“I don’t have that kind of time. Forget it. I’ll take care of it tomorrow.” I almost hang up before I remember to say, “But thank you for trying to help.”
Okay, Lyft, then. But the app says it’ll be another ten minutes before a car comes and it’ll be twenty more before we get to the club.
I jump out of my car and over the neighbors’ fence, knocking on their kitchen door.
Ava’s face appears, startled. “Hello again,” she says when she slides the door open.
“Ruby?”
She cocks her head. “I thought you were into Sami.”
“I definitely am, but right now, I need Ruby.”
“Coming.” Ruby appears in the kitchen behind Ava. “What’s up?”
“Car is dead and I need to be there ASAP. Can I get a ride with you?”
“Grab my wig,” she tells Ava.
“They know I know?” I ask.
“We know,” Ava confirms over her shoulder, already on the way to do Ruby’s bidding.
“Let me grab my keys.” She disappears down the hall and around the corner, reappearing seconds later with her keys in hand while she slides her ID into her bra. “Let’s go.”
We head out to the parking lot, past her condo’s spots. And keep going. And going. We’re near the very end of the complex’s parking when she finally stops at a silver Civic and disarms the lock.
“This parkingsucks,” I say.
She gives me a huge grin that I swear looks borderline evil. “I’m working on it.”
We get in and drive back in the direction of our units, where Ava stands on the sidewalk.
“Open your window,” Ruby says.
I do and Ava thrusts a blonde wig at me before she waves and tells me, “Good luck.” She heads back through their gate.
“Buckle up,” Ruby says, grinning. “And if you don’t know any Spanish swears, you’re about to learn some.”
“I thought Ava was wishing me good luck for Sami, but that’s not it, is it?” I ask as Ruby peels out slightly and throws me against my seat.
“No, neighbor,” she says, taking the turn toward the exit almost on two wheels. “It ain’t.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sami
ThelastpersonIwant to see tonight is the show promoter, but Anthony appears in the crowded backstage “green” room—it’s concrete gray with old gum and cigarette burns on the wall—and scans it like he’s looking for someone.
“Going to be a good show tonight,” he says as he pauses at the doorway, making eye contact with us. There are members of three other bands crammed in here minus the opening one who’s already out there warming up the half-full club.
There’s no great way to spin this, but I have to try. We’re on the verge of one of our biggest breaks, and I can’t let it slip through our fingers.
I stand up and walk over to him. “Hey, man, thanks for having us on the bill. I know we didn’t sell a lot of tickets, but we’ll tear it up during our set, I promise.”
He gives me a confused look. “What are you talking about? You met your ticket quota. Those last-minute sales sold out the show tonight.”
“Our what?” Last-minute ticket sales?
