That was good enough for me. I lifted the lanyard over my head and handed it to her.
“You’re the best,” she said, wasting no time hanging my pass around her own neck. “You won’t regret this.”
I didn’t intend to.
“Oh, and Grace?” Mia called over her shoulder as she headed for the priority gate. “Try to get Quinn to come to my party. He’s turned me down twice already. He’s such a turd sometimes. Anyway, text us once you’re inside. Can’t wait for you to introduce us to Jake.”
My smile faded. Jake? Since when had an audience with the king become part of the deal? My soul was one thing, but offering up my family for sacrifice was quite another.
Oh, god. I was so going to hell.
7
GRACE: FEED THE BEATS
Things took a turn for the worse almost immediately after watching Hudson and Mia walk off without me. I realized a minute too late that Hudson had my phone, and with it, all the contents inside its protective case—my ID, my cash, my debit card—that I could use to prove my identity. Not a problem if I was dealing with Jake’s own security team, who knew me and could easily usher me backstage, but to get to them, I had to clear the first line of defense, the arena staff, and they were not willing to entertain me. With no way to call someone to save me and no backstage pass, or even a general admission ticket in my possession, I was escorted straight out the side door.
And that was where I was now. A sheltered suburban girl on the streets of Los Angeles alone. Worse still, I couldn’t even text or call anyone from a borrowed cell because I was a Gen Zer and had no flippin’ clue what anyone’s actual phone number was. Why would I, when every number of importance was permanently programmed into my phone like a reliable friend?
The sound of violent shouting turned my head.
“I warned ya, Shirley! So many times, I warned ya. But you gotta keep bitchin’, don’t ya, Shirley? Don’t ya?”
This.I thought to myself. This was why you memorized phone numbers.
I sidestepped my way along the outer wall of the arena, putting distance between myself and the whacked-out-of-his-brain Cro-Magnon man who was kicking poor Shirley in her alloy core. “Shirley” was a trash can, and as such, remained silent, absorbing each swift kick with a sickening thud.
As if all this wasn’t already totally disturbing, the disheveled man began to disrobe right in the middle of the one-sided domestic dispute. It was like an episode straight out ofCops. He was the first naked man I’d seen in the flesh, and I now sorta hoped he’d be my last. This, right here, was the consequence of the deal I’d made with the devil: I’d been preemptively sent to hell.
Ugh, if only I had my phone! Hudson had taken it right after we’d entered the arena. I’d placed it in a bowl and sent it through the screener at security, fully expecting to be reunited with it on the other side, but Hudson had rushed through the metal detector two people in front of me, and by the time I got there, he’d already pocketed my phone and was on the move. I hadn’t realized at the time, trot-walking behind him, that it was Mia he was eager to see. And once she’d come into play, my phone was the last thought on my mind.
Now it was all I could think about. The only way to get my phone back was to wait around for Hudson and Mia to finish my date and drive me home. The humiliation. I’d considered hitching a ride home with Jake after the concert, but that would involve intercepting my brother’s escort vehicle as it exited the venue through a sea of females desperately vying for his attention. I’d also contemplated borrowing a phone and sending a message to one of my lifelines through social media. Any one of my siblings would rush to my side and bring me home. But I was embarrassed. I’d done this to myself and felt stupid. The fewer people who knew of my humiliation, the better. Whether I liked it or not, I was dependent on Hudson for the remainder of the night.
Cheers lit up the darkness, and I twisted my head in the direction of the applause. That was where I wanted to be—wherever that drummer was. He’d been playing since I got out here. At least an hour and still going strong. He’d been the only positive part of my banishment. Even from this distance, I could tell the dude was seriously shredding it. I’d considered abandoning my post outside the venue more than a few times tonight just to watch him drum, but I knew my parents would want me to stay put in this well-lit area with plenty of people milling around. Safety was paramount in my family after everything we’d been through.
