That perfect laugh leaves her. “I think it had to do with Reed being so damn tall. Put him anywhere else in the car and he stuffs up like a shrimp.”
I laugh, and she goes on to strike the console a few more times, her leg tapping as if she’s hitting the bass kick. It’s the same rhythmic line over and over, each one a little faster than the last, though this one is completely different from the one she was working on mere minutes before.
“Fuck—” she snaps when she misses a hit.
“What are you working on?” I ask.
“I have this thing in my head that I can’t stop thinking about. It came to me in my dreams last night,” she admits. She sighs and sinks her head into her hand, peering sideways at me. “I keep thinking about… just like… mayhem.”
“Mayhem?” I repeat.
“Yeah, just like a song that makes the entire room lose their minds. An anthem to scream at the top of your lungs. A breakdown that makes you want to vomit with how profound it makes you feel. Grimy. Just absolutely filthy, nasty chords.”
“Sick and twisted,” I say.
“So fucking sick and twisted,” she agrees.
I chuckle under my breath at the look on her face, the enamored way she’s talking about it. “I like that.”
“Is that fucking weird?” she asks, her nose wrinkling in the cutest way. “Wanting people to lose their shit over our music?”
I switch hands on the wheel. “I think people are already losing their minds over you, and if they aren’t, they should be.”
Her chuckle fades as she hits the console again and again, nailing the quick rhythm and adding embellishments, stick twists, and more as if she can hear the song playing back through her mind.
“Do you need me to stick close today?” I ask after a few minutes. “Or are you staying in?”
“Are you asking if I need your company as my bodyguard or as my friend?” she asks.
I consider the question. “Either,” I reply.
“Darcy mentioned coffee later,” she says. “You could come with us.”
“Darcy, as in… your sponsor, Darcy?” I ask.
I can see her smirking at me from the corner of my eye.
“What?” I ask, seeing the coy look on her face.
“Did I hear jealousy in that question?”
I could kiss that little smirk off her lips.
I chuckle, avoiding the answer entirely. “Darcy wouldn’t be mad about a security guard intruding on your date?”
“Not a date,” Bonnie says. “Never mix romance with the person helping you stay sober. That was like… rule one. It’s barely a good idea to try and be in a relationship while getting sober, period.”
“How long have you been sober?” I ask.
“Two hundred and fifty-seven Saturdays,” she answers without skipping a beat.
“You keep track of it in Saturday’s?” I ask because I’ve always wondered why.
“Easier for my ADHD to keep track of,” she replies. “I could go by the years, but the numbers never sounded large enough for how long every day seems—if that makes sense. I started thinking I hadonlybeen sober for a year…onlythirteen months.So, I tried total days, and that started getting overwhelming after I hit a thousand. But if I measure in Saturdays… Saturdays were a happy medium I could wrap my mind around.”
“Is that why you’ve pushed romantic relationships away the last few years?” I chance asking. “Hoping it wouldn’t interfere with your sobriety?”
“How do you know I haven’t been in a relationship?” she asks.
