SNAPPED: Part 1

by Ketley Allison

CHAPTER 8

  Week 2 – Friday, September 12

  The music was clanging, beating, ricocheting—literally pushing against my skin as soon as I showed my ID and entered the bar.

  When Slade finished paying for the cab and ran up behind me, the bouncer grinned broadly, and rather than lifting his hand for ID, he did it to grasp Slade’s.

  “You were fucking awesome on Monday,” the bouncer said. “I can’t believe I’m meeting you.”

  “Thanks, man,” Slade said, returning the bouncer’s smile. “I really appreciate it.”

  “Make sure to tell the bartender that your first drink’s on me.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that—”

  “Yes I fucking do!” The bouncer slapped Slade on the shoulder as Slade moved to stand beside me. “And your girl here, too. Awesome, man. Tell him Bobby sent you.”

  “Great meeting you, Bobby.” Slade waved at him before sliding an arm around me and walking into the crowd. “And thank you. Very much.”

  “Big fan, man!”

  I stuck close to Slade’s side as we navigated through the mass of people, most doing double takes once they realized who was walking among them. Some pulled out smartphones while others remained oblivious, jumping to the music.

  A few slid their gazes over to me and scanned, stopping at my face, their expressions filled with…appraisal. I was thankful true thoughts could be easily masked.

  There was a live band at the far end of the room, five of them up there banging to the rhythm of rock. The drummer’s arms swung every which way, making me regret having those two beers plus a glass of champagne with Slade after only a few bites of dinner.

  After our date Monday night, Slade and I had gone home and he showed me just how much he appreciated me. I felt better, remembering that I do belong with him. He brought happiness, purpose, and love into my life. Nothing else should matter. And so, when I mentioned that I was meeting Reagan tonight after a day of classes and nonstop case law reading—another move on my part to prove to myself that I could have fun and find time to study—Slade offered to come along. I was elated. We made dinner together then caught a cab downtown, and it was exactly like how we were in college. Secluded, comfortable, and jovial, with no thoughts of bylines, cameras, or public perception.

  I was home, and he’d brought me there.

  Swinging my attention to the guitarist on the other side of the bar, I pressed into Slade to better weave through the crowd. The guitarist’s dark, sweaty hair obscured his face as his torso bowed up and down in time with his chords. The lead singer clutched the microphone and pressed it so hard to his mouth I was worried for his teeth.

  But to my complete surprise, I enjoyed the music. I liked his voice, the beats of the drum, and the riffs of the guitar. It was a type of noise that surrounded me—so loud I didn’t even realize my body was moving in time with the music until the song ended and I was still swaying.

  I scanned the crowd in front of me, searching for Reagan’s curly reddish hair. Unfortunately, there were a lot of five-foot-two auburnettes in this overcrowded bar.

  When the playing stopped, my ears rang a little as the crowd started cheering the band members, drinks held up high. Cold liquid spilled on my shoulder, and I heard a brief “Sorry!” before the person started calling out to the band again.

  “Charlie!”

  I turned toward the voice and spotted Reagan. She was bouncing up and down at the bar and motioning me over. Tall, beefy men surrounded her little body on both sides. “Over here!”

  Elbows out, Slade and I moved diagonally through the crowd toward her. I accepted that my dress was going to be ruined before the night was over.

  The bar was hot, crowded, and noisy. The walls were painted bright purple. There were stains and plaster peels that would be apparent in daylight, but the low lighting at night blurred it. Pictures hung on the walls, and I assumed from the environment they were stills of bands, singers, and other artists. Some were autographed, some not. Faces were more shadows than forms as the sea of people in front of us moved back and forth.

  We slid up to the bar beside Reagan. The man behind us moved slightly to make room, glancing over at Slade.

  “Omigod! Slade!” Reagan said, her hand pressing against her chest. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing him!”

  “Oh, well,” I said. “It was a last minute thing.”

  “Yeah, I hope I’m not crashing a girls’ night,” he said, winking at Reagan. “I had the night free, thought I’d hang out with two gorgeous women to pass the time.”

  Reagan’s hand fluttered against her neck as she laughed. “No way. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  A phone lifted in my peripheral vision, and on instinct I looked away. I narrowly avoided Reagan’s elbow as she raised her arms to pull Slade in for a hug, and she completely obscured my view of the phone’s lens. She kissed him on the cheek before she let go, catching one of his dimples with her lips.

