“Ladies—go forth. Flirt enough for all three of us and, for fuck’s sake, have fun! I expect a full debrief après party. This is a dare-to-be-great situation.”
“Dare-to-be-great situation? Mads, you just quoted Say Anything!” Jazz said.
“Do you think that was by accident? See, I pay more attention than you think. Maybe you’ll find your Lloyd Dobler tonight, Jazz. And I hope you and your brainathiminal need a fire hose to break it up, my smoking-hot girl wonder. Now excuse me, I have a date with a Supernatural marathon and my trash can.”
“Are you sure this is it?” Jazz asked.
“Yep, five twenty-three Oak,” I said, staring up at the brick town house. No sounds of a band. No lights on inside. The street itself was a dead end, lonely and dark. Only a small, lit evergreen tree on Andy’s stoop suggested the season. I knew Grayson wouldn’t have tricked me, but maybe I’d remembered the numbers wrong. I pulled off my glove with my teeth to check my phone again.
“It’s freezing, and my feet are killing me,” Jazz said, stomping. I shivered as I scrolled through the messages.
“Nope, right address,” I said, staring up at the town house again. “I guess I could call him.”
Just when I was about to dial Grayson, a guy carrying a case of Stella Artois appeared out of nowhere.
“Here to see Sticky Wicket?”
On closer inspection he was probably too young to be carrying the beer, but he definitely looked like he knew where to find the party. Grayson had never told me the band’s name, but I figured I’d give it a shot.
“Yeah, Andy’s house?” I asked.
“Yep, follow me. Name’s Logan.”
As Logan led us, Jazz showed me her pepper-spray key chain. I rolled my eyes. We followed him down a narrow alleyway along the side of the town house. My eyes adjusted to the dark, but there wasn’t much to see. Just when I was thinking the pepper spray wasn’t such a bad idea, we finally reached a door. Logan fumbled with the doorknob. I grabbed it for him.
“Thanks, angel,” he said. Was he joking? I winced at the forced affection and gestured for Jazz to follow him before I went in.
Strains of music surrounded us as we tromped down wooden stairs to a laundry room. Logan put his beer on top of the dryer, shrugged off his leather jacket, and covered the case of Stella with it.
“Here, let me,” he said, helping Jazz, then me, with our coats and slinging them over a peg on the wall that was already piled high with cold-weather gear.
“How do you know Andy?” he asked, giving each of us a not-so-subtle once-over.
“Oh, I don’t. We’re here with Grayson Ba—”
“Gray, should have known. He’s always with the prettiest girls,” Logan said, looking from me to Jazz before I could finish my sentence.
Jazz beamed with the compliment. My mind was stuck on the always part. What did that mean?
“C’mon.” Logan pulled open a white door to a crowded room. We wedged ourselves into a wall of people and got absorbed whole, squeezing our way to an open pocket. Sticky Wicket was doing a cover of “Howlin’ for You,” and the whole room seemed to sway along to the beat. It felt like we’d wandered into a secret underground club, which in a way I suppose we had.
The room was huge, with exposed brick walls and dim lighting. The cartoon version of How the Grinch Stole Christmas played on a huge flat-screen TV in the corner, for show apparently, since no one could possibly hear it over the music. There were couches and chairs and one couple going at it so hot and heavy on a giant beanbag chair, I felt like a voyeur. I stood on tiptoe and caught a glimpse of the shaggy-haired lead guitarist/singer, but couldn’t spot Grayson. That’s when the crowd parted slightly, and I saw him.
The drummer.
He was completely lost in the song, his eyes closed. He moved his head with the beat, hair flipping in and out of his face. The crowd swelled and blocked my view again. I moved to get a better look, leaning against a pillar and craning my neck. Grayson’s eyes were open. He and the guitar player nodded to each other in mutual approval.
“Maddie’s right,” Jazz whisper-shouted into my ear.
I cupped my hand around her ear. “What?”
“You’re a fiending lust puppy around him,” she said, tilting her chin toward Grayson.
I covered my mouth, reeling from her observation. Crap, was I drooling?
I watched Grayson, his arms lean and muscled, as he banged out the beat. His taut gray CBGB shirt moved with his body; his mouth puckered slightly, skin flushed. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. He finally spotted me in the crowd. My legs went weak. I ran a hand through my hair and smiled, watching him retreat into his drummer bliss once again. Then it was over with a thrash of the drums and the singer’s loud voice promising, “Be right back!”
“Hey, there’s a new game of king’s cup forming, want to join in?” Logan asked, forcing his way through the crowd back to us.
Jazz and I stood frozen, his invitation hanging in the air.
“She’d love to,” I said, nudging Jazz. She turned to me, eyes wide.
“Dare-to-be-great situation,” I whispered.
“Hardly,” she said.
“For Maddie then.”
“For Maddie. And you’d better need a fire hose.”
I laughed. “Fine. Gross, but fine.”
We hooked pinkies in solidarity. “For Maddie.”
“Sounds great!” Jazz said, turning toward Logan. He took her elbow and pulled her through the horde. I looked back to the band.
Grayson shielded his eyes with his hand, with exaggerated movements pretending to search for someone over the sea of heads until he caught my eye. He pointed toward the bar. I wove through the thick crowd, stealing glances at him as I made my way over.
Grayson was already pouring something from what looked like a wine bottle into a drink shaker when I broke through the crowd. He added vodka and put on the top.
“You made it,” he said, shaking it vigorously over his shoulder.
That mouth.
Had been.
On mine.
“Yeah, pretty crazy.”
“Andy’s house always is,” he said, placing the shaker on the bar and leaning below. He pulled out a few shot glasses and poured the purple liquid from the shaker. He pushed one of the glasses toward me. It had a picture of the Three Stooges on it. I brought it up to my face and sniffed, which Grayson found funny.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Absolut and acai berry.”
“You lost me at Absolut.”
“Tiff sells this stuff by the case. Acai-berry juice. Supposed to be like megavitamins, boosts your immune system. So half of this shot is good for you, and the other half not so good. Kind of like us,” he said, raising his glass.
Us.
The shot was smooth and sweet. Warmth spread through my chest as it went down. I ran my tongue along my bottom lip, trying not to react to the tart berry flavor. Grayson leaned in closer, resting his chin on his hand.
“So. What did you think?” he asked.
“Of what? The drink?” I teased, pushing the shot glass toward him.
He rolled his eyes. “Of the band. Of me.”
The first thought that came to mind was I think everything about you is amazing, Grayson Barrett, but I wasn’t about to share it with him. Instead I leaned back and shrugged.
“Damn, Wren. Nothing?” he asked, reaching into the fridge and pulling out an orange Gatorade and some water. He cracked open the cap on the bottle of water and handed it to me.
“I thought we were pretty good, considering we haven’t practiced in months,” he said, taking a gulp of Gatorade.