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“Remember Ryan and Parker?” Alex asks, referring to a couple of guys we used to run with, and I look over and give him a nod. “They asked us to go to Indianapolis for the weekend. They want to party it up at that place, JJs,” he elaborates.
I’ve heard of that place. It’s a four-story establishment hub for all sorts of entertainment. The first floor hosts a bowling alley and arcade, the second has some kind of nice restaurant and bar. And the other floors have an expansive sports bar, and the top floor is a lively night club.
After the last three years of strict routine, back-breaking work, discipline, and a dead grandfather, it sounds like just the ticket. Perhaps the drinking and debauchery will come first on that list in Mission Reset…
* * *
Luna
My content smileis totally complicit with my mood as my body lightly bounces and sways to the angsty but sweet country song playing on the radio. Wisps of my hair hang in my face – some brown, some purple – that have fallen loose from my top knot, and I puff them out of the way as I reach up to smudge a little of the light yellow of the sky on my canvas.
I’m in my happy place; my element. Never have I felt more secure and confident in every aspect of my life, and dancing in my studio apartment while I create something beautiful on my beloved easel while the evening sun shines through the dirty windows is the cherry on top.
I love my classes with their challenging projects. I love the group of friends I’ve made here, including of course, Cassidy from camp. I love my little hole-in-the-wall apartment with its open floor plan, tiny kitchen, and exposed brick that my dad and little brother, Matthew, helped me move into a year ago.
I hear what is meant to be a light knock, but comes out as a couple of bangs, due to my metal door, before Cassidy pops her head in.
“Helloooo!” she sings before letting herself all the way in, and I smile in greeting as she closes the door. “How’d I know I’d find you here with your hair a mess and your overalls on?” she teases.
“Do not knock my process,” I snipe back teasingly as I point a soft pink oil pastel crayon at her before turning back to scribble and smudge a small cloud in my sunset sky. “Respect the overalls,” I add, squinting my eyes in concentration as I smear and smudge the lines a bit. My ratty, paint-splattered, blue denim overalls are my personal uniform for when I’m working, and they’ve proven lucky for when I’m creating. How dare she…
“Fine, I respect the sacred overalls.” She holds her hands up as she hops up on my tiny countertop and crosses her legs at the ankle. “But you’re going to have to get out of them for what we have planned tonight, darling.”
I twist one side of my face up in a remorseful scowl. “I don’t think I’m going to make it,” I inform her regretfully as I turn to take in her gussied-up appearance. “You look nice though,” I note before I turn back to my work. She looks dynamite in her black tank dress, and her hair – still blonde, but now with black, pink, and purple streaks – styled in soft curls.
“Bullshit,” she curses behind my back, and I cringe. “Why?” she demands.
“I’m in the zone,” I argue, lifting a shoulder. “I can’t stop until the inspiration runs dry, and I’m on a roll right now.”
“Dude! You have until next Friday to get that done. A week! You have plenty of time to get back in the zone!”
I sigh, continuing to add a ribbon of dark purple to my sunset.
“Come on!” she prods with a huff. “I’m thirsty and horny and I need my wing woman!”
“Joanie and Beth will be there,” I reminder her.
“We need an even number.”
“Why?” I laugh gently at her ludicrous reasoning.
“In case we get separated, it’s easier to keep up a buddy system.”
“You so just pulled that out of your ass,” I sigh in mock disapproval.
“I did, but you gotta admit that’s pretty good.” I hear her chuckle behind me. Ugh. She’s blowing my concentration, and my music – which varies from country to alternative to reggaeton, depending on my mood – that usually drives my art, is now failing to do its job over her protesting.
“Alright,” I sigh. “Go find me something to wear and plug in my curling iron.
“Yes!” she shrieks, and I hear her drop to the floor and skitter in the direction of the corner where my bed and closet reside.
I may act annoyed, but who am I kidding? Without Cassidy, I’d become one of those reclusive artists that never leaves their hole.
10
KALEB
“Down ‘em, soldiers!” Ryan commands, holding his shot up in the center of the round, high- top for us all to clink against. I fucking hate tequila but he bought the round so I go for it, downing the small glass, grimacing as it goes down. The burn doesn’t faze me, but I pick up my beer to chase away the nasty taste.
