Spiked (Blocked #3)

by Jennifer Lane

  Thirty minutes later, I was decidedly drunk. The postgame show was on, but Dane was texting Lucia instead of watching it. Dad snored next to me, and I wanted to sleep, too. But I needed one more glass of wine first. Off to the kitchen I went.

  I sulked as I poured the last drop in my glass.

  “You drank the whole thing?”

  I jumped and almost dropped the empty bottle. I turned to glare at Dane. “Jesus. Why’d you sneak up on me like that?” And how had he snuck up on me? He didn’t have his crutches—he must’ve hopped over without me hearing him. “Dad had some, too.” An edge of defensiveness laced my voice.

  “He had a few sips. What’s up with you?”

  “Nothing.” I looked away.

  “Dad’s right. You’re acting weird.”

  I tried to steady my hand as I drew the glass to my mouth. I wished he would go away and leave me to my sweet serum.

  “Jess, come here.”

  I peered at him. “Why?”

  “Just come here.”

  With a sigh, I set down my wine and shuffled over to him. I tensed when he gathered me in his arms. “Why are you hugging me?”

  “Luz said you need a hug.”

  “You talked to Lucia about me?”

  “She cares about you. Mateo, too.”

  Mateo wouldn’t want anyone as damaged as me.

  “You’re so tense—just relax.”

  I closed my eyes. I couldn’t let myself relax, or…Shit. I was crying again. I was just so tired. I rested my cheek against his chest, and his hold felt solid even though he balanced on one foot. My breaths came ragged and shallow.

  “You’re crying again?” His arms tightened. “Something is wrong. I’ve never seen you cry like this.” He was quiet for a moment. “Did Johnny do anything to you?”

  I lifted my chin and gawked at him. “What?” I stepped back and swiped at my cheeks. “No.”

  “He’s the common denominator for both times you had sleep problems. You’re having nightmares again?”

  “My nightmares would be a lot worse if Johnny hadn’t stopped the bomb.”

  He frowned. “True. But if he ever hurt you, I don’t care that he carries a gun. I’d take him down.”

  Dane’s fierce look warmed my heart. But I couldn’t have him questioning a man as honorable as Johnny. “If you must know, I’m freaking out because I had a positive drug test.”

  Whoops. The way his eyes bugged made me second-guess that disclosure. Damn wine.

  “For what?” he demanded. “Alcohol?”

  My stomach dropped. “You can test positive for alcohol?”

  “Yeah, but you’d have to drink a shit-ton to show up on a drug test the next day.”

  “Phew.” My heartbeat crested its peak and began to decelerate.

  “So if it’s not alcohol, what’d you test positive for?”

  I sighed. “Weed.”

  His jaw lowered. “Since when do you smoke weed?”

  “Since a week ago. I smoked once on Friday and got tested on Wednesday.” I peered around the corner, but Dad still looked asleep.

  “You used once in your life, and got tested right after?” He covered his mouth with his hand, but his shaking shoulders made it obvious he was laughing at me.

  “Shut up.” I marched over to my glass with the intention of slugging it down, but then paused.

  He chuckled. “That is classic. I gotta tell Luz.”

  I spun around. “No, you can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Because I don’t want Mateo to think I’m a druggie. He hadn’t had one sip of alcohol at the party. I wished I’d been as smart. “Just don’t tell her. It’s embarrassing, okay?”

  “But Luz wouldn’t judge you. She and I used to meet with Dr. Valentine. That’s who you have to see, right?”

  I pursed my lips and nodded.

  He grinned. “She’s cool. Don’t worry.”

  “If she’s so great, then why don’t you still see her?”

  He angled his head. “You know, you’re right. I probably need a tune up. This injury’s a punch to the nuts.”

  “Thought it was your foot, not your nuts,” I muttered.

  He laughed. “Now that’s the Jess I know. Welcome back. You’ll get over this stupid mistake and go on to have an awesome career.” He hopped back over to the sofa.