  The camera lowered, and I blinked at Reagan, thinking what the hell was that? She couldn’t have timed that kiss with the phone or deliberately blocked me out of the shot. Could she?

  Then I thought, why do I care? It was a simple greeting.

  “Sorry,” Reagan said, laughing loudly before lifting her hand to the bartender and gesturing to Slade and I. “I’m super friendly sometimes. Especially when drunk.”

  “Sorry for what?” I asked, unconsciously molding my arm against Slade’s and claiming my space.

  “Nothing—I mean, I just thought…” Reagan took a long pull of her drink. “Never mind.” She slid her lips up and off the straw, smiling at Slade. “Great game on Monday. That final play? The sneak you did? Unbelievable.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” Slade said before engaging Reagan in a detailed discussion of strategy.

  Slade’s arm was heavy on my shoulders as I listened to them talk, but I was busy wondering why I wanted to jump into the conversation and show her I knew just as much as she did. Mostly, I was confused over why I thought we were suddenly in a competition.

  “You should so try that next time,” Reagan said, and I realized I’d missed the last part of their discussion.

  “Hey, for someone who says her brother’s the big fan, you sure know a lot about football.” I said it with a smile, thinking it was friendly.

  “Char,” Slade said, his words an admonishment in my ear.

  “What?” I asked, glancing between them.

  “It’s okay,” Reagan said as if I’d said something that required a reprieve. “I didn’t mean to hog the conversation. This can be boring stuff. We can switch topics.”

  “I never said you were monopolizing—”

  Stereo music blasted through the rest of my words. The bass pulsed against the bar, causing the mahogany to come alive underneath my hands.

  “What do you want to drink?” Reagan yelled over the music. “Vodka soda?”

  The bartender had come over and was waiting in that rushed way only an over-worked employee in an overcrowded bar could.

  “Sure. Sure!” I yelled the second time. Slade yelled, “Water for me, thanks!” at the same time.

  Effortlessly, the bartender flipped over a glass, poured a stream of liquor into it in a smooth up and down motion, and sprayed in soda with the other hand. After pouring Slade’s water, he slid both drinks over to us. “On the house,” he mouthed, his eyes already on the next person.

  I tried to get his attention again, not wanting any sort of special treatment, especially in front of Reagan who probably had to pay for hers. But he was long gone.

  Reagan wasn’t watching anyway. She was on her tiptoes, playing with her straw and searching the crowd.

  “Who’re you looking for?” I asked her, picking up my drink.

  “Oh, just—here he is!”

  A sweaty, lean, very tall man sidled between Reagan and me, and my back flattened against Slade’s chest as I made room for him. His hair, sort of an ash brown, was all
over the place, and with a jerk of his chin, he flicked it away from his eyes. They were a very disarming green, even in this hazy light. His gray T-shirt was soaked through, his forearms almost as shiny as the varnished wood of the bar. I could make out tattoos on both of them. Thick, tribal, and mostly black as they twisted up and disappeared under his T-shirt. They highlighted the tendons shifting underneath his skin, lines of toned muscles matching the marks, and a visceral, carnal part of me reacted to the glisten on his skin, the parched exhales of his breath, the way his chest moved as he sucked in air.

  I cleared my throat, deciding to observe the rows of bottles behind the bar instead, as if I were searching for the perfect liquor for my second drink. It worked for maybe half a second.

  He flashed his teeth at Reagan before he raised a hand to the bartender. When he turned in my direction there was a slice of silver at the right corner of his lower lip. A lip ring.

  “You. Were. Awesome,” Reagan said to him.

  He tipped his head toward her. “Why thank you.”

  “Oh, you’re in the band?” It was a stupid question, but I felt the need to say something. I was staring at him too much.

  When we locked gazes, his eyes flared, just a little. “Yeah.” He held out his hand. “Alloy Six. The band’s name, I mean. I’m Nate.”

  I switched my drink to my other hand to meet his handshake. “Charlie. You’re the drummer.”

  “Guilty.” He raised his chin in thanks when the bartender slid a bottle of beer to him and shook Slade’s hand.

  “Slade. Good to meet you,” Slade said.

  Nate lifted his drink to his lips, and his throat worked as he gulped it down. He swiped a hand across his mouth when he finished, and I wondered if he ever snared his lip ring when he did that. Or what it was like for him to eat peanut butter.

