Page 38 of Secondhand Smoke
“No.” Barrett held up a hand and shook his head.
“Why not?” Paulie asked.
“We want her there,” Dennis reminded him. “She knows how to party.”
“She’s not a groupie.”
“Jesus, no one said anything about a groupie,” Toni said, growing exasperated.
Well, good. Because so was Barrett.
“Has she even seen you play guitar before?”
“No,” Barrett said. “But it isn’t her scene.”
“Dude, you seem to be under the impression that she’s still a pure, innocent pastor’s daughter. In case you haven’t noticed, she’s not. No pastor’s daughter I know can shoot tequila like that.” Toni shook his head. “Come on, man. Invite her. It’ll be your chance to show off.” He tossed his arm over Barrett’s shoulder, shaking him. He wriggled his eyebrows suggestively, and the others added a few more words of encouragement.
Barrett sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t have her number.”
“Well, don’t worry about that. I’m pretty sure there’s a phone book somewhere around here.” Toni parted from the group before Barrett could stop him, disappearing behind the counter to shuffle around different items.
Barrett was lucky there weren’t any customers around. His friends had big mouths. He didn’t need the world to know that he’d had a crush on Janelle Duncan back in high school. They would have laughed in his face.
Him, with the likes ofher? Preposterous.
And yet, somehow, they were convincing him to invite said girl to their gig. He hoped he wasn’t making a complete fool of himself.
“Here it is,” Toni called and held up the book. They all followed the sound of his voice and gathered around as he slammed the heavy volume onto the counter, opening to the D section and running his finger over the names. “Dunbar . . .Dunby . . . Ah, here. Duncan. George and Gale Duncan.” He glanced up at Barrett. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Dennis gestured, and Barrett accepted his fate, reaching over to pick up the shop phone and dial in the numbers listed on the white page.
They all stared at him, grinning, as the phone line rang. He shooed them away, but they stayed put like a bad cold.
After a few rings, there was the click of a receiver lifting up, and Barrett’s back straightened.
“Hello?” The voice on the other end was deep and recognizable. Pastor George Duncan.
Barrett started to panic. Why the hell hadn’t he considered that her father could be home? Ron was always working at this time. But then again, he had no idea what a pastor’s work schedule was like. Did they even work other days than Sunday?
There was a rapid hit on his shoulder, and Barrett’s attention snapped to his friends, who were motioning for him to talk.
He cleared his throat. “Hello.”
“Yes. Hello. Who is this?”
“Oh, uh . . .” Barrett’s mind was not suited for this level of stress. His thoughts were running a million miles an hour. He put on the same voice he used when working with his old lady customers who came for records of Elvis and Sinatra. “Afternoon, sir. I’m calling to speak with Janelle. Is she available?”
He glanced at his friends, who were giving him strange looks and laughing into their hands. He sounded ridiculous. But they gave him a thumbs-up, and he rolled his eyes and flipped them off.
There was a long pause on the other end. “Yes, she is. Who’s calling?”
He couldn’t very well tell this pastor that Scott Barrett, local “satanist”, was calling to speak to his beloved daughter. He’d give the man an aneurysm.
“Scott.”
“Scott.” The man sounded it out like he was trying to recall any Scotts he knew.
“We went to school together.” Luckily, people often forgot his first name, and it was common enough that there were probably ten different Scotts who’d gone to school with them.
