“I know you did,” she says, and I can hear the anxiety in her tone. “Your father called to say he was on the way home. I just wanted to check on you.”
I press the phone to my shoulder and awkwardly try to light my cigarette, but someone holds out a light to me before I can drop all of my shit—and I nearly lose it as I see the guy offering.
Zeb Helms, Young Decay’s guitarist.
His hazel-grey eyes linger on me as I inhale, and I mutter a quick, “Thanks,” to him before trying to get my mom off the phone.
“I’m fine,” I repeat, leaning on the railing. “We just got to the venue. The band goes on in thirty, I think.”
Zeb is still standing nearby stretching his arms over the railing, and I swear it feels like he’s listening in on my conversation.
“Hey, look, I have to go,” I tell Mom, pretty desperate to get off the phone and chat with this guy. “I’ll call you tomorrow. You know I will.”
“Okay, okay. I know, Bon. I just wanted to make sure you were safe,” she says. “I worry. What with everything that’s happened—”
My eyelids press tightly together, a fog swelling behind them as I refuse to let the images of fire or the noise of Kelsey’s scream haunt me.
“I said I’m fine,” I nearly snap.
There’s a break on the other line as if my mom realizes what she might have brought up.
“I’m sorry,” she says softly.
“It’s okay,” I assure her. “I know.”
“You call if you get in trouble,” she says. “Anything, Bonnie. I know you have that fake ID. Cover your drinks. Don’t take anything from anyone. Please be careful.”
I sigh. “I’ll text you when I’m on the way back to my apartment,” I say. “Would that be better?”
“Yes,” she says. “Okay. I’ll let you go. I know it’s a big night. I’m sorry to keep checking in. I worry—”
“I love you, Mom,” I say, and the words are met with a beat of silence on the other end. “I have to go. I’ll text you.”
“Okay, Bon. I love you. Bye.”
I have to hang up before she starts crying. My palms clench around the rail as a cool breeze sweeps by, and I close my eyes a moment before taking another drag.
“My mom calls me before every show,” Zeb says. “She has a fucking printout on her fridge. I think she thinks it’s the only time I’ll answer.”
I squint his way. “Why does she think you’ll answer before you go on?” I ask.
“Because she talks to me about the latest crime podcast she’s listening to,” he answers. “It’s a whole thing we’ve been doing for a couple of years now. I think she’s realized that trying to figure out who did it helps calm my mind.”
I grin at him. “That’s pretty fucking cute, dude.”
“Tell anyone else, and I’ll have to kill you,” he says.
I chuckle softly and consider him. He’s a fucking stranger, eavesdropping on my conversation, yet somehow making me feel a lot better about leaving home in the thirty seconds we’ve talked.
This guy is so much better than that fucking jackass inside.
“Bonnie,” I say, extending my hand.
“Zeb,” he answers, taking it. He inhales a drag from the joint between his fingers. “You’re here for the show?” he asks.
“Ah… yeah. Yeah. Big fan, actually,” I tell him. “I’ve been following you since that show in Vegas when they dropped Reed during a stage dive—”
“Oh shit,” Zeb laughs. “Man, that was fucking crazy. I haven’t thought about that in a while. He had a bruised cheek and tweaked knee from that for weeks.”
