Drive

by Stephanie Fournet

  “Don’t sulk,” Holi said.

  “I’m not sulking,” she said too quickly. Rainey couldn’t make herself face her sister.

  “You know why I did that, right?” Holi asked gently.

  Rainey brushed invisible dust from the stack of books. “You think I can’t handle it.” She tried to keep her voice steady, flat. But even she could hear the hurt in her words.

  Holi sighed. “I just think you don’t need to go through that. I mean… there may be blood… and pain.” Her voice softened, and still it felt like a blade piercing Rainey’s gut.

  She turned away, facing the door, and screwed her eyes shut, silently ordering herself not to cry.

  “But I still need you,” Holi said.

  Right. To fetch books and water the plants and go to the grocery store.

  “In fact, I need you to call Ash.” The tremor in her voice made Rainey spin on her heel. “I’m scared, Rain. Can you call him and tell him what’s up?”

  Shoving her self-centered feelings aside, Rainey reached for her sister’s hands and sunk into the chair beside her. “Of course,” she said, talking past the lump in her throat. “Of course I’ll call him.”

  Chapter 5

  Four times.

  The morning after he’d met Rainey Reeves, Jacques sent her a text to see if he could take her to lunch. It was approaching noon, and she hadn’t responded. He knew this because he’d checked his phone four times that morning.

  Which was four more times than he’d ever let himself check his phone. For anyone. For any reason.

  Jacques had learned young that chasing after someone who didn’t want to be caught was a job only a fool would undertake. He’d watched his father be that fool, and Jacques decided long ago he wouldn’t follow in the man’s footsteps.

  So when he caught himself checking his phone a fifth time after he dropped a rider off at the Volkswagen dealership on Johnston Street, he knew he needed a distraction. He allowed himself to stop at Guitar Center on his way home. He needed a set of strings, and he could always use an extra pick, but he really wanted to look over the store’s bulletin board for musician postings and leave his own notice in hopes of assembling another band.

  Thinking about building another band was an excellent way, Jacques decided, to stop thinking about the girl he’d picked up yesterday. The girl who’d made him lose his voice at first sight, made him blush — of all things — when she’d said he sounded like Eddie Vedder, and praised his driving skills when he’d almost gotten her killed.

  Stepping into a music store, whether it was Guitar Center, or Lafayette Music, or Prof Erny’s, always gave him the same feeling — like a shot of caffeine. They all smelled the same, like wood polish, crisp paper, and ozone. Clean and full of promise. Jacques walked through the entrance, inhaled through his nose, and felt his mind clear.

  Jacques borrowed a Sharpie and a sheet of paper from the cashier — a kid who looked too young to be behind a shop counter before the end of a school day — and he neatly penned a notice. He tacked it up on the message board and scanned the other flyers with waning hope. Zilch. No drummers looking for a gig. No bass players trying to connect. But then his eye fell on a hot pink sheet of paper tacked to the board.

  ALL FEMALE BAND

  SEEKS MALE VOCALIST

  TO ENHANCE SOUND

  WE’RE NOT FUCKING KIDDING

  ASSHOLES NEED NOT APPLY

  Jacques barked a laugh. Who the hell was this? The band’s name wasn’t included on the flyer, nor were the names of any of the members. He stared at the sheet of paper, telling himself he’d be crazy to take it seriously.

  He wrote his own songs, and he had his own sound, a rough, soulful, alternative sound he was trying to establish as a brand that was recognizable and sought after. Branding, he knew from his two years in UL’s business program, was critical for product success, and even though Jacques thought of himself as an artist first, he knew if he was going to make it beyond bars and music festivals, he had to see his music as a business too.

  Still, the flyer piqued his curiosity. What would he lose by calling the number?

  He tapped the digits onto his keypad, walked out of the store, and dialed.

  A girl answered on the third ring. “Yeah?” Her voice was a honeyed rasp, like early Tegan and Sara, and Jacques could already hear music in it.

  “Hi… I’m calling about the band. You looking for a singer?” he asked, hoping to sound non-committal and skeptical, because, of course, he was both. Even if he was also desperate.

