Walk Through Fire (Chaos #4)(57)

The last twelve, thirteen years, I’d quit answering Kellie’s late-night calls.

The years between being with Logan and not answering her calls, I did take her calls but would then engage in a long conversation about how I needed sleep, how I had work the next day, how I was no longer into live music or doing shots or whatever, this taking time and getting frustrating (hence my quitting answering).

But undoubtedly she’d spoken to Dot and/or Justine, so she’d know about LBDs and beef Stroganoff. She’d hear about Downton Abbey or come over and see my candles lit and me using my wineglasses.

So in order to prove to her I was living my life at the same time hiding that I was dead inside, I replied, “I’ll be there in an hour.”

Silence that wasn’t silence, exactly, since I heard the crowd in the background as well as the music they were playing between the live sets.

Then I heard, “Say again?”

I threw back the covers and reached for my light. “Give me an hour and I’ll see you there.”

I had to take the phone away from my ear again when she screeched, “Right on!”

That made me grin and grinning made me realize I was doing the right thing because no matter how I felt down deep, I was giving the people I loved what they needed.

I should have done it a long time ago.

It was too late for that now but better late than never.

And anyway, I did like live music and it had been ages since I’d seen a band play.

Not to mention, my little black dress was killer. So I was also going to be sure to find some time to go out with Justine and Veronica. They needed excuses to pretty up and remember why they fell in love in the first place, that being they were both hot, funny, got a kick out of each other, and post-baby that Justine carried, they were still way into each other.

Last, I had decided I was totally getting cats. I had it all, lost it all, and knew I’d never get it back. But lonely was lonely and lonely sucked, so I was going to cut the lonely with kitties.

I pushed up from bed and headed to the bathroom, ordering, “Now, hang up so I can slap some makeup on and head out.”

“You got it, bitch. Get that ass in gear. See you soon! Yee ha!” Kellie cried before I heard her disconnect.

I got my ass in gear and started going through the motions.

When I got a look at myself in the bathroom mirror, I saw that I’d not been in bed long enough for my hair to go wonky, so that was good. Therefore, I slapped on a fair amount of makeup because good rock ’n’ roll demanded sacrifice and it had been a while but I knew the depletion of your makeup collection was an acceptable offering.

I no longer had rock ’n’ roll clothes but I did my best, throwing on a pair of faded jeans, high-heeled booties, a thick belt, and a thin mulberry sweater that looked torn up and misshapen but it did this with intent, clinging in the right places, flowing and keeping you guessing in better places.

I wrapped a narrow rock ’n’ roll (ish) scarf around my neck and stuck long, silver hoops in my ears, piling on the rings and jingling bracelets before shoving lip gloss and wallet into an envelope clutch, grabbing my suede jacket, and heading out.

I hit The Roll, a place that was half bar, half club and had live music on the weekends and some weeknights (this being the club part) but mostly it was a watering hole that I’d heard was a hip place (via Kellie). Therefore, I knew where it was, but it had started up after Logan and I were over, so I’d never been there.

And I hit it not liking what I saw, considering the parking lot was jammed and there was a line out the door.

I parked on the street two blocks away, got out, and started toward the bar even knowing this effort to convince Kellie I was moving out of years of grieving a life gone bad was going to fail. I’d have to pick another night to do that because no way was I standing out in the cold in a line by myself for God knew how long in order to have a few drinks and listen to music.

And as I walked toward the bar, I had my phone to my ear to tell Kellie precisely that.

This decision took a hit when she answered and I heard the unmistakable truth that the band was back onstage and they were rocking it even through a cell phone.

“Yo!” she shouted.

“Babe, there’s a line,” I told her. “It’s cold and the line’s long. I probably wouldn’t get in until the final set and no way I’m standing outside for hours for that.”

“Leave it to me. Just go to the door,” she replied on another shout.

“Kellie—” I started, but I was talking to dead air. She was gone. “Fuck,” I hissed, deciding the next time she called that I’d prove my new leaf by ignoring the call, phoning her the next day, and having her over for Stroganoff or some other brilliant meal I taught myself how to make.

I then hoofed it to the door, knowing no way with this crowd they were going to let in a forty-one-year-old woman who might have good hair, a great suede jacket, and fabulous high-heeled booties because she was still forty-one and no one in line looked over twenty-three.

However, when I got to the door, the bouncer gave me a top to toe, grinned, and then turned to look behind him when he heard shouted, “She’s with me!”

Kellie was head and shoulders out the door. The bouncer nodded to her, turned to me, lifted a hand, and did a “get your ass in there” gesture to which someone at the head of the line groused, “Seriously, dude? Been standing out here an hour. What the f*ck?”