She pulls her receipt out and reads the total with a squeal. “I’m full-on corrupt.”
I follow her to the counter, and she decides to cash in all five hundred of her tickets for a plastic pirate sword. All those quarters. For a prop. Which she’s using to stab Luke in the back, making him laugh in the best way as we head back up into the early-spring sunset. The air feels fresher up here, and the sounds are muted. I thought working in a bar was an assault on my eardrums, but that was something else. Another hour and I’d have gained an eye twitch, for sure.
I glance at my watch. “It’s late, Meg. I should take you home.”
“We need to go, too,” Zack says. “My sister wanted the car tonight.”
“Actually, looks like my mom and dad are leaving the theater,” Meg says, glancing ahead and waving her sword above her head. “I’ll head home with them.”
I give her a quick hug, and she dances off. Zack and Cullen cross the street ahead of Luke and me to where a red Jeep is parked in front of the Loud Lizard.
“You headed back in?” he asks.
“Nah. But my car is out back.”
Luke and I linger. I don’t know why we don’t cross the street except that when we do, this is over.
He reaches in his pocket. “I got you something.”
“More quarters?” I guess. He holds out his hand, his fingers wrapped around something small.
I hold out my hand under his, the heat from his skin infusing mine. He presses something sharp in my palm.
“A mood ring! This must have cost all your tickets!”
“All our tickets,” he says. “Sadly, it’s too small for my fingers.”
“It’s adjustable, you nerd.”
His face is innocent. “Ah well.”
“Thank you,” I say. Feeling weirdly touched. It’s a cheap toy, for crying out loud. It’s totally gonna turn my finger green. (Because I’ll never take it off.) We cross the street, and Cullen and Zack are already in the car. Watching us. So, I wave, flashing my mood ring, and cut through the alley to the back of the building. I’m glancing at my ring again when I hear a groan, and my stomach sinks.
Asshole Marcus is slumped against my car.
I curse under my breath and glance at the back door to the bar. “Does Phil know you’re still here?” I hold out a hand. “Never mind. Don’t answer.” I hesitate half a second before the image of my poor stepmom having to load up the sleeping babies to come and get Marcus has me unlocking my door with a beep. “Get in the car. I’ll drive you home.”
I get him buckled in and pass him a plastic bag that I find after a cursory search of the back seat. “Don’t you dare puke in Mom’s car.”
He crumples the bag in his fist and looks at me, irritable. “Watch the tone.”
I stab at the radio and turn it loud, ignoring that stupid statement.
Before I’ve had the chance to back all the way out of my spot, he’s turning down the music. “Who is it?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. We’ve been playing the radio game since I was born. My dad slaps his hand over the lit display. “No cheating.”
I huff, desperately wanting to ignore him and knowing I won’t. “The local college station doesn’t have names anyway, Marcus.” I listen for a second before I say, “Too easy. Social Distortion.”
“Song?” he quizzes.
That takes me longer, but I know it as soon as the first lyric comes on. “‘Ball and Chain.’”
“Lead singer? And at least two facts.”
I recite blandly, “Mike Ness. Social D was often called the punk version of the Rolling Stones, though I disagree. And Mike had a heroin addiction.”
“Probably not the only one,” he concedes. “Why don’t you think the Rolling Stones comparison is accurate?”
He’s not curious. He’s quizzing me still. Marcus doesn’t want to talk. He wants to teach.
“Because he’s not fucking Mick Jagger, that’s why.”
“Mick Jagger is overrated,” he says predictably. Marcus hates the Rolling Stones. For a long time, I thought I did, too. Until I realized I only hated them because I never gave them a chance. I’d inherited my dad’s opinion like it was canon. “And watch your language,” he continues. I scowl into the darkness.
When I get to the next light, I turn in my seat to face him. In the shadows, his face looks haggard. He’s still in his suit jacket from work, which means he hit up