Kids These Days

Chapter 29: Ronan

Contrary to popular belief, the worst part of my day wasn't when I was held hostage in a dive bar or when I woke up by the side of a motel pool. It wasn't when my fake ID got declined at the liquor store and I had to bribe the cashier with my last hundred, or even when Spandau Ballet came on the radio and Harper wouldn't let me change the station.

No, the worst part so far has been the tension headache I can't seem to kick.

The word "headache" is an understatement. It's worse than a hangover. Worse than the concussion I got playing flag football in junior high. It feels like someone clipped jumper cables to my ears, cranked up the voltage, and fried the gray matter of my brain like a sunny-side-up egg.

"You okay?" Becca whispers to me as we walk out of the bar. Her blue and brown eyes are bright with worry. (That's never a good sign -- when even the psychic is concerned about you.) "You're looking... ill."

"Yeah, well, your boyfriend did try to drown me in a motel pool," I say, making Finn crick his neck to glare at me. "Also, one of us is about to die at the hands of an immortal real estate agent, so there's that."

"We don't know for sure that she's immortal. Dolores never confirmed it."

"You're right. Maybe Rachel just has a really good skin care routine."

Becca cracks a grin, but Finn, of course, is having none of it. "Hey, guys? Can we save the jokes for later?" The bar door slams shut behind us, making him jump. "Maybe when we're not in mortal peril?"

"Why?" I ask. "Not in the mood for gallows humor?"

Finn grimaces. "Please don't call it that."

Harper materializes behind us, dirty martini in hand. "Do you three always talk this much?" When we fail to supply an answer, she sucks an olive off the toothpick, smacks her lips, and remarks, "Wow, you kids have terrible survival instincts."

"We've made it through worse," Finn says.

Harper winks at him before sauntering away to rejoin her boss. "Oh, the endless optimism of youth..."

I step off the porch and immediately regret leaving the shade behind. The midday sun stabs at my eyes like a switchblade, the heat beating down on my scalp with the fury of a thousand exploding Death Stars. My skin goes clammy as I fight the urge to hurl Southern Comfort across the asphalt. I've never been so dizzy after a night of drinking before, but this doesn't feel like a normal hangover. I crouch on the steps and take deep breaths until my head stops spinning.

Finn pauses next to me, glaring as if I'm being difficult on purpose. "Can you please pull yourself together and not get us all killed?" Pointedly, he offers a hand to help me to my feet. "You're acting weirder than usual. Did you take something at the motel last night?"

I slap his hand away and try to stand up by myself -- until the edges of my vision cut out, and I pitch so far to the side that Finn has to throw his arm over my shoulders to keep me from tipping over. "Now you really sound like the son of a cop."

"Ex-cop," Finn corrects. He scrutinizes me for a long second. Then he adjusts the sunglasses that I dredged out of the Lost & Found and says, "Don't let Rachel see your eyes."

Yes, sir.

We rejoin the others at the edge of the parking lot, where the curb meets the desert and it's all sand and scrubby plants as far as the eye can see. Andy and Oliver are signing back and forth, too rapidly for me to guess at what they're discussing (though it probably has something to do with the shiner on Oliver's cheek). Talia stands alone, fidgeting with her skeleton key necklace. Harper is unabashedly flirting with Trevor, the brass-knuckled bodyguard, and Rachel appears to be winding her Rolex.