Red Velvet Crush by Christina Meredith Read Free Book Online Page B

Winston went out for a pack and called two days later, from Michigan.
    Jay reaches over and adjusts the mood lighting to soft and romantic.
    Ty shrugs and sets his sticks on top of his snare.
    Jay and Ginger walk a few feet down the driveway to Jay’s car: wingmen with guitar cases bumping up against their hips. They stop and wave good-bye: a short muscular arm and a tall, freckly salute.
    I wave and bend over before Ty can look at me. We are so set up.
    â€œI hope they work out,” I hear Jay say with a low laugh, “’cause I’m not hauling that drum kit back out of there.”
    I straighten up from locking my guitar into its case and smooth out the front of my shirt. My fingers are shaky. It is finally, nerve-wrackingly—have my armpits always been this sweaty?— just Ty and me.
    I am used to helping Billie and Winston get what they want, but I don’t know what to do when everyone else is helping me. Should I act surprised or nervous or embarrassed, or just run right over there and hop on top of him?
    I feel naked standing here without my guitar.
    Ty stops pretending to be tightening down a cymbal.
    â€œGive me a ride home?” he asks.
    â€œSure,” I say. “Let me get my keys.”
    No hopping necessary.
    The sun is sliding low, the sky fading from lavender to black when I climb behind the wheel of my car and pop the lock on the passenger door for Ty. It sticks sometimes.
    It had been hard to find a car that had enough properly working parts to pass the inspection before my driving test. I had to borrow our neighbor’s minivan; Dad’s passenger taillight got knocked out one night when Winston was chased by a jealous boyfriend. It’s a good thing he didn’t knock up Mr. Tenny’s daughter, or I never would have gotten my license.
    I bought my own car as soon as I could, and I let Winston drive it as little as possible. He is too libidinous.
    Ty and I drive in total silence for a while, more than a couple of blocks, making our way around the edge of town.
    â€œGinger likes Titchy,” he says out of the blue, pointing me to the right at the next intersection.
    â€œWho’s Titchy?” I ask.
    For a second I think maybe Ginger Baker is in love with a cat.
    He shakes his head and laughs. “For a band name.”
    â€œOh.” I take the next left, following his finger again.
    â€œBut we’re not British,” I say. “Although Ginger Bakerdoes kind of look like a young king of England.”
    â€œTwitch then?” he suggests as the houses get bigger and the yards start to slope and grow.
    â€œAnd definitely not punk.” I wince.
    Ty sits, no tapping, his hands calm in his lap for once, and looks at me out of the corner of his eye.
    â€œWait,” I say, looping back to the beginning of the conversation as we stop at a red light. “Ginger said that?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI mean—and this is a weird question to have to ask—he speaks?”
    â€œAll the time.” Ty laughs. “He’s just very selective.”
    â€œShould I be offended?”
    â€œHope not.”
    He looks over at me like he is wondering if I have the hots for Ginger Baker. I shake my head. I so do not.
    Ty points straight ahead, and we pull into a quiet neighborhood under a canopy of tall, curving trees. A leafy arch of sabers stands over the wide street, and I feel protected as we pass underneath, my crooked headlights leading the way.
    Happy people live here, I think. Happy families that eat prime rib and grow organic gardens and have perfect teeth.
    â€œI was thinking . . . ,” I say, slowing to look both ways at an unmarked intersection, studying the striped lines of the crosswalk that separate safety from danger.
    Ty waits for me to finish my sentence.
    I breathe out before I press on the gas because I have been thinking about a band name for so long and have never said it out loud to anyone else before, but