  I swirled the wine in my glass and felt my nose burn. I wished I felt as optimistic as my brother.

  Chapter 8

  “WHAT WAS YOUR BG THIS MORNING?” Karen’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror.

  Of course I’d forgotten to check my blood glucose, so I aimed for a number that wouldn’t alarm her. I was too nervous to eat, and my fingertips were sore from countless needle pricks. “One twenty-two.”

  “So the exact same number as yesterday, right before you spiked to three-sixty.” Her gaze tightened with apparent suspicion.

  “But it came back down before the volleyball match.”

  She shook her head as she continued driving.

  I wished I knew why my blood glucose was all over the place. It hadn’t been this erratic since I was sixteen. Back then the doctor had told me it was hormones. Maybe I was hormonal now, too, given that I thought about Jessica all the time.

  “The streets are empty,” Johnny said from the seat next to me. “I like this.”

  I noticed all the open parking spaces at the Kroger we passed. “Lucy told me the best time to go shopping is during home football games. The entire city shuts down.”

  Johnny frowned. “We could’ve made it work for you to go to the game, you know.”

  “Yeah. It’s cool.” I patted my guitar case. Music beat football any day of the week, especially when dealing with security at the game would be a huge hassle. My phone buzzed with a text.

  Sorry took me so long to reply.

  Lame. How’s life?

  I smiled. My best friend Joey was finally texting me back.

  You ARE lame, wench.

  Berklee’s kicking your ass?

  OMG. My fingers are falling off.

  That didn’t sound fun, but I knew she loved it. Not that I was jealous or anything. I hadn’t auditioned at Berklee, but I probably wouldn’t have gotten in. Things were all set up for me with security at Highbanks, anyway. Another message came in.

  What’re your classes like?

  I thought about Itch and Fitch, who I would see in a few minutes.

  Music Theory is pretty cool.

  I’m in theory too! What else are you taking?

  Voice, keyboard skills, English,

  calc, freshman survey

  Listing my classes reminded me I had to write a short paper for English by Monday. I also had calculus homework. Ugh. I already felt lost in that class, only one week in. I typed:

  Can’t understand my calc teacher.

  Why not?

  He’s Chinese—major accent.

  Think he’s in grad school.

  I suck at math as it is.

  Lies, all lies.

  You got an A in calc at Friends.

  Joey and I had both attended Sidwell Friends School, located near the White House. Her parents didn’t have nearly as much money as mine, but she’d earned a scholarship. I asked:

  What’re you taking besides theory?

  2 woodwind labs—techniques and improv,

  flute repertoire

  That would be strange but welcome to take only music classes—at least she didn’t have to suffer through math. She texted again.

  Did ya hear my dad got on your mom’s detail?

  Interesting. Joey’s dad had been a Secret Service agent for fifteen years. His security clearance was a big reason they’d let Joey hang out with me in the White House after we’d met at school. Apparently it was quite a coup for an agent to land the presidential protection gig.

  A promotion, right? Congrats to him.

  Yeah, he’s stoked.

  Good luck handling my mom, though.
/>   LOL. She’s better than MY mom.

  Her mom was always pushing for Joey and me to date. But we just didn’t have any chemistry. We’d tried several times, but she always felt more like a sister than a girlfriend.

  I need to tell you something.

  I tensed. That sounded ominous. A minute went by.

  How would you feel if I met someone?

  My eyes opened wide. Already? She’d just revealed the real reason she hadn’t texted all week. Yet another person in my life had found a significant other.

  Really happy for you, Jo.

  Oh, thank you! I thought you’d be cool with it—just wanted to check. You have to meet him.

  He’s awesome! He’s a cellist.

  Can’t wait.

  And I wanted her to meet Jessica, though I’d be introducing her to just a friend, not my boo. I exhaled a long sigh and noticed how tired I felt. Joey had met someone in less than a week, and I would probably never have a girlfriend.

  We pulled into a lot next to a beat-up warehouse. I didn’t want to tell her about the band rehearsal in case it crashed and burned, so I typed:

  Better go. Good luck with the dude.

