The Trickster's Drum (Godsongs Book 1)

by Jax Garren

“Partied out?” an increasingly familiar voice asked.

  She picked her head up to find Rafael leaning on the porch railing and smiling down at her. Her heart fluttered as his beautiful brown eyes took her in. She tried to get a smile onto her own face but was afraid she just gaped in awe. “First week of school. I’m just a little tired.”

  “Me too.” He leaned back, grabbing the railing and balancing on the edge of the wrong side of the porch like a kid. In her wildest imagination, he’d never been so... guileless. He leaned back in and whispered at her like they were co-conspirators. “So I snuck out.” He put his finger to her lips and shushed her—he was still stoned. “Shh, don’t tell anyone.”

  That made her grin. “Your secret’s safe with me.” She’d just told Coyote that.

  A smile erupted across his face like she’d made his night. “I don’t know why, but I think it is.” He went back to leaning, this time letting go of the railing and grabbing on again before he fell. “Are you leaving, too? Or just taking a break?”

  She shrugged. “I was thinking of bailing, but I got a ride with someone and I’m not sure she’s ready yet.” She smirked at the memory of Rawan and Malik and what she had no interest in walking in on again. But probably would at some point.

  “Hm,” Rafael said thoughtfully. “So, I played you a concert.” He folded forward over the railing, once again in her space, smelling clean and sweet and oh so delicious. “It was for you, you know, my number one fan. Could you do me a favor in return? If you’re ready to go, that is.”

  The smile he turned on was the most irresistible thing Giselle had ever seen. The sheer wattage of handsome, pleading man-power was enough to make her wet just looking at him, and she nodded, licked her lips, and somehow managed to spit out, “Uhh... sure.”

  He dug in his pocket. “I was gonna call a Lyft, but then I’d have to leave my car here. Think you could drive me home?” He produced keys. “I shouldn’t be driving.”

  “You want me to drive your car?” she asked, flabbergasted.

  He pulled the keys back. “Can you drive? I didn’t see you drink much, and I only saw you take one little drag like an hour ago. But maybe I missed something. Don’t kill Rafael Marquez. You’d never live it down.”

  She hopped up, anxious and eager. “I’m sober. I had two sips of a beer and inhaled once, and I was so nervous I didn’t even inhale that much—I’m too paranoid to get stoned. See?” She put her arms out and tapped her nose with one finger then the other. “I can walk a line if you want.”

  He laughed, said, “We’re cool,” and put a hand on her shoulder. “I already decided to trust you.” He held the keys back out, and she took them, barely holding in a squeal of delight.

  After a quick text to Rawan, she followed Rafael to his car, a cherry-red Audi Spyder with the top down—one of the many cars her ex-boyfriend at the home had lusted after.

  Not a Porsche. Definitely not black. Some small part of her had wondered if it would be.

  She unlocked the doors with Rafael’s keys and a giant smile. Coyote hadn’t let her drive his car, but Rafael? Yeah, he was nice. And smart about not driving under the influence. Coyote probably would’ve just driven off, like he had last night after chugging whatever was in that cup.

  Why did she keep comparing them? Just stop. Be here now. With Rafael. Omigods, do not pinch yourself, because you do not want to wake up.

  She sank back into the supple, tan leather and buckled the seat belt. “Anything I need to know about driving a fancy-ass car? Because this is new to me.”

  He leaned in again, and she decided she was going to have to live with arrhythmia whenever he was around—her heart just wouldn’t stay regular any time she looked into his eyes. “The accelerator works really well,” he deadpanned.

  “Yeah, I figured that.” She eased the car out of the spot, then accelerated. The car jumped forward, and she yelped at the sudden jerk against her seat belt.

  Rafael laughed. “I told you it worked well.”

  She tried again, giving only the slightest pressure to the pedal, and achieved a smooth forward motion.

  He leaned in and said with a voice full of bad behavior. “I’ll pay the ticket if you get one.”

  “It’ll still go on my driving record!”

  “Cautious, huh?”

