Page 6 of Drive
“Stella, hurry up!”
“I’m coming!” I yelled to my sister, Paige, who was making her way down the crushed-shell cement steps toward her car. Locking her front door, I gripped the phone to my ear while it rang as I slowly descended her apartment stairs. The call went unanswered like it had for the past week. When his voicemail picked up, I fought the angry tears that tried to surface.
“It’s me, but you know that.” Inhaling deep, I force myself to remain steady, though inside I felt the rejection like a million bee stings. He’d taken up two months of my life, a small amount of my devotion, and he wouldn’t be taking anything else. The pain of his indifference morphed into anger as my sister honked obnoxiously from her car. “I guess . . .” I swallowed hard, talking to a small piece of me I’d never get back. “I guessfuck youis in order, Dylan. Take care.” I hung up, let two tears fall, and then wiped them away before I reached the idling car. Once seated in the back, Paige looked me over to assess the damage with knowing eyes as her boyfriend, Neil, backed us away from the curb.
“Still no answer?”
I shook my head before I lifted my shoulders and let them drop. “It’s over.”
Paige frowned. “He’s an asshole.”
I glared at her as I pointed at the back of Neil’s head. I didn’t want to discuss Dylan in front of him. Neil was cool, but he wasn’t the type to talk about feelings, or much else. He was quiet, which was a good thing because Paige was a talker. In fact, you couldn’t shut her up. We had that in common. But she was far too involved in my personal life and had been since I moved in with her. “You’ll bounce back,” she said, undeterred by my death stare due to the invasion of privacy and her overshare of my relationship status. She glanced at Neil. “What? He’s seen you sulking around our apartment for the last week.”
I’d moved in with Paige and her boyfriend to help save my parents money. They couldn’t afford to help me get into a starter apartment while they saved for my tuition. I needed to be rooted and working in Austin by the time I started school that fall, but I’d screwed around after I met Dylan and got little accomplished. Between my back and forth to Dallas to hang with him and running around to see his shows, I’d blown up my car—the one I got my freshman year of high school. Old Black Betty had done her job, but I was in no financial position to get anything new. So, I was stuck in Austin, without a job or a car, and without the boy.
All through high school, I’d been lazy with my studies due to my obsession with going to concerts and fared just under what was required to get into The University of Texas. I’d spent the last two years in junior college, busting my ass to get the prerequisites and theGPAneeded to transfer to the school of journalism. But that wasn’t the only reason for my move. Austin was the Live Music Capital of the World. And between the program atUTand the music scene, it was the perfect place to get my feet wet.
I had big plans for my future.
Plans that hadn’t a damn thing to do with the sex-on-legs lead singer of the band I’d been stalking in Dallas. I had the remaining months of summer to get my head in the game to continue my execution of those plans, but zero issue releasing some of the built-up tension I’d endured during my extended two-year stay at my parents’ house while I got my shit together. What I didn’t need was a six-foot wrench screwing up any of my hard work. And I wouldn’t let him. Chalking it up to a fling, I put Dylan in a box labeled “Oops.” Still, my wretched, misguided heart told me that there could have been something between that front man and me. Sighing, I watched my phone for a text that wasn’t coming and cursed myself for being so damned gullible. Dylan had dazzled me with his pretty-boy looks and seductive voice. He didn’t intimidate me, but I’d been drawn to him, to his presence onstage and off. He was laid back, funny as hell, and took very little seriously.
I assumed I was in that “not serious” category as well. All of his bandmates told me he liked me. I believed them, instead of the source and the words he spoke, which mostly consisted of his plans for his band. And it was just like me to become fascinated by his talent and blinded because of it, since my plans mirrored getting the scoop behind the scenes. I would earn my degree and, hopefully, land a job at a decent enough rag that would afford me the chance to travel the circuit. But my dreams didn’t stop there. I wanted to be an innovator of sorts. Make a unique mark. I would let the music lead me. But I had to be cautious because the music had led me to Dylan. And after a week without him, his silence told me it was a case of infatuation on my part, and a way to pass the time for him.
He talked, and I listened, and then we had sex on his couch. He was only truly engaged with me when I was standing right in front of him, which I didn’t have a chance in hell of doing at that point. I’d made a fool of myself assuming it was anything more and cringed as I thought of my shitty attempt at working at something real between us. The word groupie stomped its way across my brain, shaming me, and I cringed at the idea. Not another drop of my pride was for sale. I refused to be categorized as a damned groupie. I was a writer, despite my recent groupie-like behavior. Oops.
“I’m done with musicians,” I stated to my sister, who carefully watched me from her seat. “I’m done with dating, period. At least for a while. Now is not the time.”
