Chapter 20 Scott - Take on Me
SCOTT: TAKE ON ME
The smell of something burning yanked me out of a half-nap on the couch.
I sat up, my ribs protesting, and squinted toward the kitchenette.
Michelle was standing in front of the plug-in electric stove, a cloud of steam rising around her.
With her hair tied back and her tongue just peeking out, she looked determined, if completely out of her element.
“Everything okay in there?” I called.
“As long as you like your chicken extra crispy, then yes, it’s wonderful,” she said, frowning at the pan.
I grinned and eased back onto the cushion. It had been ten days since the beating. The swelling was down, though every laugh, cough, or sudden movement still felt like getting sucker-punched by her father’s enforcer.
“Cool. Didn’t know we were doing the ‘house fire’ special again tonight.”
“Every night unless you want to trade places.”
I grabbed my stomach and groaned. “I would, but your dad beat the shit out of me.”
She glanced over, her cheeks pink from the heat and a strand of hair stuck to her forehead.
“How long are you going to hold that over my head?”
“As long as I’m still pissing blood.”
Michelle went back to burning the chicken.
Hard to believe the girl who used to sip champagne at yacht club brunches was now standing in my peeling-linoleum kitchen, wearing one of my T-shirts and looking happier than I’d ever seen her.
She’d sort of just moved in after I got home from the hospital.
Maybe at first it was guilt, but it didn’t feel like that anymore.
We’d fallen into an easy rhythm, talking for hours about nothing and everything.
If I hadn’t known her before this week, I did now.
And I loved her more every day. Since my mom died, no one had taken care of me like that.
Not because they had to. Because they wanted to.
It wasn’t about needing help. It was about wanting it from her. For the rest of my life.
And with her here, the apartment even looked almost respectable.
There were flowers in an empty beer bottle on the table.
She’d scrubbed the counter, organized the drawers, and brought little bits of order to my disarray.
I hadn’t realized how deprived I’d been until Michelle started filling the place with unnecessary luxuries like colorful towels, shaggy rugs, and even a goddamn dish rack.
I didn’t need any of it, but I liked the way she said we did.
Michelle had bought the flowers, the luxury items, and the chicken she was currently burning all back when her credit card still worked.
It didn’t anymore. She’d found that out while filling the Shaggin’ Wagon with gas.
Now the only thing she had left from that life of hers was her carry-on, currently lying open in the corner, the scent of fancy lotion drifting through the room.
I couldn’t help worrying that when the lotion ran out, so would my luck.
“Dinner will be ready in…” She glanced over her shoulder with a sheepish grin. “I have no idea.”
“Take your time,” I said. “I love watching you try.”
“Any sign of Zonk?” Michelle asked.
I shook my head, trying to keep it casual.
All week I’d been downplaying his absence.
Zonk had disappeared before and always found his way back to his stash of licorice.
But this time was different. This time he wasn’t coming back.
After Michelle told me about the blood in the wall, I’d had a bad feeling.
When she left for groceries, I checked the back of the garage where his wall path opened to the outside.
That was where I found him—dead in the grass.
I stood there for a long moment, not ready to say goodbye.
At that point, it had only been two days since the beating, my ribs still screaming, but I grabbed a shovel anyway and dug a shallow grave behind the garage.
I laid him down with the last Red Vine from my pocket.
Wild things don’t get funerals. But Zonk had been mine, and I couldn’t leave him for the crows.
“Zonk’s fine,” I lied, wincing. She already felt bad enough. Maybe someday I’d tell her. But not today. “He probably caught a whiff of your perfume and figured the rent went up.”
“I’m serious, Scott. What if he was injured when…?”
“Come here,” I cut her off.
Michelle took the chicken off the heat and walked over. I wrapped my arms around her waist, resting my head against her stomach. “He’s fine. He’s gone missing before.”
“But what if he doesn’t come back?”
“Then he found a lady friend. Lucky him.”
She exhaled, guilt weighing down her shoulders. “This is all my fault.”
“Hey,” I said, looking up at her. “I don’t want to hear that again. You’ve done nothing wrong. Besides, wild opossums only live one to two years. Zonk’s been on borrowed time since birth.”
The phone rang.
“You want me to get it?” she asked, stepping back.
