Page 40 of Never Say Die
Shay glared at him, exhausted.
They’d left Los Angeles six hours ago, embarking on the long-distance leg of Knight’s Blood's first national tour. Aiden held his rosary in his mouth, nibbling on the chunky garnet cross, and strummed his guitar.
Strange, he thought, to be at the beginning of something extraordinary.
“What about Never Say Die?” Georgia asked, sitting on the other side of the booth. She glanced at Aiden, Shay, then leaned off the bench to look at Dylan, lounging on the couch with Sherlock in his lap. “For the new album? What if we call it Never Say Die? It’ll vibe with the lyrics. We’ve got songs about necromancy, Nazgûl, rising from the ashes, forbidden romance, malevolent fire-eyeballs. . . It could work, yeah?”
“I like it,” Pru said from the driver’s seat.
Shay tipped his head, nodding thoughtfully. “Has a nice ring to it. We can match the single to the album title.” He ran his finger along the sole of Aiden’s foot. “What do you think, dipshit?”
Aiden squirmed and flattened his foot against the table. “Don’t tickle me,” he spat. Shay smirked, reaching for his foot again. Aiden kicked his hand, and said, “Yeah, I like it, too. It’s a good segue—stop it.”
“Great!” Georgia grabbed the notebook off the floor and scribbled NEVER SAY DIE above a list of new songs, some scratched out, some underlined. “We’ve got lyrics, we’ve got. . .somemusic. A title. After we finish this, we’ve got a new fuckin’ album, guys.” She smacked Aiden playfully on the shin. “Our first full-length album!”
Dylan held Sherlock above his head. Little white paws dangled from the ferret’s slouchy body. “Hear that, Sherlock? We’re the real deal now.”
“Almost,” Shay said, matter-of-factly.
Aiden pushed at Shay’s cheek with his sour toes, and said, “Close enough.”
Shay grabbed his foot, thumb sinking into his arch.
Aiden yelped. He toppled into the booth next to Georgia, kicking mercilessly. His heel clipped Shay’s jaw, and a raspy groan followed. His guitar made a distorted noise as it smacked the table.
Shay laughed—one, surprisedhah—and rubbed his face. “Ouch. . . That hurt, dick.”
“You asked for it,” Georgia said.
“Yeah,dick,” Aiden sneered. He wrinkled his nose, shifting until his legs were draped over Georgia’s lap.
They spent the next ten hours writing music, munching on gas station snacks, and napping in the bedroom. Pru drank an obscene amount of energy drinks—like,obscene—and Dylan, bless him, rolled two joints with strawberry-flavored paper. They smoked, laughed, fell into each other whenever the RV hit a bump in the road, sang along to the new lyrics Shay had written, tossed kettle chips into each other’s mouths, and fought over the last slice of truck-stop pizza.
Aiden tried to nap after Dylan vacated the bedroom, curling beneath an array of blankets and pillows. He ignored the fold-out door opening moments after he’d claimed the bed. Pretended not to notice Shay crawling in next to him. Dismissed breath on his nape and fingers sneaking over his hip. Kept his eyes shut as Shay prodded him in the ribs.
Aiden jerked. “What?”
“I looked up that thing. Tukákame—did I say that right? Whatever. Camila thinks I’m a zombie from the underworld,” Shay whispered.
“You’re not.”
“What if I am?”
“You’re.Not.”
“Okay, but?—”
“We talked about this. My sister is convinced I’m a brujo because she’s a bruja. Surprise, I’m not. Which means you’re definitely not a Mexican ghoul.”
Shay heaved a sigh, sending hot breath over Aiden’s neck. “The ritual you used?—”
“Hodgepodge. I pieced it together.”
“Aiden, youdidsomething?—”
“Oh, thank you. I had no idea, Shay. What a relief, havingyouhere to remind me.”
“So, what? We still don’t have a goddamn clue?”
