Strung Tight (The Road To Rocktoberfest #1) - Ann Lister Page 0,10

was still surreal to believe that this was my life. We were actually rehearsing in a studio owned by Black Ice, preparing for a performance at an event I had only dreamed about attending—as part of the audience—for most of my life. Did it get any better than this? Fuck, I couldn't wait to find out. It really felt like we were on the precipice of something big in our lives.

I was still smiling at myself when I found Dallas standing by the end of the trailer we'd climbed up the first time.

“Hey, you're just in time,” he said excitedly. “I was headed up to my observatory.”

“Watching another sunset?” I asked with a chuckle. There were far too many buildings around us to allow for viewing a sunset, so my comment was more sarcastic than anything else.

“Sure, why not?” he said. “Or maybe just stargazing. It's a nice, clear night. We should be able to see lots of stars—besides you, of course.”

“You're hilarious,” I scoffed and got behind him to climb the ladder to our rooftop perch.

Dallas had already arranged two beanbag chairs side by side for us with a few snacks to eat, much like he'd done the last time we were here. It was oddly comfortable looking and, dare I say, homey as if we were hanging out in his living room, not on the roof of a tractor-trailer. Dallas flopped down and sank into a bag chair like it was swallowing him. I did the same to the other one and wiggled a bit to make the bag conform to the shape of my ass, then leaned back.

“I see you got some new furniture.” I teased.

“These are from the storage room,” Dallas said. “Not sure who they belong to, but I’m using them now.

“So, tell me what you know about Spumoni,” I said as I rested my head against the edge of the bag.

“Dude, we need to be stoned for that conversation.” He handed me a palm-sized, polished stone that was hollowed out on one end to pack with weed and had a hole on the other end to inhale the smoke.

I tugged the plastic bag from my pocket and loaded up the bowl with some of Spumoni's dope, then took the lighter Dallas handed to me.

“This shit is the real deal,” Dallas warned as I pressed the pipe to my mouth and flicked on the lighter.

“Spumoni said the same thing when he gave me the bag.” I took a deep inhale, held it, and then released a plume of smoke up to the stars.

I handed the pipe and the lighter over to Dallas and felt a warm, melty feeling wash over me like someone had covered me with a soft fleece blanket. I never felt the effects of pot this quickly. I watched Dallas take a hit and then took the pipe back for a second toke. I lost count after that. I wasn't sure if I'd taken two hits or twenty. My head didn't feel like it was attached to my body right then, and my limbs felt like noodles hanging from my torso.

“Dude, are you still breathing over there?” Dallas asked in a slurred tone.

“Pretty sure I am,” I answered but wasn't completely certain I'd said the words out loud. I lolled my head to glance at him, and his glassy and unfocused eyes were pointed directly at me. My god, he has long lashes, sexy lips, and a dimple I'd like to touch with the tip of my tongue. Fuck, did I say all that out loud?

“You look so fucking baked,” Dallas said and laughed.

“Spumoni.” I said the name like no further explanation was needed.

“Right, I'll tell you what I know,” Dallas said. He set the bowl to the side of his seat and settled back with his eyes pointed to the stars above us. “Spumoni has been with Black Ice for a long damn time, taking care of their equipment. He would always show up at the jobs stoned off his ass but was a genius at running a crew of roadies and getting equipment to and from a venue, which is why he kept his job.”

“How do you know all of this?” I asked. “You're not old enough to have been there at the start.”

“I'm not, but my father started as a roadie, and Spumoni was his boss,” Dallas explained. “My dad said Spumoni always had the best weed, and he loved sharing. I'm not sure if he grows it himself