  “Maybe,” the girl said, sounding more non-committal and skeptical. Even a little rude.

  He’d bet money she was the one who’d penned the caustic notice. When she didn’t offer more, Jacques considered hanging up, but something made him press further. Whether it was the intrigue or his lack of options, he wasn’t sure.

  “What’s the name of your band? Have I seen you perform anywhere?” he asked, deciding to vet her if she wasn’t going to vet him.

  “Heroine,” she said.

  Leaning against the side of his car, Jacques waited.

  “Like the drug?” he asked finally.

  “No. With an ‘e’. As in ‘a brave woman’ or ‘the central female in a story.’”

  He blinked.

  “And you want a guy to join your band?” he asked, wondering if he was being pranked.

  “Only the right guy.”

  Stupidly, he waited for her to elaborate. When she didn’t, he sighed. This was going nowhere fast.

  “What constitutes being the right guy?” Jacques thought of himself as a patient man, but he felt that virtue waning as he spoke to the girl.

  “Not an asshole, an egomaniac, a homophobe, a narcissist, or a racist.” She listed each item rapid fire, almost startling him with the vehemence in her voice.

  “O…kay… that’s a list of things you don’t want,” he said evenly. “And, frankly, no one should want them. Now list what you are looking for.”

  The line was quiet for a moment.

  “Talent. Respect. Teamwork. And, preferably, a baritone or at least a voice that’s deeper than mine.”

  Jacques found himself grinning. “I’m a baritone bass.”

  “Yeah, that’s obvious,” she said without humor.

  His grin faded. He opened the door to the Impala and dropped inside. “I can’t say I’ve heard of Heroine.”

  “We’re pretty new,” she hedged.

  He frowned again. “Done any gigs?”

  “Um…” It was the first time she’d sounded unsure. “…yeah. We’ve played at the Hook and Boil…”

  “In Broussard?” Jacques didn’t think the restaurant even had a stage.

  “And The Cajun Heartland State Fair…”

  He felt his eyebrows climb.

  “And a prom — I mean, a private party,” she quickly amended.

  “D-did you just say ‘a prom?’” Jacques nearly choked on a laugh. Who the hell was this girl?

  “Yeah. So?” she asked, hostility lacing her tone.

  He fired up the engine and prepared to end the call. “Wow. Okay. You know what, maybe this was a bad ide—”

  “Well, who are you? What gigs have you played recently?” she snapped.

  “I’m Jacques Gilchrist,” he said calmly. “I was with Epoch before we broke up, and my last gig was—”

  “You’re Jacques Gilchrist?” she asked, her raspy voice now hushed.

  “Yeah. Who are you?” His patience was nearly gone, but the sudden change in her tone made what remained just enough to keep him on the line.

  “Um… I’m Kate. Kate Crawford,” she said. “I’m lead vocals and guitar. My sister Kara is on drums and synth, and my girl Des plays bass.”

  Jacques decided to give Kate Crawford a taste of her own medicine, so he waited to see what she’d say next.

  “Look… I’m not gonna lie to you. We’re new, alright?” she admitted. “And we’re young… but we’re good.”
<
br />   Jacques narrowed his eyes. “How young?”

  “Des and I are nineteen. Kara’s eighteen. She’s still a senior—”

  “In high school?” Disbelief pealed through his voice. What the hell?

  “Yeah? So? After she graduates next month, we’ll officially be a college band,” she stressed, her snark returning. “And we’re good. As in really good.”

  Jacques shook his head. “I’m sure you are, but—”

  “I’m texting you a link to our YouTube channel.”

  “I don’t think that’s nec—”

  “Too late.”

  Indeed, he heard the whoop of an incoming text on his phone.

  “Just listen for three minutes. If you think we suck, you can roll on. If you like what you hear, call back,” she ordered. “That is, if you’re not an asshole or the prospect of rockin’ with three younger girls — two of which only dig girls and the other who’s practically engaged to her high school sweetheart — doesn’t turn you into an asshole.”

