The Trickster's Drum (Godsongs Book 1)

by Jax Garren

  He eyed her carefully as if weighing her words. “It’s weird that we may know each other, don’t you think? There are only a hundred thousand people in this city, not that many. Especially when you only include people in our age bracket. There’s a fair chance we’ve at least seen each other.”

  She looked back down at her list. “You wouldn’t notice me, I promise. Or if you did, it would probably be because I annoyed you. Freyja has her moments of competence—usually when beating people up. But as real me doesn’t go around throwing axes, all you’ve got left is a tongue-tied nerd.”

  “What? No way. Your fighting is awesome, but it’s not even my favorite thing about you. Besides, if you think I wouldn’t like tongue-tied-nerd you, you don’t know me very well.”

  She gave him a side-eye before returning to her list. “You don’t know me at all.”

  Chapter 22

  A RICH PERSON’S HOUSE party looked and sounded pretty much like any other house party, just with better alcohol and more expensive shit to break. Giselle clung to Rawan’s arm as they made their way through the rooms full of people she’d never met and would likely never see again as her roommate chattered away giddily about the challenges of translating the, uh—Muh-grabby? Magra-bee?—Arabic that the conduit book was apparently written in.

  Giselle had shown her the pages while they were getting ready, and Rawan’s vibrating excitement at the prospect of translating a conduit text was a memory Giselle would not soon forget. When they’d left the dorm, Rawan had even tossed her the keys to the Kia—which had somehow been successfully removed from the YMCA gym with the cops none the wiser—so Giselle could drive to the party while she studied printouts she’d made of the photos.

  “I didn’t realize there were different Arabics,” Giselle said stupidly.

  Rawan squeezed her hand with that patronizing “you’re so white” thing people did sometimes—and okay, she might deserve that—then let go to grab a couple of plastic cups by the keg. “Sorry we haven’t seen them yet.”

  Giselle scanned again for any of the elusive members of Rage Riot—the whole reason she’d worn an actual dress and attempted makeup—and ended up pouring herself half a cup of foam.

  Rawan howled with laughter. “I know who we’re not putting in charge of pouring. Geez, girl. Side of the cup.”

  “You sure know a lot for someone planning to hold a cup all night without drinking any.”

  “Keeps people off your case,” Rawan said with a little sigh. Then she leaned in, eyes alight. “Also, I tried a sip of beer once. It’s gross. I’m not missing anything.”

  Giselle decided not to inform her that disliking one beer did not necessarily extend to all of them. “Where’s the kitty?” she asked, stopping her search for Rafael to search for a jar.

  “Kitty? Probably hiding under a bed. How do you know they have one?”

  Giselle pulled a few bucks out of her pocket. “No. The kitty. For the drinks.” Her couple bucks was not going to do much for the cost of the fancy-looking kegs of unpronounceable beer, but she couldn’t not contribute.

  “Aw, you’re sweet.” Rawan grabbed Giselle’s cup and proceeded to fix the foamy mess with more hoppy-smelling microbrew. “Don’t worry about it. They can handle the outlay.”

  True point. She repocketed her bills. “Omigods he’s really here.” Giselle’s heart lurched as she finally spotted Rafael in the backyard on rattan furniture, one arm behind Mia—so much ew—and the other shoulder leaned on by Lyssa, his guitarist and stepsister, with whom he appeared to be having an intense conversation. The challenges and frustrations of the last week lifted at the sight of him. His face—on posters and pages ripped from magazines—had been her only stable companion through every move since freshman year of high school. Part of her still couldn’t believe he was real. One of these days, she was going to get up the courage to tell him what his music had done for her.

  “I like the glasses,” Rawan said encouragingly. “What do you think?”

  Giselle wrinkled her nose at the new cuteness. “He looks precious!” Black frames made him look even more like the shy boy next door, while the stubble on his jaw gave him a less polished air than he usually had in class—such a contrast to Coyote’s smooth-faced, bare-chested sensuality.

  And why was she even thinking about Coyote when her idol was right over there?

