Starting from Zero (Starting from 1)

“The term was ambiguity infringement, smartass,” he huffed without heat, turning to dispose of his cigarette. “And I was talking about my godson.”

“My bad.” I rubbed my arms and shot a faux-innocent smile at him. “I didn’t mean to get too personal.”

“Yeah, you did.” He stepped in front of me, closer than he’d been before. “I’m single.”

“Good to know,” I said.

“What about the guy you kissed before you went onstage?”

I winced. “I probably shouldn’t have done that. We’re just friends. Tegan’s our drummer. He was going to play bass tonight, but—ugh. I don’t want to think about the mess I got us into. Let’s talk ice cream. What’s your favorite flavor?”

“I love it all.”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, please. Name two.”

“Mint chip and chocolate.”

“Good choices. I like chocolate chip and chocolate. But I like the basic real stuff. Not designer brands that claim to have fewer calories in fancy containers. I don’t eat much of it, though. Ice cream is a luxury item.”

He looked at me like I was an alien. “Ice cream is essential,” he deadpanned.

I snickered as I folded my arms across my chest to ward off the chill when the wind whistled along the sidewalk. “When you’re on a tight budget, it’s a n-nice to have, not a need to h-have.”

“Hmph. It’s cold out here. Do you want to go back inside?”

“No,” I replied quickly.

“Me either.”

We stared at each other for a long moment, letting traffic and pieces of nearby conversation filter between us.

“If your friend is looking for you, maybe you should—”

“He’s not,” he replied quickly. “What about you?”

“My people know I’m weird. They probably figure I won’t stick around.”

His lips quirked in amusement. “Then come have a drink with me.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

I grinned. The casual invitation delivered with the perfect note of nonchalance was hard to resist. “All right.”

With a heightened sense of awareness, I watched him move to the valet kiosk and hand the attendant a ticket. Maybe this was crazy. Then again, that was all the more reason to follow him. ’Cause in my book, crazy was another name for adventure.

Of course, when his Porsche pulled up a few minutes later, I had second thoughts. He could be a psycho. Or a stalker. No, I wasn’t stalker-worthy yet. Thankfully, curiosity kicked in before I could overthink. Wealthy older people who slummed it at dive bars usually came with a backstory. They liked places that reminded them of simpler times when being cool meant shredding their hand-me-down jeans and using lipstick for face paint. Now they found themselves following fashion trends from people half their age who paid big bucks for jeans with holes already in them. A night at a dive bar was like a temporary time machine for those who wanted to forget they had mortgages, car payments, and jobs with benefits to deal with in the morning. None of those were bad things, but they were so damn…adult.

Real adult. Not fake adult like me. My driver’s license claimed I’d been a legal adult for eight years. Most days, I wasn’t so sure. But the man whizzing down Sunset Boulevard knew exactly who he was. And what he liked.

I twisted in my seat and gestured toward the dashboard. “Your Silent Face” by New Order lit up the screen and a moment later, a synthesized violin track blasted through the stereo. “I haven’t heard this song in forever.”

“You like it?”

“Yeah. I grew up listening to this stuff. My mom was a teenager in the eighties. She liked seventies rock too. Led Zeppelin, the Stones, David Bowie. But New Wave British bands were her favorite. The Cure, Duran Duran, Depeche Mode. She liked some weird ones too, like Altered Images. Their ‘Happy Birthday’ was our official birthday song when we were kids. She would blast it first thing in the morning. Rory freaking loved it,” I said with a laugh.

“Ha. I loved that song too. Your mom sounds cool.”

“She used to be,” I said, facing forward. “She’s judgmental and unhappy now. She wasn’t like that when we were kids. Life got to her. I don’t know when exactly; it must have been a gradual thing. She was a kickass single mom. She didn’t need or want my dad’s help and when Rory’s dad left, she seemed sad but still strong, you know? She masked her pain with alcohol, put a smile on her face, and did what needed to be done. When her drinking became an issue, she gave it up and found God. I’d be all for it if she was happy, but she’s not. She won’t let herself enjoy any of the things she loved when she was younger. It’s like she’s punishing herself and us, by association.”

“Rory is your brother?”

“Yeah. He was there tonight with his boyfriend,” I said.

“He’s gay?”

“Bi. Like me. And I’m assuming you too. Or am I misreading this? I probably should have asked that before I jumped into your very fast car. Dude, feel free to drive within twenty miles of the speed limit,” I chided as he whizzed around a slower-moving vehicle on Sunset.