  Jacques felt his mouth open and close, but no words came to his aid.

  “You cool with that, big shot?” Kate Crawford’s voice snapped like a rubber band, and Jacques felt its sting.

  But he was cool with that. For a reason he couldn’t fathom, he liked Kate Crawford of the fledgling band Heroine, and he found himself hoping he’d also like what he heard on the YouTube channel she’d sent him.

  But she didn’t need to know that.

  “Guess so. If I have time to give it a listen, and I see that you’re not full of BS, I’ll give you a call.”

  “Fab,” she growled. And the line went dead.

  Jacques pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it. Then he shook his head, laughing.

  But before he could tap the link, his phone lit up with a ride request.

  “Holy fuck,” he muttered as he read the pick-up destination. Lourdes Hospital. He accepted the request and tapped the clipboard icon on the top right of his screen just to be sure. He grinned when he saw the Oakview address. R.M. It was Rainey Reeves.

  Jacques made a quick left out of the parking lot and changed lanes to turn right onto Ambassador.

  What did it mean that she hadn’t responded to his text but had ordered another ride?

  Nearing the hospital entrance, he spotted Rainey immediately, and — inconveniently — his heart sped up. As he approached, he saw she was wearing exactly the same clothes she’d had on the day before. He pulled up to the curb and caught a glimpse of her face through the windows. Her color was washed out. Ashen shadows stained the skin under her eyes.

  To his horror, Jacques realized she’d been in the hospital the last twenty-four hours, and by the looks of her, it had been a long night.

  She opened the door to the back seat with a faraway cast to her gaze. And when she ducked her head inside and met his eyes, she gave a jolt of surprise as if she hadn’t expected him.

  “H-hi,” she said, frowning. She looked down at her phone, blinked in realization at the screen, and looked back at him. “Sorry… I’m kind of out of it.”

  Clearly lost, she looked like she’d had no idea he’d be driving her again.

  A protective urge swelled in his chest. “You okay?” he asked as she sunk into his back seat.

  Rainey tilted her head back on the headrest. “Yeah… fine,” she muttered.

  She was anything but fine. Beautiful — even though she looked exhausted — but hardly fine.

  He should have put the car in drive and moved away from the curb, but, watching her, he couldn’t bring himself to do that.

  “You sure?”

  Her watched her close her eyes and run her slender hand over her forehead. “I just want to go home,” she murmured, almost inaudibly. He wouldn’t make her say it twice. Without another word, he put the car in gear and drove. But he kept glancing at her in the rearview.

  Just as he turned right onto Ambassador, heard a soft slap, and he looked back to see Rainey’s hands fisting through her hair, her fingers white-knuckled from the strain, her jaw clenched in anguish.

  “Why…” Her voice sounded choked. “…why do shitty things happen to good people while shitty people get a pass?”

  Jacques resisted the temptation to pull over. Instead, he kept driving and peeked back at her. “Wanna tell me what’s wrong?” he asked gently.

  She met his eyes in the mirror and dropped her hands, but he could see she was fighting back tears. Rainey shook her head. But then a moment later, she spoke, her voice a little more even. A little stronger.

  “My sister’s sick.”

  “With pneumonia? She doing worse?” he asked, recalling their conversation the day before.

  In the mirror, she held his gaze with a hint of surprise. “You remembered.”

  Jacques sniffed a laugh. “Yeah, it was only yesterday.”

  She watched him for a second, and as she did, he saw something change in her eyes, but he couldn’t place what it was.

  “It’s… not just pneumonia. She found out this morning she has something else… aplastic anemia.” Rainey looked away, shaking her head. “I’ve never even heard of it, but apparently, it can kill you.”

  He blew out a breath. No wonder she looked exhausted.

  “That is shitty,” he agreed.

  They stopped at the light at Settler’s Trace. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  He craned back to look at her over his shoulder. “What for?”

  The side of her mouth turned up just a fraction. “You sent me a text yesterday, and I didn’t respond,” she said, her hazel eyes locking with his. “I actually didn’t see it until about three o’clock this morning, and I figured I’d seem crazy answering it then.”

