Page 16 of Phantom Faceoff
Spoiler alert, I forgot to count, but my mouth currently tastes like blue raspberry watermelon.
And I have completely lost sight of Asher.
His phone goes straight to voicemail, and I’m not surprised because he leaves the thing chronically uncharged.
Me
Ash is AWOL. Booze and Babes.
Two seconds later.
Ellis
This is why I have him air tagged. Thx. Need a ride?
Yes.
Me
Nope. I’ve got it.
I most certainly do not, but my feet are already in motion, so why not let them say their piece?
I have not a damn clue where I am, but I know that it’s almost 2AM and the street lamps are all starting to blur together.
Thanks to the nighttime air and the solid hour on my feet wandering the city, most of my inebriation has cleared.
I’m still buzzed all to hell, though. I can’t hold a single thought for too long without feeling the beginnings of a migraine.
Eventually, my steps come to a halt, and a familiar heaviness settles on my shoulders.
Find a safe place to crash.
There’s an alley tucked into the side of a building to my left, and it looks as safe as any other spot to wait out the effects of the alcohol.
Normally—and I say that meaning maybe two or three times in recent history—I’d curl up in the deepest recess of the alley until I’m able to get my bearings.
However, as I’m lowering myself to the ground with spectacularly uncoordinated movements, a ladder attached to the side of the building draws my curiosity.
It happens in the span of seconds, a blink and miss it moment. First, I’m looking at the rusted, janky metal, then suddenly the rough bite is scrapping my palms and my feet come into contact with patchy roof paneling.
The wind whips at my face and chapped lips—still holding the faint taste of a fruit whose name I can’t place—and I close my eyes to focus on the light caress.
When I open them, my legs are dangling over the edge. The roof is slanted, and I’m sprawled on my back staring up at the star-speckled sky. My vision swims, floaters as a precursor to what is bound to be one nasty as shit hangover.
There’s not a chance in hell any of my limbs obey my commands to get back to the ground.
Dozing off here wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. At least as long as I wake up before morning when the shop owner most definitely calls the cops.
A sign a few feet away captures my attention. Black, white, and sprinkles of orange.
The Den.
Why does that sound familiar?
A sea of records pop up behind my closed eyelids.
The record store.
