Page 75 of Dirty Chorus

“Are you going to say anything? Because I'm telling you now, this girl isn't good for you,” he continues to lecture me. My blood runs hot enough for me to flip tables. “And neither is that fucking prick who came into the store like a pussy with his damn bodyguards.”

Brody can’t have a conversation, and just tried to get me to cower in the corner. I ain’t gonna let that fucker scare me off. I shake my head and look at Omen as I say, “I’m not afraid of him.”

“Your grandfather was upstairs. They could have dumped gasoline everywhere and really caused you an issue.”

“So I should let this fucker get away with coming into the store like that? He’s been following me around town, and he’s been stalking her.” I yank off my beanie and toss it down on my lap.

“It’s called nine-one-one. Hell, file a police report. But this girl has you under some kind of spell, like she did witchcraft on you, made a voodoo doll and shoved you in a glass jar you can’t escape from. I get she's a ten hot, but this is fucking insane. Now we are going to play a middle school game of seven minutes in heaven to get revenge. You're out of your fucking mind. Please tell me you see how childish this is.”

“You’ve barely talked to her,” I say, and my forehead breaks out in a sweat. I bang my skull on the headrest. No argument is going to win Omen over. He tends to be the middleman, and just says it like it is.

“Am I in an alternate reality?” He combs his hand through his hair and uses his teeth to rip off the hair tie around his wrist. “She’s eighteen!” he says between gritted teeth as he puts his hair into a bun. “You’ve never been like this with a chick before.”

“I don’t care that she's almost four years younger than me. That’s not the problem.” I run both hands down my face and pull my eyelids down. “Yes, I like her a little more than I should. I didn’t think I would. But I’m going to help her. Maybe you'll get laid tonight, and you’ll chill the fuck out.”

“Unlike you, I want to finish our demo and not fall for distractions. I’ll relax once the demo is a priority. Why the hell are you avoiding it? At some point, the record labels are going to think you’re not interested and move onto the next best candidate. If we don’t write music and produce another hit, we will tank. There won’t be a band anymore. It’s not clicking in that brain of yours.”

He keeps ranting, and my body tingles and goes numb. My brain powers off until I only hear muffled voices and the high-pitched ring in my ear. I’m looking down at myself, wondering where the fuck I went wrong. I love creating music more than anything, but being pushed to be big and famous is making me feel smaller by the second. Omen, he isn’t putting my shoes on, he isn’t tying the laces and walking a mile to see what I’m honestly dealing with. I get he might like the attention of girls lusting over us, but I don’t. They see someone who can sing into a mic but don’t see the person behind the lyrics. They pick and pull apart my life on posts, fight over what I believe like they somehow know me inside out.

“Look.” My body snatches my soul back up, and I take in a breath of the chill air. “I get it. I'm playing a twisted little kid’s game, but I will not complicate it. Her ex has some incriminating videos and pictures of her from when they were together, and he's threatening to release them if she doesn’t play this game. She’s a virgin, and she’s going to be forced to sleep with him or another guy... I’m the only one she apparently trusts to get her out of it.”

“A virgin? You were fucking her at my house.”

“I didn’t sleep with her.”

“Bullshit.”

“Okay, I got close, but I didn’t. Just fucking calm down.”

Omen’s jaw twitches, his Adam’s apple pulses up and down. I swallow the knives lodged in the back of my throat. This is by far one of the most pathetic conversations I’ve had in my life, and I need to rip the bandage off. Any normal sane human wouldn’t get themselves wedged between a toxic breakup, but somehow Charlie threw a noose over my head one night and now I’m at the gallows with my heart in her care. If something happens to her, someone will kick the stool out from under me, breaking my neck.

“Fine...” He points his index finger at me, his lips twitching with the words. “I’ll go in. But after this, you're recording the demo. No excuses.”

We open the truck doors, stepping out. I snagged the case of cheap Budweiser in the back seat. If everyone’s main goal is to get tanked, then they won’t care what I offer. We walk up the porch steps with a group of girls in skimpy dresses holding their friend’s hair as she pukes into the bushes.

“Oh, honey, he’s so not worth it.” One of them strokes her hair like they would a puppy.

“But I love...” her throat gurgles as she heaves over the balcony.

I suck in a lungful of oxygen because she's radiating a foul and sour odor. I open the door and already two guys are leaning against the wall with arms crossed over their wide chests. They both wear baggy pants hanging below their asses. I’m guessing they were born and raised in the ghetto.

One of them uses two fingers, telling me to come over. When I do, he snatches the box of beer, inspecting it. “Go put it in the kitchen.” He shoves it back into my chest and dips his head into the party.

“Right...” I mutter. The skunky odor of pot fills the stale air, leaving the entire house coated in a hazy fog. People run up and down the stairs with red cups in their hands, laughing.

“This is a shitshow!” Omen shouts into my ears as we squeeze through the tightly packed living room to the kitchen. Chips crunch under my feet as I place the twenty-four pack of beer on the makeshift bar. My sneakers stick to the floor. Omen glances out the patio window, where there's a game of beer pong happening outside.

“I’m going to go check it out. Come get me when your silly spin the bottle game starts.”

“Yep...” I say as Omen walks off. A group of smug football players holding a keg over their heads burst through the front door shouting, chanting as they made their way through the kitchen and outside. I lean against the counter and discover the jackpot. There's a bag of unopened barbecue chips. You can’t go wrong with a snack. I snatch the bag up, pulling both ends and opening it with a poof.

I dig into the chips and stuff handfuls of the crunchy goodness into my mouth. The sound fills my ears and drowns out the music that’s shaking the windowpanes. It also dulls the obnoxious laughter of people stumbling in and out of the backyard. A few people came by me, snatching beers or flipping open a pizza box to grab a slice.

Another ten minutes roll by, and I’m about halfway through the bag when I see Payton gripping a vodka bottle with two hands and rushing out the back door. Then Charlie emerges from the corner, and my heart leaps from my chest into my throat. I swallow it back down with all the chips I stuffed in my mouth and use my forearm to wipe the flavoring off my lips.

She’s wearing a Korn crop top, booty shorts, and... are those red heels? Time slows down, and I need a rosary. There’s no hope for me. I’m sweating again, and hypnotized by her toned thighs flexing with each step she takes. Her calves shine in the dull lighting, and I can already feel how silky smooth they are. Each stride has her dark curls bounce across her shoulders, and her grey eyes light up when she meets my gaze. I’m melting into a puddle as the biggest smile forms on her lips.

“You’re here!” She wraps arms around my shoulders, embracing me. “And you have snacks!” She snatched the chip bag, yanking it from my grip, and pushed me into the edge of the counter. “Payton went to play beer pong.” She stuffs her mouth like a turkey and has to cover her mouth to chew.