I didn’t think he’d use it, but tonight at approximately eight fifty, my cell vibrates with an incoming text from an unknown number.
Unknown: You free tonight, Groupie?
His nickname makes me grind my molars as I save his contact info.
Lennon: That depends.
Phoenix: On?
Lennon: Are you going to take this seriously and let me help you?
I watch the dots appear and disappear before another text comes through.
Phoenix: Look out your bedroom window.
Confused, I peel back the curtain and peer down.
I bite back a smile when I see his car parked under a large tree that’s a little down the street from my house.
Lennon: You could have parked in the driveway, you know.
Phoenix: Get your ass down here.
After changing into jeans and a T-shirt, I stuff the ruler I picked up for him yesterday into my purse and grab the folder with the essays and questions.
I also take my laptop with me.
“Bye,” I call out as I pass my dad in the living room.
“One o’clock,” he calls back. “I love you.”
After walking down the steep hill that is my driveway, I meet Phoenix at his car.
This time, “Zombie” by The Cranberries blasts through the speakers.
“Good song,” I yell as I slide into the passenger seat and put my seat belt on.
He gives me that infamous smirk.
I wait for the song to end before I press the pause button on the stereo.
“You answered my texts right away. How did you read them so fast?”
The tendons in his forearm flex as he speeds down the road.
I never thought veins and tendons were hot before, but I stand corrected.
“I use text-to-speech to listen to my messages. It helps a lot.” A wry smile stretches his lips. “Unless I’m texting Storm and he’s having a bitch fit while I’m out in public. Then I get a bunch of dirty looks.”
I laugh, until another thought occurs to me.
The research I did said there were different types of dyslexia and not everyone has issues writing. I’m wondering if he does.
“Do you have difficulty when it comes to writing?”
He makes a face. “That’s not a strong point of mine either, so I use speech-to-text, too. For assignments, I type shit on the laptop Storm’s grandmother got me last year. I still struggle, but it’s a fuckton easier than writing by hand.”
“Storm’s grandmother got you a laptop?” I ask as I process all this.
“Yup.” He draws in a breath. “The woman is a sweetheart with a heart of gold. I didn’t want to accept it because I know money’s tight and she couldn’t afford it, but she made me. She said I wasn’t allowed to come over and practice until I took it. When I protested again, she swatted me out the front door with her broom. Then she locked it.” He laughs to himself. “I still mow her lawn every Sunday as a thank you.”
My heart warms because it seems there’s some good in Phoenix after all.
Although it’s sad that Storm’s grandmother appears to be the only adult in his life who seems to care enough to help him.
I wonder what the deal is with his parents.
I can feel his brooding stare boring holes into me right before he grits out, “Any other questions, Groupie?”
Since he’s offering.
“Actually, yes.” I shift in my seat to look at him. “How did you know where I live?”
Because I never told him.
Ignoring my question, he pulls to a stop in front of Storm’s house. “I didn’t mean to blow you off yesterday. Storm and I had a meeting with the manager of Voodoo. After some convincing, he scheduled us to play there a month from today. They can only squeeze us on stage for three songs, but it’s something.”
It’s everything.
Excitement races through me as I get out of the car. “Holy shit. That’s awesome.”
Granted, Voodoo is a hole-in-the-wall bar-slash-venue, but amazing undiscovered artists play there a lot.
A few have even gone from undiscovered to discovered shortly after their gigs there.
Since I just turned eighteen last month, I’ve only been to Voodoo once, but I plan on going back soon.
The genuine smile on Phoenix’s face tells me he’s equally excited about his upcoming show.
“Do you mind if I come?” I ask as he opens the garage door.
Ever since his little comment about knowing I stalk him; I’ve made a conscious effort to pretend like he doesn’t exist when we’re at school.
I hate that he thinks I’m some pathetic—well, groupie—who watches his every move.