try to be the nice guy.

“Are you okay?” I asked. “Can I help you?”

She mumbled the words New Year’s and staggered back to the party raging inside the club.





RICHIE MCGILL


When the clock struck midnight, I was hanging with this crowd of fans and we all clanked glasses, high-fived, and hugged. It was pretty cool. Then, out of nowhere, this drunk chick stumbled in from outside and planted a big nasty kiss on me. I say nasty because she tasted like puke. It was pretty gross.

“Happy New Year’s,” she muttered, and stumbled away. I found out only later that it was probably the same girl who’d kissed Harry outside. I like to freak him out by telling him that when she kissed me right after kissing him, it was like me and him kissing. The dude is such a prude. Cracks me up every time.





HARBINGER JONES


When I went back inside a few minutes after midnight—my impromptu date thankfully nowhere to be seen—I found Johnny sitting alone at a table near the front, nursing a beer. Richie was at the bar with a bunch of people, and Chey wasn’t anywhere in my line of sight.

“Happy New Year,” I said. Johnny just nodded in response.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Johnny answered, looking at his shoes. “I’m just so tired, Harry.”

I figured he meant tired of the ups and downs with Cheyenne, or maybe that the long night was too much strain on his leg. Whatever it was, he just seemed so sad.