I checked the sideview mirror again.
Aiden’s truck stayed a few car lengths behind us, steady. Windows down. One hand hooked over the steering wheel. Casual, as though he were used to following punk bands around on a Sunday before noon.
“You didn’t have to invite the hockey player,” I said, eyes glued to the mirror.
Melvin frowned at the interruption to his aria. “He saved this gig. He should be allowed to see it play out.”
“You’re the one who called him in the first place.” Ramona bumped her shoulder into mine. The sneaky smile she wore told me she’d picked up on something I’d gone to great lengths to keep secret.
The radio squealed when Melvin drove under a set of power lines, and I focused on that instead of the heat crawling up my neck.
“I didn’t call him,” I said, feeling weak and stupid. “I texted.”
Ramona’s mouth curved. “Semantics.”
I looked back at the mirror. Aiden’s truck rolled through a yellow light just as it flipped red, engine growling low as he caught up. For a guy I wanted nothing to do with a few days ago, his number sure came up fast when I was pushed into a corner.
SOS?
What the hell was I thinking?
The speaker cab had split open like a rotten pumpkin that morning, back panel hanging by a screw and stubborn hope. Icy Veins would’ve missed their first paying gig in months. The first one where they wouldn’t have to argue with a bartender about drink tickets as compensation.
And when the wood gave out, when Melvin cursed and Rich kicked the tire of the van hard enough to dent it, I didn’t scroll through contacts. I didn’t debate. I texted Aiden.
Because I knew what he could do.
I’d been in that storage unit, and seen what his hands were capable of. Those same hands that had pinned my wrists to his workbench and left my breath tangled in my throat.
I dragged my gaze off the mirror as Melvin turned into the parking lot.
Aiden’s truck followed us in.
The sign out front read Serenity Bridge Retirement Village in looping blue letters, the kind that tried to convince you this was a choice and not a deadline. Flower beds flanked the entrance. White fencing. A banner tied between two poles announced Community Barbecue, Sunday at Twelve.
Melvin parked close to the side gate to decrease the distance we’d have to lug everything. The engine died with a shudder. In back, Rich shoved open the doors and sunlight poured over a tangle of cords and battered cases.
Aiden pulled in two spaces down. He cut his engine, stepped out, and scanned the building, the sign, the banner. He looked back at us as if we might reveal a second, hidden venue behind the hedges.
“You sure we’re at the right place?” he asked, walking over.
I closed my door and faced him, enjoying the way his eyebrows pulled together. “Yep.”
He glanced at the sign again. “Retirement village.”
“That’s what it says.”
“And Icy Veins is playing here.”
“Right again. You’re on a roll, big guy.”
Behind us, Mike dropped a cable coil and swore under his breath. Melvin hauled the newly resurrected cab toward the gate, grinning like this was Madison Square Garden.
Aiden ran a hand over the back of his neck. “They’re a very punk, very rock band.”
“They contain multitudes,” I said, biting back a smile.
He stared at the banner, then back at me. I let him sit with it, and offered no explanation. It was fun watching him try to reconcile distorted guitars with lawn chairs and potato salad. It felt good. Petty, maybe. But I’d earned a sliver of satisfaction after watching him accept Melvin’s invitation just because it would piss me off.
