Drive(32)

“No,” I said as Reid stood and took my hand. “No, you can’t.”

“Really?” he said as he looked past me and swallowed.

“Yeah, really.”

“Stella!” Drew, the guitarist for Meat, called out to me from the stage, and I gave him an unenthusiastic wave. “Looking good, baby!”

“Thanks!”

Drew had been my favorite. He’d been a friend. And just as I suspected, all of my time with Dylan and the rest of the guys came back as a fresh scratch, but in just weeks had transformed into nothing more than a memory. I was no longer hurt about Dylan and felt like just as much of an asshole for what I’d just done. Dylan cupped his chin, his features twisted in confusion as he stood there, clueless.

“Let’s go,” I said to Reid, who followed me out of the bar. I let go of his hand and stuck the keys in it before I took the passenger side.

“You okay?”

Angry, aroused, and more than confused, I turned on him. “What was that in there? Why the big show? You were against this whole thing.”

“I’m not as nice of a guy as you think. And sometimes I like to play devil’s advocate.” He shrugged, starting the truck. “Home?”

“No. I’m not going home tonight. My sister is probably having sex right now on the couch I sleep on. I HATE MY FUCKING LIFE!”

Reid burst out laughing as he pulled away from the curb. “It gets better.”

“Liar.”

“I totally am,” he said, amusement dancing in his eyes as he pushed the hair away from my bare shoulder. “I know a place.”

“Let’s go.”




He’d taken me to a show a couple blocks from 6th Street. It was a metal band he was crazy about. I appreciated them to a point—metal wasn’t my favorite—but Reid seemed in awe of the lead singer and pointed out a few interesting facts about how they got together. We spent the whole show yelling back and forth while I took mental notes. He told me a label would pick them up soon, and it would be in my best interest to write about a band that was going somewhere. I spent a good part of the show telling him what an idiot he was and that Dead Sergeants had their own future and were worth writing about. It was pretty much tit for tat between us until they started playing Queensryche’s “Silent Lucidity”. And all at once, I was captured by the execution and how they made it their own. I got lost in the deep timbre of the voice that filled the club. There wasn’t a word from the crowd, even after the last trickle of acoustic notes rang out. The club exploded with applause as Reid looked at me with I told you so written all over his face.

Reid knew a lot about the city, and at the show, he’d done the hand grasp with a few local musicians. Those who approached him seemed to respect him and kept the conversations short, probably because he wasn’t a man of too many words. And I spent a majority of our time together pulling them out of him. He wasn’t shy with his opinions, and that we had in common. Still, as I stared at him, laid back in his shoulder-high bench seat, his cast on the table, and his eyes on mine, it felt like he was trying to tell me more. Even with a set jaw and pressed brows, his eyes held his world, and I couldn’t help but enjoy every second they were on me.

After the performance, we spent the rest of the witching hour devouring salty, grease-filled burgers at a little shack called Arnie’s.

“Who’s your favorite band?” I asked, sucking on the side of my chili cheeseburger to keep it from dripping down my dress.

“Haven’t thought about it,” he said as he watched me devour the double stack of meat. “God, you were hungry.”

“Not anymore,” I said as I popped the last of it into my mouth and washed it down with Dr. Pepper.

“You don’t have a favorite?”

“Nope,” he said as he gathered the rest of his fries into his fingers and popped them in his mouth.

“Influences?”

“Everything,” he said with a small smile. “I wrote a song off a commercial beat once.”

“You write for the Sergeants?”

“Most of the originals. Ben’s good at lyrics, but I’ve laid down a few.”

“You sing?”

“Not if I can help it,” he said with a shrug. “Rye does most of the backup and comes up with a good riff in minutes, and it’s always good.”

“When’s your next show?”

“They play Saturday.”

“No,” I said, standing and stretching. “Your next show.”

I almost missed his smile. “Two weeks.”

“I’ll be there,” I assured. “I have a feeling about you.”

He stood, grabbed our trash, and threw it away. “It’s late.”

“It’s early,” I argued. “So, tell me about Lia.”

“Jesus Christ. Every time I think it’s safe to go into the water with you . . . No, I’m not talking to you about Lia.” Pushing through the glass door, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket.

“You’re not really a smoker.”

He lifted his cigarette and took a deep drag. “I would say I’m really smoking this.”

“You know what I mean,” I said as I stepped up on a curb and balanced my way over it in my heels, arms stretched as if I were on a high wire.