Page 2 of Random in Death
“I’ve got to sit a minute,” she said when the song ended. “Make a plan, and— Whoa, I’m sort of floaty. That look!”
“I’m dying.” Chelsea put a hand on her throat, stuck out her tongue. “Need sweet, fizzy hydration.”
“Go, grab our seats, Jenna, and we’ll get drinks. We’ll help with the plan.”
“Solid.”
She felt a little woozy as she tried to get through to their tiny table. Floaty, she thought.
Then the heat came back, but like a million degrees. As she tried to breathe it away, she rubbed at her arm where it felt like a big, pissed-off hornet had taken a bite.
Need that sweet, fizzy hydration, she thought. But then her stomach cramped, and terrified she’d puke and humiliate herself, she tried to bolt to the bathroom.
Jake swiped at sweat as the band’s drummer, Mac, grinned at him. “We still got it, boss.”
“Ain’t never gonna lose it. I’m going out to catch some air. Jesus, you’d think Harve and Glo could get a decent temp control in here.”
“And lose this ambiance?” Renn, keyboard, tossed Jake a tube of water.
“Thanks. Back in five.”
He glanced out at the crowd as he had during the last song in the set, but still didn’t see Nadine. Probably headed for the john—and good luck with that, he thought.
She earned big points for coming with him tonight. Rock It wasn’t a dive or a dump, but as clubs went, it clung to its Alphabet City roots.
Never going to be fancy, never going upscale. And proud of it.
But his ace reporter, bestselling writer, fucking Oscar-winning lady had come on a night that remained important to him and his friends, his bandmates.
It reminded them of their roots, their beginnings. And just how far they’d come.
He made his way through the back of the house—such as it was—and slipped out the alley door.
And breathed.
Even in the sweltering summer of 2061, the air outside blew cooler than in.
He cracked the tube, drank deep.
He smelled the overstuffed recycler, but that didn’t bother him. It, too, reminded him of his roots, the skinny, gangly kid from Avenue A who’d worked after school and weekends to save enough for his first guitar.
He’d written music when he should’ve been studying because the music had been first and last for him. Always.
He remembered busking in subway tunnels with Leon, then Leon and Renn, before they’d hit fifteen. And watching Mac play the drums at their high school’s band concert. Then Art slid right in, and they became Avenue A.
Practicing in the storage room of the apartment building, then in Mac’s uncle’s garage.
Then fast-talking Harve into letting them play, just one gig, before they were old enough to buy a beer.
That one gig turned into two weeks that summer, and ended with a recording contract.
So yeah, an important night to him. Avenue A had a lot of beginnings—that first guitar, Mac’s uncle letting his nephew bang away on an old drum set. His mom telling him to grab a dream and ride it.
A lot of beginnings, and Club Rock It ranked high.
He started to turn to the door, but it flew open. A girl stumbled out.
The kid had a mass of pink-tipped brown hair and wore a tiny black skirt with a midriff-baring red top. Her face was white as chalk, her big brown eyes glassy.