Slow Burn(12)

    I actually liked bluegrass. I didn’t think I was going to at first. I thought it would be like that country western stuff you hear on the radio, with all the whooping and talk about cowboys and stuff. But bluegrass was high energy and fast. It sounded more like Celtic music than country. And most of the songs were about falling in love or killing your girlfriend. Seriously. They were called murder ballads. Anyway, I dug it. Who knew?

    He waved at me. I went across the place to join him.

    He stopped dancing. “Hey, did you bring anything with you?”

    Anything meant any coke. I shook my head. “Griffin washed it down the drain.”

    Clint clutched his heart. “You’re kidding me.”

    “No, I’m not. He’s taking this ‘protecting me’ thing way too seriously.”

    “Where is he?” asked Clint.

    “I snuck away,” I said. “I’m free, and I want to stay that way. Is anyone doing anything at their houses tonight?”

    “I don’t know,” he said. “But, hey, if you want to, we could go back to my place. I’ve got Red Bull and vodka.”

    “Marshmallow vodka?” I asked.

    He grinned. “You know it.”

    “Sold,” I said.

* * *

    Clint lived outside of town, so we’d have to drive there. Together, the two of us left The Purple Fiddle.

    We bumped into Griffin on the street as soon as we walked out. He folded his arms over his chest and glared at me. “I told you no.”

    I grabbed Clint’s hand. “Run!” I said, giggling. I took off down the street in the opposite direction of Griffin, dragging Clint with me.

    We ran all the way to Clint’s car.

    “Get in,” said Clint.

    I wheezed, looking around for Griffin, who I couldn’t see. It seemed weird that he wouldn’t have run after me. “No, I want my own car to get home.” If not, I’d have to wait until Clint decided to drive me home, and I didn’t like feeling trapped.

    “I’ll give you a ride back later,” said Clint. “Come on. Your bodyguard could show up at any minute.”

    Where was he? Had we really outrun him? “Okay,” I said. “But you promise you’ll take me home when I ask?”

    “Yeah, yeah, I promise,” he said. “Get in.”

    Casting one last look around for Griffin, I got in the car with Clint. We drove back to his house.

    I met Clint months ago when I first got to Thomas. We’d immediately bonded over our shared love for various substances, but we also had similar tastes in movies and stuff. (We both loved Quentin Tarantino and 1980s monster movies.) Clint was also one of the few guys who I’d managed to stay friends with after I broke my two-night rule. The only other guy was my friend Axel in Boston.

    Generally, I couldn’t be friends with a guy if I’d had sex with him more than once. If it was only one time, I could brush it off as a passing craze. More than once meant that there was something else going on, and it usually meant that one or both people were developing feelings for the other. And that meant someone—probably me—was going to get hurt. I wanted to avoid that at all costs.

    But Clint and I had slept together a few times, and it had never mattered. He didn’t get jealous of me sleeping with other guys. I never cared whether he gave me the time of day or not. I would have thought that made him the perfect man if I didn’t suspect that he only used me for cocaine.

    “Whoa,” I said as we walked into his apartment. Clint lived in a two-bedroom that was the upstairs of an old house that had been cut up into four apartments. Usually, his place was messy. Tonight, it was straightened and clean. “What happened?”

    Clint plopped down on the couch. “I got a roommate. He’s anal about everything staying clean, and he’s sort of bigger than me, so I’m afraid he’ll beat me up if I’m my usual messy self.”

    I giggled. “That would suck.” I made my way through the living room into the kitchen. Clint and I hung out so much that I felt comfortable helping myself in his house. “You want a Red Bull and vodka?”

    “Totally,” he said from the couch.