  “You’d think a set would be less exhausting with time, but hell no,” he said.

  “You’re not that old,” Reagan said. “Just slightly geriatric.”

  “Ha ha,” he replied. “You’re too sweet. So you’re the famous Charlie, huh?”

  I flushed a little, always uncomfortable when someone mentioned my name after the word famous.

  “And the illustrious Jason Sladerman. Reagan’s told me a ton about you guys.”

  There was no recognition in him, no spark of football fandom, only vague interest.

  “I owe Reagan big time,” I said. “She’s basically saved my life at school.”

  Reagan wiggled underneath the praise and gave a little tap dance.

  I opened my mouth to ask how long he’d been playing, but a screeching microphone stopped our conversation.

  “Gotta go,” he said. He bent over the bar in a graceful dip and dropped his beer bottle in the trash placed underneath. “Wish me luck, ladies. Nice to meet you, man.”

  He disappeared back into the thicket of the crowd, but not before throwing a smile at me over his shoulder.

  “Who was that? Your boyfriend?” I asked and finished off my drink. A small part of me wished it was so I could squelch whatever my body had reacted to.

  “God, no!” Reagan said, laughing and signaling to the bartender again. “My brother!”

  “Oh!” I said, surprised. He was a tattooed, tall, skinny rocker dude. She was a tiny law student with a cute, heart-shaped face. “Well, he’s a great drummer,” I said. “But I thought you said he was a huge football fan.”

  I studied Reagan, thinking Nate had either deliberately been acting blasé when he met us while inside he was screeching and fanboying over his favorite player, or he truly did not give a shit.

  “Weeeell,” she said. “I may have fibbed on that one.” Reagan raised her hand as soon as I opened my mouth, and I turned to face Slade, looking to him for some verification.

  Slade shrugged at me. Some help he was.

  “Only because I didn’t want to overwhelm you!” Reagan said. “You know, a chatty girl who won’t shut up getting all buddy-buddy with you because of Slade. And it wasn’t because of him. I like you.” She backed up, holding her drink close to her chest. “Please don’t hate me.”

  “She doesn’t hate you,” Slade said, moving fluidly between us. “Do ya, Char?”

  I exhaled any anger that remained. If Slade thought I was being an idiot, I probably was. “No, of course not. You’ve proven a thousand times over you’re not in this for him.”

  “No way. He’s great, but we’re cool, right?” She formed her hand into a fist.

  I raised my hand to meet her fist bump, but I hit air. Hers went right by me and into Slade’s. Slade placed his drink on the bar, laughing good-naturedly as they touched knuckles. After, she fanned her fingers and simulated an explosion with an accompanying whaa sound.

  Her attention wasn’t on me when she did it. She was grinning at Slade.

  “So your brother’s a rock star,” I said.

  She blinked at me, dropping her hand and taking another long sip from her freshly replaced vodka cranberry. “Totally. You’d think he’d do it professionally, but no.”

  “This band isn’t professional?” I was determined to keep her on this topic, if only to remind her I was still here. “This isn’t what he does for a living?”

  Nate looked as if he did it for a living. He was scruffy, inked, pierced, and had a casual, laid-back, “I don’t give a fuck” flair I pretty much associated with all things rebellious and band-like.

  “Hell no. He’s a lawyer.”

  “Seriously?” Utter shock squeaked out with that word, and I forgot all about her friendliness with Slade.

  “Oh, I know. He’s hella backward.”

  She pushed a vodka soda my way, urging me to drink. So far, I hadn’t seen her give one bill to the bartender or mouth anything about a tab. Nate had acted the same way. I was just as shamefaced as Reagan when I realized “on the house” wasn’t meant for Slade and my so-called status at all. Reagan and Nate were regulars here.

  “Twenty-seven and already at the top of his game. Oh, he takes his lip ring out in the courtroom obviously. And the others.”

  Well, that kept my attention on her.

  She took another long sip. “I think this is his, you know, outlet.”

  Nate sat behind his drums, counting with his arms raised, ready to unleash another round of ballistic beats.

  I leaned back against Slade as the band began to play. Slade’s free hand rested on my stomach, strong and warm, and his arms enveloped me.

  “Huh,” I said to no one in particular. “Sure wish I had that kind of outlet.”