“Go figure,” she echoed, deadpan.
“So, it’s coming down once the owner scrapes together the money. Until then, he’s letting his nephew, who just happens to be our bandmate, live here cheap and do whatever he wants, so”—I gestured to the bare studs and Charlie’s chalk outline—“we did this.”
Michelle stared for a long moment before she smiled and whacked me in the arm. “Maybe put that in your flyer next time, jerk.”
“For who? You? Every local already knows the legend of the Allard Street House. It’s part of the allure.”
As if on cue, a headbanger beside us held up a single black jellybean. “For the brave,” he whispered, crossing himself before flicking it into the chalk outline. “May his taste buds rest in peace.”
Michelle’s head cocked as she watched the bean land with aplink in a pile of other obscure items—a cassette tape, an ear plug, one lone tube sock.
“What is happening right now?” she whispered. “Was that a jellybean?”
I nodded. “Charlie hated the black ones.”
“You knew him?”
“No. We just assume… since everyone hates the black jellybeans.”
“…Okay.”
“It’s tradition,” I said.
“It’s insane.”
I pulled a matchbook from my pocket,RIPscrawled in red ink, and tossed it into the outline. “Is it, though? Charlie was a menace when he was alive. Not the guy you want crawling back during a guitar solo.”
Her lip twitched. She bit down on it, fighting her instincts, but the smile broke through anyway. Michelle dug in her purse and pulled out a single wrapped peppermint. “I was saving this in case we kissed later… but you’re right. Chalkline Charlie needs it more.”
“Wait. Back up. You were planning to kiss me?”
“I was keeping the option open… if you blew my mind. But, to be honest, Scott, it’s not looking good for you, so appeasing Charlie’s spirit seems like a better use for my mint.”
“McKallister!” the guys shouted from the stage. “Now!”
“I’m coming,” I yelled back, then turned to Michelle. “I have to go. But don’t give up the peppermint.”
She shivered, leaning into the drama. “Are you sure? Charlie’s resurrection. It’s a risk.”
I grinned. “Screw it. Let Charlie have the mint.”
I cupped her face and kissed her quick and rough, the way the night demanded.
5
MICHELLE: QUIET RIOT
The music started, and it was loud. Not “turn it down a notch” loud—like war-zone loud. There was no slow build. One second it was quiet; the next I was standing inside a speaker. Maybe that was for the best because it kept me from overanalyzing the fact that Scott had just kissed me. It was so unexpected… so unapologetic. I’d been flirting, sure, but boys in my world were trained to ask first. Scott hadn’t. He’d just gone for it, and somehow that made it more exciting. I felt truly wanted. Not as a prize or a Carver. Just me.
The pounding drums rattled the floor Charlie had died on. If the poor man’s ghost was hanging around, god help him. Then came the growls. Mad-dog snarls into the microphone, and since Scott wasn’t on stage yet, I had to assume they were coming from him. The barking grew louder and more unhinged with every woof. My heart sank. Oh, no. Maybe he wasn’t going to blow my mind after all. And the worst part? I wanted him to.
The guitarist ripped into a solo, and the crowd erupted. Arms shot into the air, heads whipped, bodies slammed together in some ritual they all seemed to understand but me. A mosh pit materialized in the center of the room, and I froze in place,suddenly regretting every reckless choice that had led me here. This was it. I was going to be crushed to death in this condemned house. Me and Charlie, roommates in hell. I just prayed they tossed some Chanel into my chalk line.
Then he appeared. The roar shifted, doubling, like the crowd had been holding its breath for him. Scott took his spot at center stage, his face half-shadowed beneath the flickering lights. His stance was wide and grounded, like the stage existed solely to prop him up. His fingers curled around the microphone, muscles flexing as he lifted it to his lips… and screamed.
So much screaming.
Broken only by fragments of lyrics.