  “You have no consequences, do you?”

  Weirdly, he sighed and fell back into his seat. “Not many. It worries me sometimes.”

  She clucked her tongue at his sudden glumness. “You’re a nice man. Do you know how few of those there are? You don’t need consequences.”

  “Everyone needs consequences.” He picked at an invisible spot on his jeans. “Besides, nice and worth a damn aren’t the same thing.”

  “You’re—”

  He flipped on the radio, interrupting her with a forced laugh. “Don’t listen to me. I’m having a quarter-life crisis. I live at the Fargo Tower.”

  “Yeah, I know,” she said, trying to figure out how to get back to telling him exactly how worth a damn he was.

  “You... know?” he asked, shooting her a wary look.

  Oh shit. “I’m not stalking you! My friend lives there—not Rawan, another friend. She”—Coyote was now a she—“told me you lived there too. I guess I should’ve verified with you that she was telling the truth.”

  “Oh.” He settled comfortably back into the seat. “What’s your friend’s name? Maybe I’ve met her.”

  “Br—Brianna,” busted out of her mouth, and she could have hit herself. Why her mother’s name had almost popped out was beyond her. “We’re actually, like, distant cousins. Look a little alike.” Just shut up!

  Rafael shot her another killer grin. “She must be pretty then.”

  The compliment combined with the panty-dropping smile made her whole body heat up. “You’re a mess.”

  “I am. I really am.” Rage Riot’s latest single came on, and he flipped to another station... which was also playing his music, albeit an older song. With a frustrated grunt, he reached for the radio again.

  She beat him to it, turning the volume down but protecting the station. “‘Searchlight’ is one of my favorite songs. Not favorite of yours, favorite songs period.”

  He frowned out the windshield. “Thanks.”

  Nerves clutched at her stomach as she made a decision to take the opportunity that had presented itself and run with it. “You said something earlier, and I want to address it,” she said quickly, trying to get the words out before he stopped her. Or before she lost her nerve. “I know you want to change the subject, but please let me say this, and then we can talk about whatever you want or nothing at all. But let me tell you something. Please.”

  He looked back at her, curiosity and caution in his eyes. “Go on.”

  She’d imagined telling him this so many times that the momentousness of what she was doing dropped heavily on her, tying her tongue and squeezing her insides. Which of the nine billion versions she’d playacted should she make the reality? In any other circumstances it would be too soon to tell deeply personal stories, but she might never get another chance to thank Rafael Marquez for saving her life. She cleared her throat and swallowed, trying to work past the lump that had formed there. In her imagination it had never been this hard.

  “You okay?” he asked. “You don’t have to tell me anything.”

  “No, I want to. Just... just give me a moment.” Giselle stared at the dark, empty road before them and figured out where to start.

  Chapter 24

  “YOU SAID NICE IS DIFFERENT than worth a damn, and while, yeah, I agree with you, you’re both. To me.” Giselle’s voice was soft but intense—the best she could do.

  Rafael sighed dismissively, and she wondered how many false compliments a person had to receive before he rejected them so readily. “Thank you, but—”

  “Please wait.” Tears sprang to her eyes, embarrassing her, but she was too terrified of crashing Rafael’s car to let go of the stee
ring wheel and wipe them away. “My mother died when I was thirteen.” Again her mouth was getting away with her.

  She’d been thirteen when Sofia had been executed, and Ellen Jackson, who hadn’t contacted her in six years, had reached out to make sure she knew her mother was dead. Giselle still didn’t know if the woman had been trying to hurt her or had felt it was her duty to pass the news on. Maybe both.

  Sofia’s death shouldn’t have bothered Giselle—she’d never met her, didn’t even know her name at the time. But the news had shaken her badly.

  In some ways, she could pinpoint that moment as the start of her downward spiral, the event that made hope a useless thing to cling to. After that day she could no longer tell herself the lie that her nameless, faceless mother would be exonerated, they’d reunite, and she’d have a family again. As of that day, she’d had to accept that she was completely alone.

