Song for the Dead (Ada Palomino 2)

This band is insane.

They’re all dressed in costume, making them look like ridiculous monsters (and I can say that, because I’ve seen real monsters), and there’s like fake blood spraying all over the place.

And the music is awful. I mean, I like some heavy stuff, I have a metal-head older sister whose music collection has grown on me, but this is just nonsense.

But it’s fun nonsense and everyone here seems to be enjoying themselves, rocking out and what not. Helps that everyone is drunk.

Speaking of…

“Let’s get a drink,” I tell Max, tapping him on the arm. “The balcony probably has less of a line.”

He grabs my hand and leads me through the crowd and up the stairs, everyone parting for us, and I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of following him. Think I might follow him everywhere.

Because you’re in love with him, dumbass.

Crap. That can’t really be true, can it?

I’ve been in love before, I know what it feels like.

It feels different this time around.

Maybe it’s because I really know Max. That we’ve been friends for so long, even if there was this break in the middle, that there’s this basis of friendship in which we’re building upon, making it seem deeper, more stable, more…rooted. Safe. Real.

Maybe you need to stop overanalyzing your feelings and just enjoy the now, I remind myself.

Because that’s the other thing.

I don’t want to be in love with Max.

Not so soon after what happened with Jay.

But I don’t want him to be a rebound either because he’s so much more than that to me.

And then, what if I lose him?

What if I can’t keep him?

What if I can’t save him in the end?

Then what?

“What will you have?” Max asks me as we get in line for the bar, snapping me out of my thoughts, thoughts I hope he’s in the dark about.

“A beer,” I tell him. “But in a bottle, not on draft.” Then I notice the other line is getting shorter. “Hey, you go in that line and I’ll stay in this one and we’ll see who gets service first.”

“Yeah, but if I go in that line, and you get to the front first, you have to pay.”

“I can handle it,” I tell him.

He kisses me on my temple, making my heart do a loop-de-loop in my chest, and then walks over to the other line.

Unfortunately, people are slooooow and both lines are taking forever.

“Hey,” some guy says from beside me.

I glance at a dude in a Gwar T-shirt, a pretty boy with blond hair and nice eyes and the kind of expression that tells me he thinks all the ladies want him. Not me though. Even if I wasn’t with Max, I’d never go after a guy who wears the band’s tee to the concert.

“Hi,” I say uneasily, my brows pulling together. “Do I know you?”

In other words, you a demon?

He smiles. Not a demon. Possible veneers though.

“No,” he says. “Just noticed you’re here alone.”

“Uh, I’m not alone.” I look over his shoulder at Max who is frowning at us from the other line, a hard edge to his jaw. “My boyfriend is over there.”

I mean, I don’t think Max is really my boyfriend, I have no idea what the hell we are, but for this moment he totally is.

The guy looks over his shoulder, but I don’t think he’s looking at Max because he says. “That guy? You can do better than that.”

There is some scrawny little short dude with overgrown sideburns standing right beside Max, so maybe he thinks that’s my boyfriend?

“Glad you seem to think so. Now, if you’ll go away, that would be great.” I make the shooing motions with my hands.

“Hey, I’m trying to be nice,” the guy says, his expression changing, voice getting testy, “you’re being rude.”

My mouth drops open. “Rude? You think this is rude? Honey, you have no idea who you’re dealing with. Now get the fuck out of here before I kick your ass.”

“Oh, your boyfriend can’t do that for you?”

“I can,” Max says from behind the guy, voice low and threatening. He towers over the guy, the expression in his eyes growing dark and oh my god Max, please don’t Darth Vader this guy.

“Max,” I warn him.

The dude turns, stares up at Max. I expect him to cower and apologize and walk away, but he doesn’t. I guess he has some sort of foolish pride to think he’ll survive it if Max punches downward.

“Strawberry Shortcake here?” the guy says, pointing at Max. “What decade did you come crawling out of, the fifties?”

Max is wearing his leather jacket, white t-shirt, his hair pushed off his head in an Elvis/James Dean hybrid, so the insult does have some legs.

“Actually, the fifteen-hundreds,” Max says idly. “And I suggest you get the fuck out of here unless you’re looking for trouble. If you are looking for trouble, then you’ve come to the right place.”