Though I told my parents I was in Austin, I’d been sneaking into Dallas and would stay with Dylan or friends between shows. Now that I was permanently in Austin, I was completely reliant on my sister.
“I need to get a job.”
She ran her hands through her long dark hair and pulled it up in a ponytail as she spoke. My sister and I were well paired in genetics. Both of us had light olive skin due to our half-Mexican roots, except she had dark-brown eyes, and I had my father’s gray that at times changed color with my T-shirts. Where she was thin, I was a bit thicker, especially around the hips. And while she dressed like she attended prep school, I was all rock ’n’ roll. But there was no question when we entered a room together that we shared parents. Biting her pink glossed lip, she looked over to Neil and then glanced my way. “Want to try to work with me?”
“Waitress?” I shuddered. “No offense, buthell no. I’d be terrible. I’ll find something close and ride with you until I can get a car.”
She nodded, her worry more for me than for my situation. But due to our difference in lifestyle, I was sure our arrangement would start to tether us sooner rather than later. She was a go-to-bed-early and arrive-at-work-on-time-with-her-shit-together kind of gal. I was a night owl who craved live shows and the next good time, and almost always ran late unless I was running in the direction of music.
“I’m sorry,” I said in a low voice. “I screwed up, Paige. I got a little carried away.” I swallowed my hurt pride. “I’ll get out of your hair soon, I promise.” My voice cracked as we pulled up to the entrance of the complex and sat at the stop sign.
“You’re going to be okay. You doknowthat, right?” Not one to offer affection, she palmed my knee just as a guy opened the opposite passenger door of the backseat, got in, and sat next to me. Jumping back, I scoured his face for details—for the police—both fight and flight kicking in while he looked me over with equal interest.
Panicking, I addressed the intruder. “Can wehelpyou?”
Full cranberry-tinted lips twisted into a smirk as he sized me up. “I don’t know,little sister,can youhelpme?”
Paige chuckled as she looked back at my panicked face. “Stella, this is Reid. Itoldyou about him. I told you he lived here, remember?”
“I remember.” Except I didn’t. I’d been too busy fawning after an asshole in Dallas to retain anything Austin. Resigned that I was now permanently in the place where I’d fought so hard to get to, I looked over to Reid on the seat next to me while he invaded the small space of the car. His left arm was in a neon-green cast, and he looked freshly showered. His chin-length, dark-brown hair dripped at the ends. A simple white T-shirt clung to his broad frame and tapered to his trim waist. He wore dark-blue jeans and black boots. The crown of his head touched the roof of the car. That was all I noticed before I dismissed him and let thoughts of my previous life take over. I’d opted for a night out with my sister to drown out the humdrum and annoying routine of my new life. Paige told me it was one of the first nights she wasn’t going to a bar and “little sister” was invited.
I’d had to repress my “whoopty-fuckin’-doo” to accept the invitation. I’d spent days wandering around the wooded park across from her apartment and cleaning her toilet to earn my keep. Spontaneity was my sole purpose in life. I needed to be free of routine to exist, and so far, Austin was a bully. First my car, and then my boyfriend.
Austin–2, Stella–fucked.
Paige spoke animatedly as we drove to a neighborhood on the edge of the city. Still stuck on the message I’d left Dylan, and the one I didn’t have coming, I didn’t bother asking where we were going as we headed into a house with a gallon of tequila and a bag full of mixers. I was introduced to some work friends whose names I didn’t bother to memorize before making myself comfortable on the couch in the living room of the spacious house. Everyone else was on the porch while I sat inside in my own little bubble of despair. I had no one in Austin but my sister, who had decided being five years older made her the matriarch of the relationship. I gave her that freedom because, honestly, I couldn’t have cared less. Still, Paige had been good to me, she made sure I slept comfortably on her couch and gave me the first margarita made in the kitchen that night, which I drank down easily.
Eyeing my surroundings, mismatched furniture, bookshelves filled with endless hardbacks, knickknacks, and a plethora of plants, I spotted a rack of magazines. I plucked out aSpinwith a cover that read “Foo Fighters: The Secret Life of Dave Grohl” and started flipping through. Laughter and the smell of weed drifted from the partially opened patio door as I peeked over the top of the magazine. Everyone outside seemed to be in good spirits as they sat around a kaleidoscope tile-covered picnic table, drinking stout margaritas while they bullshitted. The Killers’ “Mr. Brightside” filtered past the laughter, and even in my sour mood, I began to hum along. Halfway through the interview, I studied the snapshots of Dave Grohl and glanced back over through the open blinds to look at Reid.
Reid looked a little like Dave Grohl.