  “You look gorgeous, girl.” Rawan winked. “Now go out there and talk to him. You can do it!”

  Giselle took a deep breath. She had Coyote to thank for the guts to walk over there. After driving around with him looking like Rafael and then that elevator debacle—fun debacle—facing the real Rafael felt less intimidating. It was a false confidence; Rafael still had zero memories of her where she wasn’t behaving like a mute fangirl. But she could change that right now.

  “Use complete sentences. Ask him what he thinks about Pilgrim’s Progress from English class, then sit back and listen. You got this,” Rawan encouraged, rubbing her shoulder.

  Breathe out. Don’t start with, “You saved my life,” because that’s weird. And... just go do this. Giselle headed outside, heart pounding and beer clutched firmly in hand. When she got within five yards of Rafael, Mia bristled like she’d shoo her away. Giselle straightened her back. If she could fight the fucking Morrigan, she could face down a mean girl. She turned to Rafael and managed in a loudish voice, “How’s the rest of your weekend been?”

  Rafael blinked at her in confusion, and she realized what she’d said.

  She balled her fist, angry at herself. She’d spent time with fake Rafael. Not the real one. There was no rest of his weekend from his perspective.

  Mia laughed at her, and Giselle’s ears burned.

  Rafael, being a nice guy, shot Mia a disapproving look and answered like she’d made sense. “Pretty good. A little intense—long rehearsal today for the tour—but overall good. Yours?”

  Lyssa inhaled through a gemstone-encrusted vape before muttering, “Mopey ass.” She used the vaporizer like a finger, pointing it at Giselle for emphasis. “When the next album is all depressing, navel-gazing introspection, blame college.” She passed the device to Rafael, who took it with a jocular grin.

  “Yeah, I’m really worried about ruining our stellar image as a cocaine-fueled dance project.” He took his own drag and then shot Giselle a questioning look, pointing the end halfway between them. “Speaking of drugs... Warning, it’s not tobacco.”

  Lyssa giggled, and Mia just rolled her eyes.

  Giselle stared at it for a moment. Not that she’d never tried weed, but her life had shown a pretty stark divide between people who got out of shitty places and people who didn’t, and indulgences like that were one piece of it. Rafael, a rich man, could get away with a lot of things she couldn’t.

  He turned it back to himself with a shrug. “No pressure. Just didn’t want you to feel left out.” He took another drag, closed his eyes with a small smile as he held his breath, then passed it to Mia, who took an efficient puff and returned it.

  Her decision came a second too late. She should’ve said yes. As it was, she was standing awkwardly in front of the three of them, so comfortable together, instead of doing something with them. If it was just Rafael, she’d take Rawan’s suggestion and ask about English class and the book, but that seemed weird in front of the other women while they were at a party—totally obvious that she didn’t care about the book, just wanted an excuse to talk to him.

  She should go. This was a failure and a waste of time. Head down in embarrassment, she blushed again. “Well, I’ll, uh...”

  Mia’s stupid fingers came out and waved a too-enthusiastic goodbye at her.

  Giselle turned to leave, but Rafael’s hand grabbed hers. “Wait,” he said.

  His touch was soft but firm, his hand warm. She stared at the connection, the first time she’d made actual contact with the man who’d saved her life. The fangirl inside her fluttered back to life, encouraging her to throw herself at him.r />
  She didn’t. It was a point of pride in her self-control.

  He jerked his hand back. “Sorry. I’m touchy.”

  Lyssa snorted. “She’s fine with it, Rafe.”

  He grinned boyishly up at her, his beautiful brown eyes full of laughter that seemed to say he knew Lyssa was right. Giselle crossed her arms, her undrunk beer awkwardly sticking out next to her elbow.

  “Not to be a dick and put you on the spot, but I’m going to be a dick and put you on the spot. How long have you been listening?”

  Rage Riot was quite possibly her favorite topic. If he wanted to talk about his band, she could talk or listen for however long he wanted while awkwardly standing or comfortably sitting or, hell, fighting Ishtar for control of her own body. This was a great topic.

