Chapter 29
Twenty-Nine
Hannah
“Word on the street is you’re about to be named head coach of the Blaze,” an unfamiliar voice says as I start signing my name on someone’s shirt.
I pause my pen to look up.
Son of a bitch! Skeevy Steeve. Fucking tabloid scumbag. Dammit! Who told him that?
“No comment,” I say, finishing my signature.
“You had an altercation with a Bruins player’s wife earlier. What was that about?”
“The woman’s a whore,” Granny says.
I cut her a glare that says to shut the hell up, then glance back up at Steve. “No. Comment.”
“Are you in a relationship with Sean Mackenzie?”
“No comment. I can go all damn night, Steve.”
“Alright that’s about e-fucking-nough. You need to leave,” the man who was sitting at the table next to us says, pushing Steve back.
Steve yells something unintelligible across the crowd, trying to work his way back to me, but the same man grabs him by the back of the neck and steers him out the door.
I shake my head, embarrassment flaming my cheeks.
The audacity of people like him. Why can’t they just leave it alone?
They used to do the same shit to my dad.
I spent years watching him handle stuff like this.
Especially when my mom died. It’s bullshit.
Like we aren’t real people and don’t have a right to a private life of our own.
There are some things we don’t want to share with the whole damn world.
The bar fills with cheers, and I glance up at the screen as people high five and whistle.
Petrov skates around the ice, and the team slaps his helmet. I wait for the replay, pissed off that I missed it live. He rears back his stick with a wrist shot and sinks the puck into the net for the winning goal. I pump my fist in the air.
Yes!
Granny holds two palms up, and I clap my hands against hers, grinning ear to ear and forgetting all about Steve. I’m not letting that asshole bring me down tonight. The bartender changes the channel to football, and the crowd winds down enough for me to pull up the app and book a ride home.
When my phone vibrates with a notification that our driver has arrived, I toss a good tip on the table, and wheel Granny out to the car, thanking the man who helped me along the way.
“I feel bad that time was taken away from you. I’m sorry.”
“That was nuts,” she says as I help her into the back seat. “All them people wanting to talk to ya and having ya sign stuff . . . and that guy asking all those personal questions.”
“I don’t get it. There’s nothing special about me, but whatever. It just comes with the territory of being Luke Jenkins’ daughter, I guess.”
“And Hot Stuff’s girlfriend,” she adds, and I laugh.
“Yeah. That too.”
I close her door, then stop to place her wheelchair in the trunk before hopping in the back seat.
She huffs a sigh as I settle in beside her, grumbling under her breath. “I’m not ready to go home yet.”
“What do you wanna do?” I tap my phone screen and open up Safari to google places we can go. It’s late, but the nightlife is in full swing. “There’s a speakeasy around the block.”
“That’s boring. Let’s go to one of those rage things.”
“Rage things? What are you talking about?”
“Ya know . . . the drums with the paint. Like that movie we watched last week. What was the name of it?”
“Miss Congeniality,” I say.
“Yes, that!”
“Ohhh, you mean a rave, not a rage.” I laugh just thinking about her at a place like that. “Sean and Aiden will literally kill us, you know that, right?”
“Fuck ‘em. They’ve held us prisoner long enough,” she argues, then leans forward to speak to our driver. “Sir, ya know a place we can bang on some paint drums?”
He glances over his shoulder, then focuses back on the road. “I know where everything is. You want Molly?”
“Who’s Molly?” Granny asks, causing me to choke out a laugh.
“We don’t need Molly, but thank you,” I tell him.
The man must have a little side hustle if he’s offering us drugs. Maybe we should have him pull over and call for a different car.
“So, The Warehouse?” he asks.
“If that’s where she wants to go, sure.” I shrug, knowing this is probably the worst idea in the history of forever.
The driver drops us off in front of The Warehouse a few blocks over. The bass is so strong it vibrates the soles of my shoes through the sidewalk. A line wraps around the corner of the building, and I follow it, parking Granny’s wheelchair at the end.
“Ever seen anythin’ like that before?” She points at some people in front of us wearing fishnet tank tops with neon bras underneath. Glowsticks light up their faces as they all laugh at something someone in the group says. “They look like a pack of horny highlighters.”
“Jesus, Granny.” I giggle, gripping the handles of her wheelchair and leaning over to speak in her ear. “You can’t say shit like that out loud.”
“Why not? I’m old. I can say whatever the hell I want.” She cranes her neck and calls out, “Hey, boy. Yeah, you with the shorty shorts.”
What the hell is she doing? Oh. My. God. Why the fuck did I agree to this?
“Ya lookin’ to get yer ass spanked?”
“Granny! Stop!” I hiss, glancing around to see who heard her.
Apparently, every single person standing in line, because all sets of eyes are now on us.
“What? His ass is hangin’ out.”
The guy, with his shorts cut high above his muscled-up ass cheeks, prances over and turns around, bending at the waist. I want to close my eyes in pure humiliation, but I can’t look away as he twerks in her face. Granny rears back her hand, landing a hard smack to his ass.
“Yow!” He yells, then turns around, giving her a high five. “You, ma’am, are an icon.”
“Damn straight. Now, where can I find that sweet girl Molly?”
I drag my hands down my face and rethink my life. What the hell am I gonna do with her?
“She’s kidding . . .” I tell him, then lean back over her chair to talk to her. “Molly is a drug, not a girl.”
“Oh. Even better. I survived the 60s, 70s, and 80s.”
“Yeah? Well, that was probably pot. You won’t survive another couple of hours if you take Molly.”
