Sweet Forty-Two(10)

“No. I talked around the bar for like an hour, but no one knew of anything available right now.”

“Craigslist?”

“You mean Crazylist? I’m good.”

Ember snickered and picked up the cord I’d been winding and deposited it in its appropriate place. “You know there’s no hurry, Regan. Don’t stress it, okay?”

I nodded. I was stressing it. I loved both Bo and Ember, but soon we’d be spending 12-18 hours a day together in the studio, and living with them on top of all of that would become a challenge. Especially with Bo suggesting to me each week that I go to his therapist with him one time. To, you know, he’d say, talk about Rae and stuff. There was no stuff. Why couldn’t they just let me move on in peace?

Once we were all set up, Bo and Ember left to go grab some dinner before we went on around eight.

“You want to go get some food?” I asked CJ.

He crossed his arms around his broad chest. “Are you off your period, now?”

I had to laugh. “You’re a dick.”

He nodded. “I accept your apology. No, though, to dinner. I’m going to go sleep in your car for another hour.”

“You really are a useless pile of shit, CJ, you know that?”

“You won’t say that when all the girls are cheering,” he called over his shoulder as he snatched my keys off the bar and exited for the parking lot.

With a frustrated sigh, I turned to the bar and sat on the middle stool. The place was just starting to get busy, and I was hoping for some food before our set.

“What can I get you?” The skinny tall girl with the spiky hair from last night asked. Though, her hair wasn’t spiky tonight. Or black. Well, most of it was black, but she had bright blue highlights across the top of her head.

“Do you have food?”


She looked behind her to a set of double doors, turning back around with a smirk. “We have a kitchen.”

“Great, food’s that good, huh?” I rolled my eyes.

“Settle down, I’ll get you the boneless wings. Those are good. You like ‘em hot?”

“As hot as they make them.”

She arched her eyebrow. “We’ll see.”

“You keep saying that.” I challenged her assertion from last night that we’d see about Georgia.

“I keep meaning it. It’s Lissa, by the way.”

“Huh?”

“Lissa is my name.” She stuck her hand across the bar.

“Oh ... Regan. Nice to meet you.” I shook her hand.

“You were amazing last night.”

As she pulled hers away, she let her fingertip drag across my palm. Her inflection suggested way more than my playing ability. One look into her nearly black eyes told me she was trouble. The kind CJ wouldn’t mind getting into more than once.

“Thanks. It wasn’t my first time.” I couldn’t help it.

Lissa threw her head back in a light laugh that didn’t match the sharp edges of her frame. A second later she disappeared around the corner, and I rested my forehead on my fists for a minute before a provocative voice lured my eyes back up.

“What’s the matter with you? Last night’s show rocked.” Georgia dried the insides of pint glasses as she talked. She was in dark, ripped jeans and a fitted purple tank. Her hair was tied back with a black bandana.

As she set the glass down, I noticed a bruise around her wrist that nearly matched the color of her shirt.

“What happened to your wrist?”

She picked up her arm as if she were viewing the mark for the first time. “Huh, who knows? Anyway, what’s up your ass?” She and CJ seemed to share an idea of where all of the attitude in the body was held.

“I still can’t find an apartment.” Reluctantly, I continued, “You know of any?”

She looked up in thought for a moment. “No. I live in La Jolla, so I don’t know much about what’s open around here.”

“La Jolla?” I sat up.

“Don’t contain your surprise...” She rolled her eyes and picked up another rack of glasses.

“That area is ... really nice.”

“What, I can’t have nice things?” She blew a giant pink bubble, her tongue collecting the sticky gum from her lips after it popped. I studied the way her lipstick didn’t budge, even when her tongue slipped back into her mouth.

“That’s not what I meant, Georgia.”

About ten-seconds too late, Lissa came back with my order of wings.

“Here you go, good-lookin’.” She set the plate on the bar with some napkins and silverware.

“Thanks.” I looked around her to try to continue my conversation with Georgia, but she was nowhere to be seen.

“So,” Lissa filled a plastic compartment with cherries, and lemon, lime, and orange slices, “is your cousin as big of a pig as he acts?”

I snorted, which was a bad idea given how hot the wings were. “Probably worse.”

She nodded, and with a twisted grin on her face, went about her work. Thankfully I didn’t appear to be on her radar for whatever it was she did with those eyes.

Several minutes later, Georgia returned from a room in the back. Her relaxed wardrobe had been discarded, and she was wearing tight red shorts—very short—with a black tank top covered in cherries. Her right wrist, the one with the bruise, was decorated with a thick black cuff that had silver squares set through the middle. She looked like a 1940’s pinup girl with her hair tied back with the same red bandana I’d seen her wear the day before.