  She tentatively sat on the edge of the glass coffee table across from them. “I found you guys on YouTube when I was fourteen—so, five years ago.” Then she grinned, her cheeks heating up with equal parts pride and embarrassment, and she took her first swallow of hipster beer to help cool herself off. It was definitely hoppy. Or something. Gross. She set it down. “I have the GaRage Tapes—I bought them from your shop, no piracy. Still got the poster art.”

  “GaRage Tapes?” Mia asked like she had no idea what that was, and Giselle couldn’t help shooting her a smirk. Yeah, who’s the real fan here?

  Rafael cracked an impressed smile, exactly the way she’d imagined in hopeful fantasies. “When I was in high school,” he answered Mia, “back when it was Lyssa, Lance, and I and a drummer from our school instead of Jada, we released a ridiculously titled album and sold it off our website. Lance made artwork, and we sent posters out to people who bought it.” He grabbed a beer off the table next to hers and drank it. “The label, of course, made us quit selling them when we signed, so you gotta be an old-school fan to have it. At least, a nonpirated copy.”

  Mia snickered. “I bet that’s pretty funny to listen to now.”

  Giselle shook her head. “No, it’s really good. That and Icon are my favorite albums.”

  Rafael turned to his sister. “Scoot your ass over.” She grumbled as he forced her to move by scooting over himself until there was a gap between him and Mia. Before Mia could follow his movement, he patted the space, inviting Giselle to sit.

  This time she didn’t hesitate. She plopped herself right down next to him and managed not to smile victoriously as Mia shot her a look of warning. A wave of euphoria passed over her as her hip pressed against Rafael’s. It was like she’d finally made it. Life achievement unlocked—hanging with Rafael Marquez. The real one.

  Through the window, Rawan gave her a thumbs-up.

  “Omigods,” Giselle mouthed back as unobtrusively as she could.

  And then Rafael’s arm stretched along the back of the couch, not touching her, just behind her, and she nearly fainted. Just beneath the scent of marijuana, his light cologne of ocean and rain reminded her briefly of Coyote’s earth and rain. It was different, but similar enough that the fake pleasure of the car ride and being able to latch onto him with abandon confused her senses. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to do something stupid, like treat Rafael like she knew him.

  “Okay, uhh... Gabrielle?” Rafael asked, eyes narrowing in concentration.

  Ugh, reality check. “Giselle.” Her stomach dropped, and she couldn’t decide if she was more disappointed he couldn’t remember her name or ecstatic he’d gotten close.

  “Ah, sorry.” Then he looked aghast and pulled his arm away. “Also sorry. I smoke and manspread.”

  “She doesn’t mind,” the two other women said, almost in unison.

  He waved the vaporizer her way. “Sure you don’t want any? I’m easier to put up with blunted. So are they. Especially this one.” He patted his sister on the leg, and she stuck her tongue out.

  Dammit, Giselle would never forgive herself. One drag. That was it. She reached for the device, hoping she could figure out how to use it without looking like an idiot first. He held on. “I’m not trying to pressure you or anything. You can stay either way.”

  She grinned at him. “I know.”

  He passed the bling-laden device with a wink. “Careful. Lyss found the good stuff.” His hands came forward and slapped his knees. “Okay, I had a reason for you to sit down.”

  Giselle tried just inhaling, and the strangest smoke she’d ever breathed made her eyes water as the high seemed to hit her almost instantly. “Holy...” She breathed out, taking in as little of the intoxicating mess as possible. Getting stoned was not smart. Not for her.

  “I know, right?” he said, giddy with it.

  Lyssa smacked him in the chest. “After months of sermonizing on sobriety, this asshole comes back from some party last week fiending after the perfect cannabis.”

  “It’s life altering. We need it for Lance to ween him off the hard shit. And this isn’t even the stuff yet. Close. Not it.”

  Ande had loads of good weed—or at least Coyote had been impressed. Maybe she could get her former mentor to tell her the name of it? Not that they were speaking at the moment.

