Page 101 of Fall For Me
“You’re not mad?” I ask.
“Why would I be mad?”
“O-Okay?”
The music grows louder, and I realize we’re next in line. “They’re about to let us inside. I love you.”
“I love you too, mi amor. Call me when you get back to Aiden’s.”
“I will.”
The phone beeps as he hangs up, and I stand, gaping at the black screen.
Wow. So that was . . . interesting.
“See. I told ya. Ya worry too much about people bein’ mad at ya. Just do yer thing. They’ll get over it, or they won’t.”
“It’s called respect, Granny,” I argue, handing her phone back to her.
“It’s called being a pushover, hun. Life’s too short to live for anyone else.”
Yeah, well, we’ll agree to disagree on that one.
The bouncer holds the door open for us, and excitement courses through me. I wheel Granny in and glance around at the people gathered in groups, banging on various drum sets in different areas of the lower level. Granny taps me on the hand, then points at women dressed in bikinis. The paint, splattered on their skin, glows under the black light and forms patterns as they twirl from aerial rings suspended in the air.
I’m in awe. This is the coolest thing.
I park her in front of a set of drums, then slide in beside her and pick up a few sticks, handing a couple of them to her. A guy drinking out of a beer hat dances over to us, and squeezes paint onto our drums, then Granny takes the first strike. A burst of neon colors fly all around us, and pure joy spreads across Granny's face as we beat the toms together, making the biggest mess and having the time of our lives.
Maybe she’s right . . . Maybe I should start marching to the beat of my own drum—no pun intended—and stop worrying about everybody else, because this moment right here . . . hanging out with her . . . is going to be a memory I will never forget once she’s long gone.
Thirty
Sean
Somehow, I talked Hannah into downloading Life360 onto her phone this morning before I left for the game. I need to know where she is, so if shit goes sideways while I’m out of town, someone can get to her quickly; especially now that the tabloids are all over her. Not that she pays attention to that. She learned a long time ago from her father how to tune that shit out.
The second I unlocked my phone this morning, headline after headline about her being offered the head coaching position for our team filled my screen. I don’t know who opened their fucking mouth, but somebody did, and when I find out who, I might just remove their tongue so they can never speak again.
When I stepped off the ice and saw the notification showing where she was, a knot lodged in my throat, and I felt like I was suffocating. There’s no way in hell I’m letting her roam around the city alone with paparazzi, reporters, and every creep in Manhattan tracking her down. Fuck that. I need more eyes on her.
Pulling up my contacts, I tap the call button and place the phone on speaker.
“Mac.” As usual, Nate forgoes a greeting and gets right to the point.
“Nate. It’s been a while.”
“You’re not! She’s gonna kill you!” Aiden protests in a hushed voice.
Covering the receiver, I press my finger to my mouth, giving him the signal to shut up.
“Did I lose you?” Nate asks, pulling my attention back to the call.
“Sorry. Sorry. I’m here,” I say, knowing this idea might come back to bite me in the ass but not giving one single fuck at the moment.
“I figured it’d take you a while to come around after . . . well, we don’t need to rehash that, do we?”
“No. We don’t. Listen, I’m out of state, and Hannah is at The Warehouse. Can you send someone you trust to watch out for her?”
