Page 8 of Ring My Bell

“…Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“So who’d he trade you in for?”

“What do you mean?”

“He always trades in for a newer model. Something flashier or that he thinks he can make flashier.” He took a swig of his drink and scowled. “Though you’re barely in your twenties, aren’t you? How much younger could he go?”

“I’m twenty-three. I’m not a child.”

Mathis eyed my drink. After visibly wavering between being nice or telling me to fuck off, he grabbed my empty glass and headed over to the bar again. He returned several minutes later with two drinks—another of the same for me and a bottle of beer for him.

“So while you were gone, I kind of had a revelation.” Okay, I hadn’t really, but the thought popped into my mind watching him stride to the bar like he owned the place.

It had been a very inspirational view.

“I bet,” he muttered, sliding the cocktail in front of me and taking up his post once more. “Let me guess. You feel so bad about what Raymond did, and you really really really want to apologize and know just how to make it up to me? And it happens to be by getting me to write you some songs and making sure I get credited like Raymond was supposed to? And making him feel super bad about the whole thing?”

I glared at him, albeit a bit blearily. “I don’t talk like that. That’s really fucking rude, you know.”

He grunted. “I’m not nice.”

My eyes rolled so hard it physically hurt.

Or maybe that was my false lash poking me in the cornea. Either way, it pissed me off extra. “Okay, sure, channel your inner Harrison Ford, that’s fine. But listen, I know you hate Raymond almost as much as I do—”

“Almost?”

“Fine, just as much as I do, if that’s even possible. And I know we’re not the only ones he’s fucked over, but you’re the only one with the brass to help me.”

He made a funny little choked sound, his cheeks going pink with poorly suppressed laughter as he finally burst into a gale of cackles. “Did you practice that after watching old Charles Bronson movies or something? The only one with the brass to help… Oh my god, that’s… I needed that. Thank you. Sincerely.”

I had practiced, all the way from L.A. to San Francisco, praying the damn card Monty had slipped me would work for just one more gas station, one more fast food joint. It had taken nine hours, thanks to traffic, so I had a good deal of time to go through different versions, ranging from prettily pleading to seductive to the one I’d settled on.

“It wasn’t Charles Bronson,” I muttered. “It was Chuck Norris.”

He whooped. “Oh, god, that’s even worse!”

I glowered into my drink. “At least you’re not giving me a death glare anymore.”

“Give me a sec. I’ll work one back up.”

“Well, while you do that, can you listen to me? Please? Because I think maybe we can work together to get Raymond back.”

“Get him back? Fuck him. I don’t want him back!”

“No! I mean, like, in a divine punishment kind of way.” I waved my cocktail swizzle at him like a wand. “And, okay, it’s a total hey Mary—”

“Hail Mary.”

I made a face. “Oh. I didn’t know you were religious. I mean, you do you, but if you need some private time to pray, let me know. I’ll just head over to the bar or something.”

“The phrase. It’s hail Mary, not… Okay, you know what? Hey Mary works too.”

I grinned, loose and silly. Yeah, I was on that fine line between shit-faced and tipsy, I realized. Not nearly as sober as I thought I was but also not so drunk I couldn’t put my thoughts together.

Much.

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