“Nah, I got it.” I stood with some effort and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Scott. It’s Johnny. Get over here. Now.”
By the time we arrived, the Allard Street House was fully engulfed, flames licking through the rafters and chewing up the roof. Johnny was in the yard, waving us over, his face streaked with soot.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I was in the back bedroom when I smelled smoke. The wall on the right side of the stage was on fire. I tried to put it out, but the flames shot straight up. So I ran next door and called 911.”
We joined the neighbors on the sidewalk across the street, watching helplessly as the fire tore through the house until there was nothing left to save.
Michelle gripped my arm, stunned, and all I could do was stare.
The house that had once pulsed with music and laughter, where my band had cut its teeth, and where Michelle first fell for me, was collapsing into a heap of glowing bones.
A crowd formed in front of the burning hulk and kept growing, heavy-metal disciples arriving to pay their last respects…
and howl at the moon in a Rabid Jackal tribute.
Theories about the fire’s origins spread fast, the frontrunner—courtesy of Allen—being that it had been set on purpose to keep us from performing.
Not that I wasn’t flattered to be part of the conspiracy board, but we were nowhere near important enough to be silenced and firebombed.
Truth was, it didn’t matter what had caused it—faulty wiring, arson, or Chalk Line Charlie clawing his way up from hell—the house was gone, and so was Rabid Jackal. Don’t know how I knew. I just did.
For a long time, neither Michelle nor I spoke.
We stood there, the heat on our faces, the air thick with smoke, and the low crackle of dying wood.
It was strange, watching a piece of your life die right in front of you.
I’d just buried Zonk… and now this. Watching the roof cave in felt like watching a version of myself collapse—louder, younger, dumber, and freer.
I’d never be that guy again. And weirdly, I didn’t want to be.
This was the universe telling me my youth was over, and it was time to move on from my rock star dreams.
Michelle’s fingers tightened on my arm. She felt it too—the finality. When she turned toward me, that decisive look I’d seen once before was back, only this time she wasn’t walking away. She was standing firm. Ready to face whatever came next. Together.
The past had burned. The future was all that was left.
“Does this jacket make me look like I stole it?” I whispered, tugging at the collar of the borrowed sports coat.
Michelle swatted my hand away. “You look both dashingly handsome and incredibly uncomfortable at the same time.”
I smiled. “Exactly the look I was going for.”
“Relax. We’re in charge here, not them,” she said with such confidence I almost believed her.
At least she looked the part, wearing a dress she’d packed into her carry-on for that fateful flight.
Fresh from one of her daily showers at the country clubs her parents had yet to revoke her membership from, Michelle had curled her shiny, brown hair and clipped flowers from Meg’s garden into it.
She looked beautiful and elegant. Ready to kick some rich parent ass.
Standing beside her, I felt wildly unworthy.
Walking side by side through the sweeping marble entryway, I tipped my head back to take in the crystal chandeliers glowing overhead. I felt like I’d stepped into Charlie’s chocolate factory, with riches and rewards everywhere—plus hidden traps waiting to eat me alive.
“Miss Carver,” a uniformed woman called in greeting to Michelle. “Happy to see you back.”
“Thank you, Luzia,” she answered, matching her formality, then leaned in with a casual whisper: “This is Scott, the parking lot boy.”
“Nice to meet you,” Luzia said, catching Michelle’s eye. Something passed between them. It felt like I’d come in at the tail end of a conversation, but I smiled anyway.
“Where can I find my parents?” Michelle asked.
“They’re waiting for you in the study.”
We continued down the hall until she stopped before the door and turned to face me. “Are you ready?”
“Me? I’m not the one about to blow this place up.”
“Yes.” She let out a laugh. “But you’re the one most likely to get punched.”
I held out my hand. “I’ll take my chances.”
She slipped her fingers into mine, and together, we walked in.
Her parents were waiting by the fireplace, stiff as mannequins, and her sister was perched on a leather-backed chair.
I’d faced some rough crowds, but nothing made my palms sweat like being summoned into the Carvers’ mahogany mausoleum of a study.
Her father’s eyes landed on me, the same eyes of the man who’d ordered my ribs cracked. Not a flicker of guilt. Pompous dick.