  He felt his mouth twitch. Relief settled in his spine. “Not in my world.”

  She frowned a little. “What?”

  Jacques pointed his index finger skyward and rotated it, indicating the car. “Uber drivers have late-nights.”

  “Oh,” she said, giving him a tired smile. “I guess so… Well, I’m sorry for not texting back. It’s been a crazy twenty-four hours.”

  “I believe it.” He nodded. “It’s okay.”

  Her eyes softened, and her cheeks colored. “I would have, though.”

  Before Jacques could respond to that promising remark, the car behind them let out a blaring honk. He jerked back around. The light had changed, and they were holding up traffic. Hitting the gas, he let himself feel the slow slide of warmth that ran down his chest at her words.

  He glanced at the mirror. Rainey was leaning back again, her eyes closed. Now was not the time to ask her out. But he would. In a day or two.

  Traffic choked as they approached Johnston Street, and Jacques slowed.

  “I need a distraction.” Her voice came out thready and tired.

  He smiled. He’d thought she’d fallen asleep because she hadn’t moved. Her eyes remained closed, but the corners of her mouth tipped up slightly as she apparently waited for him to respond.

  “Want me to turn up the music?” he asked, putting his fingers to the dial, the low, somber notes of a cello following those of a guitar.

  “Yeah,” she murmured. “I’ve never heard this.”

  He hadn’t heard the Los Campesinos! song in while, but he warned her anyway before the vocals started. “It’s kind of intense.”

  She kept her eyes closed. “Turn it up.”

  So he did, hoping the mood of the lyrics wouldn’t be too much for her. The depression. The frustration.

  He listened to the words, not singing along this time, though he’d memorized the lyrics years before. He’d play the song on his guitar up in his room again and again. The tension building and building until he could scream the words.

  “This thing hurts… like… hell…

  BUT WHAT DID YOU EXPECT?!”

  Her eyes were open now, but she wasn’t looking back at him. She was listening intently, as the cymbals crashed and the voices rose, picturing, he
imagined, “a thousand years in perfect symmetry.”

  He had to bring his focus back to the road, so he couldn’t read her face anymore. He could only relive what the song had meant to him in his late teens when he was still so angry at his parents. At both of them. And he would play songs like “One Step Closer,” “Gray Street,” and “Enter Sandman” to leach the anger from his bones.

  As the song wound down, she spoke up. “What’s it called?” Her voice carried reverence and wonder. He knew what that felt like.

  “‘The Sea is a Good Place to Think of the Future’ by Los Campesinos!”

  He glanced back and watched her eyebrows climb.

  “That’s some title.” She dug around in her backpack purse and came up with her phone. “What was it again?”

  He told her, and he heard her tapping on her screen.

  “Thanks.” And a moment later. “There. I bought it.”

  Jacques pressed his lips together to keep his smile in check. He wished he had his guitar. He felt the sudden urge to play his whole repertoire for her alone. His playlist flipped to David Bowie’s “Space Oddity,” and she giggled.

  “You have great taste in music.”

  This, coming from the daughter of Doc Dylan Reeves, gave him a head rush. The girl was born into music. For all he knew, she was a musician herself. If she were, what would it be like to play with her?

  “Take your protein pills and put your helmet on…” she sang softly from the back seat. The sound of her voice was sweet, delicious, and he found himself chuckling under his breath.

  Even delirious with exhaustion, she was adorable.

  He sang along quietly as they coasted down Johnston Street. And a few minutes later, he realized he was the only one singing. Jacques glanced back to find Rainey Reeves completely out.

  When he stopped at the light at Camellia Boulevard, he nudged down the volume of Melanie Martinez’s “Training Wheels.” The sound was a perfect lullaby, but he was afraid the prick of music box xylophone might wake her.

  She was still asleep when he pulled into the driveway of the rustic modern house on Oakview. Jacques put the car in park and set the emergency brake. She didn’t wake. Then he killed the engine. A hushed stillness fell around them.