  Adios!

  The car stopped, and I waited for Johnny to give me the signal that it was safe to come out. My hands trembled as I clasped my guitar case. Dang, I was nervous.

  Coming in from the bright sunlight, the dark interior of the warehouse felt like a cave. A hot cave. Fitch had told me his uncle owned the warehouse, and evidently he didn’t believe in air conditioning. The scent of sweet smoke hung in the air.

  My agents and I weaved through stacks of lockers—Fitch’s uncle sold them to schools or something—to find the corner where three guys were setting up equipment.

  Itch looked up at me from his keyboard. “Hey, Coconut.”

  Not the shampoo thing again. I glared. “Cállate.”

  “What?” Fitch asked from his kneeling position near the drums.

  “I think he just told me to shut the fuck up.” Itch grinned. “Come meet Weston.” He circled around the keyboard stand and gestured to a guy with long brown hair sitting with a guitar in his lap. Red blotches lined his light blue eyes.

  Weston held a thick pen in his mouth and smoke poured out both nostrils. What the hell was he smoking?

  “Hey, man.” He extended his arm, and I bumped his fist. His gaze floated behind me, and his eyes narrowed. He turned to Itch. “You didn’t tell me the copstapo was coming.”

  My heart hammered as I realized my agents were about to screw this up for me. I heard them whispering.

  “They’re not cops,” Itch replied. “They’re Secret Service. I told you they’d be here.”

  Weston cocked his head. “Yeah?”

  Itch blew out a breath. “That weed’s messing with your memory, West.”

  “It’s not weed.” Weston dropped his chin as his eyes rolled. “It’s herbs.” His chuckle turned into a hacking cough.

  “Mr. McCloud,” Johnny said as he stepped around me. “We need you to put away your vaporizer.”

  I stifled a groan. So he and Karen had decided to make this a thing. And of course they knew his name. They probably knew more about him than his own mother.

  “And if I don’t?” Weston challenged.

  Johnny glanced behind me, and I twisted to look at Karen. She shook her head as she patted her face with a tissue. She looked like she was sweating, and I felt uncomfortably warm as well. When she took off her suit jacket and turned to drape it over a chair, she revealed the crisscross gun holster molded to the back of her shirt.

  I looked back at Weston to find him lowering the vaping thingy as he noticed her weapon. She hadn’t said a word, but she’d communicated quite effectively.

  “This state’s decrimalized,” Weston said.

  Huh?

  “Decriminalization means you won’t go to jail for possessing less than one hundred grams,” Johnny said. “But cannabis is still illegal.”

  Fitch pointed a drumstick at Weston. “Dude, just put it away. We’re about to start jamming, anyway.”

  Weston scowled at me, but he finally clicked something on the device and set it on the floor. He gestured to my guitar case. “Let’s see it. Your chick magnet.”

  I unclicked the clasps.

  “Whaz your name, man?” Weston asked.

  Itch sighed. “His name’s Mateo. Mateo Ramirez, the son of the president of the United States?”

  “Whoa. That’s sick.” Weston looked at me through half-lidded eyes.

  Did he seriously not know my dad? Alejandro’s constant railing about the uninformed electorate seemed to have merit in this case. Of course, Weston probably didn’t vote—except maybe for laws to legalize marijuana.

  When I removed my guitar, Itch materialized by my side. “That’s it there?” He pointed to the silver signature on the curve of the black guitar body. He leaned in. “What does it say?”

  The scrawl was rather difficult to make out, so I translated: “Hang on to a dream, Neil Diamond.”

  Itch’s head shot up. “That’s a lyric from ‘America.’”

  I nodded, impressed.

  Fitch took off his Cubs hat as he came closer. “Sweet.”

  “Bullshit.” Weston rose and set his guitar on the stand. “Your guitar’s not signed by Neil fuckin’ Diamond.”

  “See for yourself,” Itch said.

