His large, comfortable, air-conditioned house.
“For the whole two weeks?” Don’t look desperate.
“As long as you need,” Frankie said, glancing up at me, giving me a nod.
Luke Morrow was not the kind of person you bring home to people like this. Even before all this shit went down, I wasn’t a shake-your-hand-and-ask-about-the-weather kind of guy. I never had a mom to teach me how to be a gentleman, how to offer to do the dishes after dinner. More like smoke on the back porch until everyone went to bed.
But no one here knew that. I could do the dishes and whatnot. I could call everyone ma’am and sir, I was good at that now. The air felt cooler for a second. I took a deep breath.
I lifted my hand. Frankie took it.
“I’d appreciate it.”
“Morrow’s in!” Frankie yelled.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I checked the screen. There was Johnno. I silenced it.
And it wasn’t like I was going out to snort powder off a dirty counter. This would be a bar with music and light and friends, ice in a glass. Frankie’s smile was wide and open, carefree. We started walking back to his parents’ car with the rest of the families, with everyone else.
Cassie
When midnight rolled around, The Handle Bar had cleared. Bittersweet air from the smoking patio was drifting through the high windows and over the pool tables. A few sweaty Lana Del Rey lookalikes were posing for selfies under the twinkle lights and Lone Star posters, a man with a man bun balanced a full-to-the-brim pitcher over the heads of hipsters playing Scrabble, but other than that, no money coming in. Everyone was drinking, but no one was refilling. I wet my dry mouth with the rest of a Gatorade, retwisted the kinky, black mass that used to be my hair before the humidity got to it, and reviewed the list I’d made on a cocktail napkin:
get a spot at Petey’s open mic
get another amp
get more hours at bar / make more $$$
Nora breezed past in jeans as tight as a second skin and a cropped Stones T, glancing at my list. “Big plans?”
I tapped the list. “No more block parties where we get paid in gift certificates. We need actual gigs, at actual venues, opening up for touring bands. That’s how we get real money.”
She looked around toward where a group of office workers stared at us, huddled at a high top. “No opposition from me! But—”
“Yeah, yeah.” I waved my hand. I knew what she was going to say. “I’ve been too obsessed with getting the EP perfect. I see that now. We just need to go for it. A whole album of new songs is better than four, like, perfected songs, right?”
“I agree!” Nora glanced behind her at the table again. “And now that you’ve—”
I finished her sentence, feeling my giddiness rise. “Now that I don’t have the office job, we can practice more, and I can work during the day on getting us more gigs! Right?”
“Right, but—” She pointed behind her.
“No more ‘buts.’？” I threw up my hands. “But what?”
“I need three gin and tonics and a Lone Star for the high top.”
“Oh.” I started to scoop ice into three glasses.
“You’re on a tear, huh?” Nora said. “I like it. Jobless Cassie waits for no man.”
Yes. My true form. “I just think a couple years of fucking around is long enough.”
“As long as we can still have Fleetwood Fridays.”
“Of course.” I pretended to cross myself. Every Friday-evening practice, Nora and I wore witchy outfits and warmed up with songs from Rumours and Fleetwood Mac’s self-titled album. Considering Toby, our drummer, had been around for only six months, he hadn’t yet opted to participate, although sometimes he wore a vest.
A sudden wave of rumbling laughter hit the door, growing as a big group of buzz cuts walked in, already pretty hammered judging by the level of comfort they had when touching one another.
“Firefighters?” I said to Nora as I filled up a pint glass with amber.
“Soldiers, I think,” she replied.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said in an exaggerated accent, loading more drinks on her tray. Then I lowered my voice and leaned toward her. “I’m gonna make us some money.”
“Go for it.”
“Hi, fellas!” I called, opening my arms. “What can I get y’all?”
The soldiers stood behind the row of barstools in formation, their gazes drifting from me up to the TVs showing SportsCenter.
“Cassie!” I heard a man’s voice call.