I’m about two seconds from ordering an Uber to drive us home, but the line moves, and we’re almost inside.
God, if Sean and Aiden knew we were here, they would kick my ass.
I round her wheelchair and grip the armrests.
“Listen to me. We’re gonna go in, bang on a few drums, then go home.
You are not to take a drink from anyone, and no Molly . . . or weed.”
“Ya know what yer problem is? Ya need to lighten’ up a little. Do somethin’ wild and crazy.”
“I’ve done wild and crazy. Ask Sean.”
“But ya don’t do shit for yourself without worrying about upsetting other people.”
“It’s called consequences, Granny.”
We’re almost to the door when my phone vibrates in my back pocket. My eyes widen. I don't even have to look to know exactly who it is. I pull the phone out and stare down at the screen.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Sean’s calling,” I say, declining the call. “He’s gonna make us leave if I answer.”
My phone vibrates again, in my hand this time.
I should probably answer it, but I’m scared to upset Sean.
I’ll FaceTime him when we get inside . .
. after we bang on some drums. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission, right?
That possessive asshole would probably charter a helicopter and land it in the street, then drag our asses out.
Instead of sending the call straight to voicemail, I let it continue to vibrate and take in my surroundings.
I’ve never seen anything like this before.
Everyone around us is dressed in neon colors and scantily clad outfits.
How are they not cold? I pull my denim jacket tighter around me to ward off the chill.
“Hi, Hot Stuff . . .”
My blood runs cold at the nickname.
“Yes . . . I’m with Hannah, we’re at a rage.”
Oh fuck. Oh shit. Oh fuck.
“He wants to talk to you.” She holds out her phone, and I take it, covering up the receiver.
“Why did you answer it, traitor?” I hiss and place the phone up to my ear. “Hi, Sean.”
There’s silence on the other end.
“Hello?” I plug one ear so I can hear him.
“What are you doing at The Wearhouse, mi amor?”
“How did you . . .” I trail off, remembering we redownloaded Life360 onto our phones this morning.
Shit.
“Granny asked me to bring her down here . . .”
“I need you to listen to me.”
“I’m listening,” I squeak out.
“Don’t ya give her any shit,” Granny yells so he can hear her. “This was my idea. I wanna beat on paint drums before I die.”
Oh, that manipulative little shit.
He sighs, clearly put out. “Are you safe, baby?”
I pull the phone away from my ear and frown at the screen. That isn’t the reaction I expected. Placing it back up to my ear, I tell him, “We’re good.”
“As soon as we find our friend, Molly, we will be,” Granny yells again.
“Hell, yes! Granny’s not here for a long time, but she’s here for a good time,” someone in the crowd calls back.
She tosses her head back and laughs. “I sure the hell am!”
Is she trying to poke the bear? Yes. I think she is, and she’s getting a kick out of it.
“?Qué chingados!”
“She’s just messing with you, Sean,” I rush out.
“She’s at a rave. Yes. Granny, too,” he says to who I assume is Aiden.
The phone rings in my ear, and I pull it away, answering the FaceTime call. Sean’s handsome face lights up the screen with Aiden standing behind him in the locker room, both of their faces dripping with sweat and their hair drenched.
“Great game. I’m proud of you both!” I say, smiling at them and trying to change the subject.
Sliding in beside Granny, I squat down and hold out her phone so they can see us both. “See. We’re safe.”
“And we’re not leavin’ until I do what I came here to do, so you boys can just get over it. We’re fine,” Granny huffs. “Jesus Christ on a cracker. No man is gonna tell me what to do. That’s for damn sure.”
My eyes widen, and I blink at the screen. “So yeah, there’s that . . . We won’t be here long.”
Aiden steps out of view, shaking his head while Sean cracks a smile. “Be smart and have fun. Do not take drinks from anybody. Will you FaceTime me when you get home?”
Is he serious right now? His mood and his words don’t add up to the reaction I had in my head.
“You’re not mad?” I ask.
“Why would I be mad?”
“O-Okay?”
The music grows louder, and I realize we’re next in line. “They’re about to let us inside. I love you.”
“I love you too, mi amor. Call me when you get back to Aiden’s.”
“I will.”
The phone beeps as he hangs up, and I stand, gaping at the black screen.
Wow. So that was . . . interesting.
“See. I told ya. Ya worry too much about people bein’ mad at ya. Just do yer thing. They’ll get over it, or they won’t.”
“It’s called respect, Granny,” I argue, handing her phone back to her.
“It’s called being a pushover, hun. Life’s too short to live for anyone else.”
Yeah, well, we’ll agree to disagree on that one.
The bouncer holds the door open for us, and excitement courses through me.
I wheel Granny in and glance around at the people gathered in groups, banging on various drum sets in different areas of the lower level.
Granny taps me on the hand, then points at women dressed in bikinis.
The paint, splattered on their skin, glows under the black light and forms patterns as they twirl from aerial rings suspended in the air.
I’m in awe. This is the coolest thing.
I park her in front of a set of drums, then slide in beside her and pick up a few sticks, handing a couple of them to her.
A guy drinking out of a beer hat dances over to us, and squeezes paint onto our drums, then Granny takes the first strike.
A burst of neon colors fly all around us, and pure joy spreads across Granny's face as we beat the toms together, making the biggest mess and having the time of our lives.
Maybe she’s right . . . Maybe I should start marching to the beat of my own drum—no pun intended—and stop worrying about everybody else, because this moment right here . . . hanging out with her . . . is going to be a memory I will never forget once she’s long gone.