Chapter 4 #2
I grinned, with no malice in it. Truth was, I liked her clueless aristocracy. She wasn’t fake. She wasn’t trying to impress. She was just her polished, privileged, and absolutely unprepared for this world self. But she’d still shown up. And that did it for me.
Michelle flipped open my vest and, with the skill of a professional shopper, found a hidden pocket I hadn’t even known existed. She tucked her jewels inside.
“Better?” she asked.
I nodded, resisting the urge to applaud. She was the most unexpected thing to happen to me in a long time, but I stayed cool. Because tonight, I was Michelle’s one-night rebellion. And I did not intend to disappoint.
“You dirty up nicely,” I said, escorting her over the dry, patchy lawn.
“Thank you. And you don’t need the vest.” Her gaze lingered with mischief. “The fewer clothes you wear, the better. Now, take me inside this death trap and give me something to lie about.”
The teenage bouncer saw us coming and waved us in. Michelle crab-walked through the door like it was nothing, but once inside, things rapidly soured. Her nose wrinkled in horror.
“Oh, my god.” She pinched it closed. “What is that smell?”
“I warned you,” I said, my own eyes watering. My tongue recoiled, and for a few brutal seconds I fought to hold down my licorice dinner. But I knew from experience that the stench would fade into the background, like radiation. Still there, just part of the ecosystem.
“Give it a second or two,” I said. “You’ll get used to it.”
“One. Two.” Michelle uncovered her nose, took a sniff, then clamped it again.
“You have to keep it open for my strategy to work,” I said. So helpful.
Like a champ, she uncovered her nose again, braced, and then inhaled Charlie’s final parting gift. I watched her slow, disgusted acceptance.
“There you go.” I nodded encouragingly.
The worst of it passed. Michelle frowned. “You better be worth it, Scott.”
“I usually am.” I didn’t bother qualifying it. “Best bad decision you’ll make all day.”
“McKallister! Where in the hell…” Allen stopped mid-sentence, his eyes on Michelle in her slip. “Oh, damn. Is this… gas station girl?”
Michelle’s brows lifted, a smile spreading as she pinned her stare on me. “Were you talking about me?”
“I might have mentioned you once,” I said, playing it cool.
“Once?” Allen lifted his hands, framing the moment. “I believe your exact words were the one who got away.”
“That is wildly out of context,” I said, handing Wolfie off to Allen.
“You want me to string him up?” he asked.
“Dude, it’s not complicated—he has hooks. Just clip him on.”
Allen stood there with Wolfie, looking embarrassingly lost.
I exhaled. “Give me three minutes. I’ve gotta pay my respects.”
“Two. He’s already dead.”
Allen stalked off, and I turned back to Michelle.
“Who died?” she asked.
“Right. That part.” I took her arm and steered her toward Charlie’s shrine—a chalk outline shaped like the dead man himself redrawn before every show. Pay your respects to Chalk Line Charlie, then crank the amps. “That smell,” I added, “is the lingering legacy of Charlie Watkins.”
Michelle looked from me to the floor. “Wait—someone actually died here?”
“’Fraid so.”
“Did you kill him?”
I shot her a look. “Seriously?”
“Well, I don’t know!”
“No. Heart attack, stroke—something. Long story short, he wasn’t found for months. Kind of… melted into the floor. Left a stain. The owner tried to sell the place, but there were no takers.” I shrugged. “Go figure.”
“Go figure,” she echoed, deadpan.
“So, it’s coming down once the owner scrapes together the money. Until then, he’s letting his nephew, who just happens to be our bandmate, live here cheap and do whatever he wants, so”—I gestured to the bare studs and Charlie’s chalk outline—“we did this.”
Michelle stared for a long moment before she smiled and whacked me in the arm. “Maybe put that in your flyer next time, jerk.”
“For who? You? Every local already knows the legend of the Allard Street House. It’s part of the allure.”
As if on cue, a headbanger beside us held up a single black jellybean. “For the brave,” he whispered, crossing himself before flicking it into the chalk outline. “May his taste buds rest in peace.”
Michelle’s head cocked as she watched the bean land with a plink in a pile of other obscure items—a cassette tape, an ear plug, one lone tube sock.
“What is happening right now?” she whispered. “Was that a jellybean?”
I nodded. “Charlie hated the black ones.”
“You knew him?”
“No. We just assume… since everyone hates the black jellybeans.”
“…Okay.”
“It’s tradition,” I said.
“It’s insane.”
I pulled a matchbook from my pocket, RIP scrawled in red ink, and tossed it into the outline. “Is it, though? Charlie was a menace when he was alive. Not the guy you want crawling back during a guitar solo.”
Her lip twitched. She bit down on it, fighting her instincts, but the smile broke through anyway. Michelle dug in her purse and pulled out a single wrapped peppermint. “I was saving this in case we kissed later… but you’re right. Chalkline Charlie needs it more.”
“Wait. Back up. You were planning to kiss me?”
“I was keeping the option open… if you blew my mind. But, to be honest, Scott, it’s not looking good for you, so appeasing Charlie’s spirit seems like a better use for my mint.”
“McKallister!” the guys shouted from the stage. “Now!”
“I’m coming,” I yelled back, then turned to Michelle. “I have to go. But don’t give up the peppermint.”
She shivered, leaning into the drama. “Are you sure? Charlie’s resurrection. It’s a risk.”
I grinned. “Screw it. Let Charlie have the mint.”
I cupped her face and kissed her quick and rough, the way the night demanded.