Page 83 of The Last Special Thing

“Not another word,” Amelia barked at Art. Turning to the girls, her voice dropped. “I’m sorry. We’re going.”

Grabbing Art’s hand, she dragged him into the parking lot.

“Your boyfriend is a dick!” the photographer called after them.

Amelia clenched her teeth. Another day, she might have snapped back in his defense, but she had to get him out of there.

Crossing the parking lot, his hand went limp in hers. “I don’t know why we have to go.”

He looked back toward the girls, who were now hugging, then lifted his eyes to her. “I’m glad you don’t look like that. You’re fucking classy.”

Her mind raced in a thousand directions.

“Did you say goodbye to your band?” she asked. They should have probably done that.

“Pff, I don’t need to say goodbye to anyone. Let’s go.” He returned the grip of her hand, now a participating member of their grand escape from the scene he had caused.

With her free hand, Amelia reached into her purse for the keys. The steel cut into her finger as she pressed it tight. She had to think. Art was too far gone to be of any help. There was a bitter taste in her mouth, and not from the coke. So much for being a team.

The apartment would be a twenty minute drive.

Did she finish her last drink?

No.

No, she left her Jack and Coke-the-Cola on the table when she was doing coke-the-powder with Evan. She only had one drink, albeit a double, but that was hours ago. She was focused. She could drive. She swallowed her insecurity, needing to stop thinking about it and just do it.

In her white car with hearts outlined on the window, she sat in the driver’s seat. Art slid into the seat next to her. He connected his phone and blasted the music.

“Put on your seat belt,” she said when the car was running.

“You and your obsession with seat belts.” He rolled his eyes.

When she heard the click, she exited the parking lot. Glancing in the rearview to see Logan kissing the girl that Art had berated, she left her curiosity there. She had to focus if they were going to get home safely.

At a deserted four-way intersection, her fingers rapidly tapped against the steering wheel, waiting for the light to glow green.

Art beat to the rhythm of the music on his thighs, head banging forward, brown hair flying as if he were still on the stage.

Pressing him out of her mind, she avoided her peripheral vision.

On the freeway, Art moved from using his thighs as drums to slamming his hands against the dashboard. As the music intensified, he leaned his body forward and gave a second performance.

The cruise control was set to three miles above the speed limit. Exactly at the speed limit would have been too unnatural. There were only a few other cars on the road. If a police car drove by, every car would be noticed. Blending in was paramount.

As the exit sign for Art’s apartment appeared, her shoulders relaxed.

She slowed to take the exit curve, then stopped at the stop sign.

One, two, three.

Her foot tapped the gas again.

A new song started, softer lyrics wafting through the car. Art’s singing was low.

As she drove past the Ralph’s, his eyes bore into her. She glanced at him, back at the road, then back to him, as he serenaded.

“Sometimes I lie