Rising (Blue Phoenix, #4)(10)

Will appears and slings his arm around my shoulder in an over-familiar way.

“Jem! Wow! Love that you came here!”

I peel his arm off and he holds his hands up in apology. I’m not into people touching me and tonight I’m smothered.

“Yeah, okay.” I bump my rear onto the dilapidated green velour sofa and question my logic in coming here. Bryn flops besides me and rests his feet on the scratched wooden coffee table. “Time warp, huh?” he asks, as we watch the kids around.

“I feel f-ucking old, man.”

“Y’ know, I love it,” says Bryn. “They don’t give a shit who we are.”

A small part of me hates that. What if Steve’s right? What if Blue Phoenix out of the spotlight, equals Blue Phoenix disappearing down the drain? Here I am creator of some of the biggest f-ucking songs in recent history and nobody cares; apart from Sara attached to my lap.

“Bryn, get me a beer,” I say.

“Nice try.”

“One?”

“I’ll get you one!” pipes up Sara.

“Don’t you f-ucking dare,” growls Bryn

Sara doesn’t look fazed. “Okay. I’ll get myself one.” She detaches herself and wanders out of the room.

“Why the hell is she still hanging around you?” Bryn asks.

“She’s a friend of the band’s, I think. Not sure, we didn’t talk much.”

“Mmm. Guess that’s a bit tricky when she’s got her mouth full.”

“Whatever, man.”

Before anyone comes over to me, or Sara gets back, I head to the back of the lounge room and squeeze through the tiny kitchen full of bodies toward the garden. Outside, white plastic chairs rest on the cracked pavers and I pull one into the shadows to sit on, trying to figure out why I came here tonight.

The cool summer evening chills my bare arms and I curse the fact I left my leather jacket back at the venue. Will it be there if I go back or is my jacket now the prized possession of a souvenir hunter? The smell of cigarette smoke drifts toward me from a couple in the corner of the garden. Out of all my addictions, this one proves the hardest to kick.

I stare at my combat boots, obsessing about asking for a smoke when the door to the house opens and someone slams it closed. Ruby flops herself against the wall of the house and drags a pack of cigarettes from her pocket.

“Can you move?” I ask her.

She peers through the darkness and pauses in her lighting of the cigarette. “Jem?”

“Yeah. Can you move away? You’re too tempting.”

“I am?” Her voice is quieter than usual, hand shaking as she lights, the orange glow of her cigarette indicating where she is.

“The smokes.” I indicate what I mean. Did Ruby again think I was hitting on her?

“Oh. Right. Weirdo.” A breath full of smoke heads my way.

“For f-uck’s sake,” I mutter.

“Where’s Sara?” she asks.

“Haven’t got a clue. Hopefully she’s found a new friend.”

Ruby snorts softly to herself. “I’ve lost a bet then.”

“What?”

“I bet Sara you’d f-uck her.”

“Why the hell do that?”

“No reason.”

I’m pissed off, wish I’d never touched the girl. “Do you think I’m some kind of man whore?”

“You tell me.”

“Think what you like, most people do.”

“I will.”

I’m tempted to walk away but this is the first time I’ve been alone with Ruby since the first night I saw the band. She’s not moving either.

“Where’s Dan?” I ask.

“Inside.”

“Wow, he let you out of his sight?”

“What the f-uck does that mean?”

So much. I want to tell her to get the hell away from him, that I’ve seen this too many times but I can’t get involved. Not again. My involvement is helping Ruby Riot on the path to success, then she might see the light and kick the guy to one side.

“I mean he’s possessive.”

We both know what I mean. I saw what he was doing and she continues to pretend I didn’t. “He loves me,” she says quietly.

This softly spoken girl in the dark is different to Ruby. Hidden in the shadows, she could be someone else. The girl beneath the persona.

“Can I ask you something?”

She blows smoke in my direction and I laugh at her attempt to get me to move. “Yeah, I might not answer though.”

“You said Ruby wasn’t your real name. What is it?”

The couple finishes smoking and head back into the house, door closing behind. She jerks her head round in alarm, but nobody else appears. We’re alone with the plastic chairs and rusting metal and glass table.

“Tuesday.”

“Your name is Tuesday?” I can’t help my incredulous tone.

“Yeah, but nobody calls me it and that includes you.”

“Your parents had some weird ideas then.”

She scoffs. “My mum. Ironic thing, I was born on a Thursday.”

I laugh and hear her giggle, too. “Sit with me?”

She drops the cigarette butt and hesitates. “I should go inside.”