  A waft of skunk odor hit me as Weston leaned over. “Can’t even read it.”

  “Neil Diamond is President Ramirez’s favorite artist,” Itch explained as he headed back to his keyboard. “He played a private concert at the White House, and Mateo got to meet him.”

  Weston’s squint left him still looking suspicious. “What’s he, like, ninety?”

  I bristled. “I think he’s in his seventies. But he can still rock.”

  “Let’s get started so we can get out of here,” Itch said. “It’s hot as fuck in this place.”

  “You said it, brotha.” Fitch moved to his drum set.

  I noticed Karen had stepped to the side, fanning herself, and Johnny had disappeared. He was probably canvassing the perimeter of the warehouse. The heat made me sleepy.

  “I got ‘Gaijin Dream’ programmed into the keyboard,” Itch said. He slung the strap of his bass guitar over his shoulder. “I’ll play bass for this one.”

  They clearly needed another member if Itch had to play two instruments. I was a better guitarist than piano player, but I wondered if I needed to offer to play the keyboard.

  Itch nodded at my guitar. “Mateo, how ’bout you join in at the hook after you’ve heard it a couple of times.”

  ¡Hijole! Going into a song blind like this would definitely test me. At least they didn’t have a mic or amps to magnify my mistakes. And at least I didn’t have to sing. My mouth felt as dry and shriveled up as my love life.

  Weston shook his head as he strapped on his guitar, and I worried he’d object to me playing in. Instead, he said, “Been working on a new song. Let’s start with that.”

  “No.” Itch wiped the heel of his hand across his sweaty forehead. “We’ll do that later, when we’re warmed up.”

  Weston strummed a discordant chord and sang, “Itch is on a power trip. A power trip, an acid trip, he’s gonna flip…”

  Fitch grinned and added a kicky beat on the snare drum.

  “Fuckers!” Itch shouted over the din. “We have a guest, assholes. We should start with a song at least three of us know.”

  Fitch shrugged, but nodded. He turned his hat around backward.

  Weston grunted. But he did look at Itch, who hit a button on the keyboard to start the song. The piano melody sounded like a perversion of “Chopsticks.” Weston’s guitar kicked in, followed by Itch’s bass. Once Fitch began a standard four/four rhythm, I found my head pulsing forward with each beat. Weston closed his eyes and sang:

  Ohayo, pretty badie

  Commo ava me

  Oh hi yo, panda panda

>   Snore sah on wif me

  I dug his gravelly voice, but I couldn’t understand one damn word. He mumbled something fierce. I glanced at Itch, who rolled his eyes but kept strumming his bass. At least I could understand the rather simple melody, so I joined in at the next stanza.

  You’re sowey sahn

  Alecking dawn

  Holland in bahn

  My gangeh drain

  Itch stormed to the keyboard to stop the recorded tune and sliced his hand through the air to silence us. “What the fuck, West? The song is ‘Gaijin Dream,’ not ‘Ganja Dream.’”

  Weston’s only response was a low chuckle.

  “It’s about a Japanese guy who falls in love with an American movie star,” Itch continued. “Not about toking it up till you’re so obliterated you can’t see straight.”

  Weston was singing about weed? I had no freaking clue. I realized I was thirsty and wished I’d brought some bottled water. Maybe the stifling heat was making it hard to breathe, too.

  “We agreed you’d stop mumbling when you sing,” Fitch said.

  “All the legends do it, man.” Weston smiled.

  Itch threw his hands in the air. “You’re not a legend! You’re a stoner!”

  Fitch laughed. “He’s a legendary stoner?”

  Whoa. A wave of fatigue washed over me, leaving a tsunami of trembles in its wake. I needed to sit down. I eyed the chair Karen had used to hold her suit jacket, but I worried she’d think something was wrong if I went over there. I snuck a glance at her and blanched when I found her staring at me. She approached as the guys kept yelling at each other.

  Karen frowned. “You look awful. I need to test you.”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “Then let me get you something to eat.”

  “I’m not hungry.”