  So she supposed it made sense to give that version of the story to Rafael. Besides, it was safer telling him a different version of events than the one she’d told Coyote yesterday. One story for Giselle’s life, one story for Freyja’s.

  “Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry. My dad died in a car accident when I was nine. You might’ve known that. I know how devastating that is.”

  She nodded. “And your sister. You wrote a beautiful song for her.” Out of her periphery, she watched him give a noncommittal nod. When he didn’t say anything else, she continued. “I didn’t have family to go to and was in the foster system.”

  His voice got real soft. “I have another friend who grew up in the foster system. She started when she was younger, though. I didn’t realize it was that common.”

  She blew out a breath and didn’t correct his assumption about when she’d gone in. “Twenty-eight thousand of us in the state of Texas alone.” She frowned. “Not that I’m counted in that number anymore. Anyway, it’s... not great.” To say the least. “When I was almost seventeen, I was getting moved again, back to a shelter I hated desperately, and it meant I’d have to switch schools—again—midyear, when I’d just finally gotten the hang of the one I was in. I... I really didn’t want to go.” She took a shuddering breath. “Like, I honestly believed anything was better than going back. Anything at all. I couldn’t see a future past that for me.”

  His posture softened, and she could tell he was really listening.

  She couldn’t look at him, though, and it wasn’t just the car anymore. “I had something to look forward to that day, though. And you can say it’s stupid or crazy or whatever, but you guys were releasing ‘Searchlight’”—she tapped the radio, where Rafael had just started on the chorus—“and I wanted to hear it. I had what I thought was the... the solution to my problems.” She couldn’t say the word gun. “And I figured I’d listen to the song, and that would be a good way to go. End on a high note, you know? Before things got bad again.”

  His voice was thick and soft as he said, “By go, you don’t mean back to the shelter.” He put a hand on her leg, not in a romantic way, more like he was trying to hold her in place. The anchor comforted her, making it easier to continue.

  She shook her head, still not looking at him. “Gods, you don’t even know me, and I’m telling you this shit. I need you to know, though, that you matter. What you do matters. I heard your song, and I didn’t do it. You sang how fate doesn’t come for free. How you have to fight for things, even if they’re meant to be. And I’d never thought about it that way. I thought either life was completely random—and if you’d seen the unfair shit I’ve seen, you’d understand why it’s easy to believe life has no meaning or plan. Because the other option, that events are set, meant fate had decided to fuck me over and over, right? And there were—are—so many people who have it worse than me.

  “But that idea that I had a fate—or I could, anyway, but I’d never know unless I fought for it—it made me put down the gun, and I just... I just decided I was a fighter.” She breathed in heavily, wishing she wasn’t crying so much, but there it was, a raw and real confession to the man whose creation had saved her. “I’m still not sure I believe in fate—no offense—but after that, whenever things got really bad, I’d sing that song and... it helps.” She finally risked a small glance at him as she pulled up in front of the valet. His attention was riveted to her, but his expression was inscrutable. She forged ahead, staring at her lap as the valet walked over to her side. “So don’t ever talk like you don’t matter. What you do mattered a whole lot to me when I needed it most.”

  The door opened. Rafael grabbed a ten from an envelope in the console, unbuckled his seat belt, and leaned over her to hand it to the valet. “Come inside with me? I’ll call you a Lyft or something to get home,” was all he said.

  She nodded and got out of the car, unsure what he intended by that but relieved she was finally able to wipe off the stupid water dripping from her eyes. She hurried around his fancy car and up the short staircase to where Rafael waited for her. Looking him in the face was hard now that he knew what she’d almost done—the most embarrassing secret of all her secrets—and words started tumbling from her mouth to fill the silence. “You can forget that whole story—”

  “I don’t think I’m going to.”

  “—from the girl who probably has raccoon eyes from stupid mascara. This is why I never wear makeup. Not that I go around crying all the time. I never cry. I actually just hate makeup; that’s why I don’t wear it. Makeup sucks.” A babbling nerd.

