Hell Flower

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I sat at the small dining table on Make Them Scream's tour bus. Liz lounged next to me on the couch, drumming her black-and-white painted fingernails on the plastic table.

We'd hit the road about thirty minutes ago. I'd just finished showering in the bus's tiny bathroom, and I was now dressed in my clean change of clothes—light wash ripped jean shorts, my favorite studded belt I'd had since I was sixteen and a distressed black tank top that said AC/DC on it.

Reggie, Make Them Scream's bassist, sat at the far end of the couch with his girlfriend Veronica on his lap. He had long, messy dreadlocks like he thought he was about to be inducted as the next member of Korn or something.

Veronica smacked gum between her teeth before popping a huge purple bubble that got stuck in her violet hair like a spider web.

"Oops," she said, clawing it out with her manicured fingernails. A dozen beaded bracelets of different colors jingled around her small wrist.

The bus bumped and creaked as we turned onto the main road. Veronica braced herself against the wall to keep from tumbling off Reggie's lap. He wrapped his arms around her tiny waist, holding her in place.

"Did you text your band yet to let them know you're riding with us, Allison?" Jake, their guitarist, asked. He scratched at his scruffy beard. His brown hair stuck out in tufts from beneath his black beanie. It was pulled down to just over the tips of his ears, revealing his lobes that were gauged to about the diameter of my index finger.

"Yeah, I told them," I lied, checking my phone. I had two new unread text messages and one missed call. I didn't want to see what Derek had to say, but I had to. My hands shook as I opened the messages.

Derek: Allison, where the fuck are you?

Derek: Pick up your phone.

I bit my lower lip as I quickly typed a response.

Me: Sorry, forgot to tell you. MTS invited me to ride with them so I am.

Me: We just left. See you in Denver.

Immediately, my phone rang, and I was so startled I tossed it in the air.

"Hey," Derek's voice said when I picked up. He was the only person I knew who still insisted on calling people. I hated talking on the phone. Why talk to someone when you could get the message across by typing? They got it right the first time with the telegraph machine.

"Hey . . ." I drew the word out because I didn't know what else to say.

"Well, thanks for the heads up." Anger simmered in Derek's tone. It wasn't the first time I'd done something like this without telling anyone—going off on a bender and disappearing for a day or two.

"I'm sorry," I said, wiping my sweaty hand on my leg.

"It's fine." He breathed out heavily into the receiver. "Hey, you see Blake at all last night?"

My heart skipped a beat, and my leg shook involuntarily. My foot rattled against the floor of the bus.

"After the show? No, why?"

"Just thought you might have. I know you and him are . . ." Derek trailed off.

I bit my lower lip as sweat prickled the back of my neck.

"Anyway," Derek finally continued, "Trev says Blake never made it to the party at the hotel last night, and now they can't find him anywhere."

"Fuck, I mean, he's probably just still drunk somewhere. You know how Blake is. I'm sure he'll turn up in an hour or so."