But what happened when the safe place became dangerous? What if the naked garbage man decided to go in search of a new Shirley—one with a beating heart like mine? Suddenly, waiting around the venue didn’t seem like the smartest idea. I pushed off the stadium wall, giving a wide berth to the man and his trash can, then headed down the street to chase the cheers.
* * *
On my way,I passed a handful of street musicians who were performing to very little fanfare, but it wasn’t until I arrived at the semicircle of people formed around the drummer that I realized why. The powerhouse performer was going full force to keep his crowd motivated and entertained, siphoning off everyone else’s customers.
I squeezed through the onlookers to get a better position and wasn’t surprised to find him playing on an assortment of overturned paint buckets, with a bronze cymbal plate resting on his foot and a pair of drumsticks in his hands. From down the street, I could hear he wasn’t playing on a regular drum kit, but it shocked me all the same that he was able to get these results on dirty, dented paint buckets. Yet this guy shined above the simplicity of his equipment. His whole sound just hit differently, like he was pouring his soul into every nuanced note.
Weaving around a few more people, I finally claimed a spot in the front row. The streetlights working as his own personal spotlight, the drummer lifted his head and made eye contact with the crowd before diving back in. It was in that split second of audience acknowledgement that I made the connection. A breath caught in my throat. The teen Hudson had called vermin was my talented drummer boy.
It all made sense now. The buckets. The raw, gritty emotion. The turmoil behind his weary eyes. He was the homeless-looking kid from the sidewalk—the one who nearly stopped me in my tracks with his Jake-like eyes. The parallels between my brother and him extended to his talent as well. Like Jake, he played with such confidence, such rage. A boy existing on a razor’s edge. There was something so tragic about him, yet also hopeful in a strange and regressive way.
I was instantly struck. Shaky, even. He was a teenager like me, but there was no comparing us. I’d never seen anyone my age as wild and unrestrained, a lightning bolt of electricity that never hit the same spot on his bucket drums twice. I had to know who he was and where he’d learned to bang drum solos out like he owned the night.
No doubt he’d recognize me from the confrontation, and I was sure he wouldn’t remember our interaction fondly. I couldn’t blame him. Just the memory of Hudson being such an elitist jerk made me cringe. How hard would it have been to just let the drummer walk on by? He hadn’t been looking for a fight. His attention had just been focused elsewhere.
I’d seen him coming toward us in the seconds before the collision. He’d been hard to miss, with those buckets hanging around his neck and cold weather clothing layered over every inch of his body despite it being early fall in balmy Los Angeles, his beanie drawn down over his forehead shielding almost the entirety of his face. But it was his filthy lady’s brown puffer trench coat reaching all the way to his knees that was the real star of the show. He wore it like a cloak, billowing out behind him as he trudged forward in a pair of severely scuffed Doc Martin-like black boots.
I never would have guessed under all that layering he looked like this—long and lean and tanned like he’d been resurrected from the seventies skateboard scene. I might even concede he was the sexiest musician I’d ever seen, and that was saying a lot because I’d been hanging around backstage most of my life. I’d seen a lot of hot musicians.
The drummer boy was thrashing his head too fast for me to see his face, but I remembered it from the sidewalk when I’d looked into his defiant, soulful eyes. He’d caught my attention then but nothing like he did now. The boy was an oddity, all right. An oddly striking one, and it all started with his hair. No longer contained by a beanie, it was now flying free and a show all its own. The geometric masterpiece of knots, all joining forces with other uncombed strands, created a fusion of tangles that could almost be confused with shoulder-length ringlets. Nothing short of a head shave would tame that snarled brown, sun-streaked mane.
And if that wasn’t enough to command my attention, his distressed black Metallica t-shirt with sleeves rolled up to his shoulders did. The worn fabric clung to his sweaty body, showcasing every hard-earned flex. He was perfectly flawed. Even the strips of black leather wrapped all the way up and around his long, drummer-toned arms were squeal-worthy. I watched in awe as he brought the song to its fiery conclusion, banging out those last exaggerated beats for the crowd.