  “Can I hug you? I’m not sure if I’m asking because I think you need one or I need one.” Rafael looked so serious, like maybe he did need a hug, and so she nodded.

  And right where she’d draped herself around Coyote-looking-like-Rafael, the real Rafael put his arms around her and pulled her against his chest. She tentatively wrapped her arms around his waist and sank into him. He felt so good, and not just in a desire sort of way. He held her like it meant something. For not the first time tonight, she closed her eyes and let herself exist fully in a beautiful moment—the kind that was worth living for, worth fighting every moment between to get to.

  “Thank you for telling me that,” he whispered. “It was good for me to hear it.”

  As if in a daze, they hinged apart, his arm still over her shoulders, and they walked to the elevators together. The same one Coyote had tried to kiss her in opened, of course, and she wondered what Rafael would do if she tried to kiss him.

  Inside, he pulled away before she could make a move and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “You want a drink or anything when we get up?” He threw a hand out as if to ward off what she was thinking. “I’m not hitting on you.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that, so she just leaned against the wall as the doors closed.

  He looked at her so earnestly—boyishly, she’d almost call it. “Believe me, three months ago if you’d offered, I’d be all over—” He cleared his throat, his ears turning red. “I mean, I’d have said yes. You’re sweet and you’re beautiful. But—and I hope you don’t mind me telling you this—there’s this woman.” The coral in his ears traveled to his cheeks, giving him a darling blush. “I want to wait for her, in case she’ll ever give me a chance.”

  Everything from his admission that he found her attractive to the notion that he was in love with somebody made her emotional ping-pong worse. The affection in his voice when he talked about the other woman, though, was the kind of pure awe she’d always desired and never imagined anyone could feel for her. It was precious to see her idol was capable of such sweet devotion—gods, of course he was; Rafael Marquez was literally perfect—even if it wasn’t for her. She managed to keep her voice almost steady as she said, “The brown-eyed girl.”

  “Huh?”

  He looked confused, so she prompted, “The brown-eyed girl from the song you sang today. Together you’ll make the world right.” Brown like Mia’s? He didn’t act like he was in love with her, but maybe he was better at pretending than she was. She racked her brain for other brown
-eyed women at the party or in class and came up blank for anyone he’d paid any special attention to.

  He blinked at her, apparently still stoned stupid, then shot her a small smile. “Yeah. Her.”

  Giselle took his hand, and he let her. “She’d be crazy to not give you every chance in the world.” There was no question in her mind that Mia would happily parade him around like a prize horse on Derby Day, if that was who he wanted. Suddenly shy, she backed up, dropping his hand almost as soon as she’d grabbed it. “And if you hit on me, I’d probably say yes, but then English on Monday would be hella awkward—for me anyway—and this is better.” And it was, even if the call to touch his hopeful fire, to be a part of it for just one night, burned like crazy in her. But it was one thing to be ships passing in the night, never to cross paths again. It was another to sit across from him all semester reimagining her one night with the dream after he’d moved on. Possibly with Mia, though she was having a hard time seeing that.

  The doors opened, and Rafael pulled out his keys as he headed for his room—the one opposite the apartment she shared with Coyote. “So... drink? Or coffee while I call you a ride?”

  A ride back home to an empty dorm room sounded like the worst thing. The door to the lair was right there, and even though it would be empty, too, it called to her. “Nah. I think I’m just going to go downstairs to Brianna’s and crash there. No ride needed.”

  He looked like he might argue, then his eyes filled with understanding and he nodded. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.”

  He walked back to the elevator, put one hand on the door to stop it from closing, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Goodnight, Giselle. See you Monday.”

  She wanted to place her hand where his lips had graced her and promise never to wash her face again, but she made a joke instead. “Sure it’s not Gabrielle?”

  His nose wrinkled up and he looked away in a brief bout of embarrassment. Then his gaze found hers again, and he smiled impishly. “Or was it Graciele? No, Glendabelle.”