  She imagined the conversation: No, I’m not coming home—still hanging with my rich boy toy, as you called him—but could you give me the name of that drug he really liked? Nothing said “responsible adult” like leaving your mentor for sex and drugs. Not that she and Coyote were having sex.

  Wait... Coyote had been impressed with Ande’s pot about a week ago. She glanced back at Rafael, a wild suspicion crossing her mind.

  There was no way. Nobody was stupid enough to disguise himself as... himself.

  Or clever enough?

  But Coyote, while he could carry a tune all right, didn’t have anything resembling Rafael’s glorious tenor. And he smelled like earth, not sea. And he was safe, but he wasn’t always nice—like Rafael.

  And anyway, she’d know. Right? They’d both know. You couldn’t work that closely with someone, then see them two hours later and not feel in your gut the camaraderie of spending the afternoon battling gods side by side. She felt awe in Rafael’s presence. She felt... kinda buzzing on one hit of superweed. She felt nervous and excited and ready to do something stupid if he asked her to, just to one day be able to say she had.

  But she didn’t feel like they were a team—not by a long shot.

  “I’m not on topic!” Rafael said, hand slicing through the air definitively before he swung to face her, high as fuck. “Which is our worst album?”

  She shrank back. “What?”

  “You heard me. Which is our worst album? Is it—”

  “No!” Lyssa said. “You can’t tell her which one to pick. She’ll say whatever she thinks you want to hear.”

  “Why are you asking me this?” Giselle asked. The answer was, of course, obvious—the latest one. But she couldn’t just say that, right? Did he really want her to be honest?

  He waved his hand again, and it landed on her shoulder. “Because you are a real fan—the kind that goes way back. Your opinion matters.”

  “Stan, more like,” Mia muttered. Giselle ignored her.

  “So by your estimation, did the fourth album feel like”—he sounded like he was quoting something—“‘a regurgitated bricolage of pop-fueled, by-the-number hits’?”

  She sucked back a laugh. “I, uh... don’t know what bricolage means.”

  Mia leaned over and patted his leg. “Critics don’t like pop anthems and dance music—but people do. Don’t listen to them. Everyone loves it.”

  “Sales!” Lyssa added, poking him in the shoulder. “Best yet.”

  But Rafael continued to look at Giselle. “Bricolage. Mélange. Mixture. In this case, a hot-mess cash cow instead of authentic expression.”

  She blushed under his scrutiny, but he seemed to actually want her to speak, so she tried. “First off, I’m not much of a dancer. I listen to music to, well, listen to music. So I’m less your target market for the latest album.”

  “You’ve been listenin
g since the beginning. You’re exactly my target market.”

  His intensity made her squirm. “Well, it... I wouldn’t call it a cash-cow mess. I mean, I think you could probably write amazing music while drunk in a fistfight and half deaf from an explosion. You’re a genius.” And, oh, that didn’t sound totally, pathetically fangirl of her.

  A slow smile dragged across his face, a little smug but mostly amused. “Nice flattery. Now rip off the Band-Aid.”

  She was going to tell Rafael Marquez, to his face, what she really thought. She screwed up her expression. “One of my favorite things about your songs is the emotion. Everything on Whirlwind was catchy and fun, but it didn’t...” She couldn’t think of a good word, so she just pressed her palm over her heart. “With a couple exceptions, I didn’t feel it. Not like I usually do.”

  Rafael turned to Lyssa. “From the mouth of the fans.”

  “A fan. A single fan.” Lyssa turned to Giselle, a playful frustration in her eyes. “You’re not helping.”

  “Oh, she’s helping,” Rafael insisted. “That’s what I’ve been trying to say! Music should feel like something. Not just make noise to fill the void.”

  Lyssa looked like she was going to argue back, but they were interrupted by Brad, the host, bringing out a guitar. “There’ve been several requests. Not sure how much longer I can hold people off. Would you mind?”

  Giselle just about salivated at the thought. An intimate show? Rafael Marquez? Heaven!