Page 11 of Not a Friend (Crescent Light #1)

Four Years Ago, January

Do you know how juvenile it feels to stay awake debating if you should ask your friend’s new girlfriend if she can give you her friend’s number? What am I? Fifteen?

“ G rant and a bunch of his friends are going out tonight, and he invited us,” Gemma said as she emerged from the bathroom with her hair wrapped in a towel. “Wanna come?”

Gemma and Grant made their relationship official two weeks after the night they met. While it was unlike Gemma to jump into something so fast, it strangely made perfect sense. They made perfect sense. I, on the other hand, hadn’t spoken to Nate since the night we spent together.

I glanced over my shoulder from my position on the floor.

A small stack of vinyl records sat in my lap, begging to be sorted into their respective places in my collection.

I’d gotten a few new additions from my siblings’ obligatory gift exchange and treated myself to a few more from the vintage record shop in my hometown when I was there for Christmas.

I hadn’t had the brainpower to sort them into their new homes until that evening.

I gave Gemma a noncommittal face. “When? Where at? ”

“About an hour, and I’m not sure.” She threw her body forward, the force alone flipping the towel over her head, and into her hands.

“Some low-key bar I’ve never been to. I guess they go there a lot when they want to chill and drink for cheap.

I figured if nothing else, it could give me material for my blog. ”

I’d planned to spend the evening watching a documentary I’d been saving. My eyes dipped to my sweatpants, the stretched-out cotton riddled with holes from years of wear. “I think I’ll stay in. I already have my comfy pants on.”

Gemma straightened, finger-combing her blonde locks, sending droplets of water spattering around the living room. I had the vague thought that she would make a terrible serial killer with all the evidence she would likely leave sprayed around the crime scene.

“Come on, Olive! It’s just going to be a bunch of dudes. Don’t make me go alone. Please?”

I rolled my eyes, already knowing I was going to cave. I could never resist a “please” from her.

An hour later, we walked into the dimly lit bar.

I settled for a pair of jeans and a comfortable lavender-colored sweater after Gemma promised again that the location was low-key and would not require the usual level of Going Out Readiness.

She was right. Unlike places close to the heart of Sumner U’s campus, Brick Road Bar was downtown and far from the majority of undergrads.

While most bars near campus kept a considerable portion of their floor space open for dancing and standing room, Brick Road was filled with tall, wooden communal tables.

Tonight, they were full of patrons hunched together on barstools.

A matching wooden bar took up the entire length of the far wall, also occupied by lounging customers engaged in conversation with the two bartenders behind the counter.

A jukebox lit up the corner, blaring classic rock through the sound system.

I immediately felt more at ease there than I ever had in any campus bar.

At the front of the room was a stage that looked like a permanent fixture, its wood just as worn and stained as the rest of the flooring.

It sat only a foot or so off the ground and held a full drum set, a few guitars propped up on stands, and an electric keyboard.

I’d heard a few people mention going to gigs and open mic nights around campus throughout the years—this must’ve been one of the places they were hosted.

“Gemma! Over here!”

Grant perked up like a meerkat from the back of the room near a cluster of pool tables.

By the way his table was littered with empty pint glasses, it was clear he and his friend had been there long enough to get comfortable.

In the middle of the table sat two pitchers of beer and a faded, flimsy deck of cards.

Gemma and I slid onto stools as Grant introduced us to his friend. Martinez, an athletically built guy with tattooed arms, flashed us a bright smile as he poured us beers.

Grant’s eyes followed Gemma as she pulled her stool closer to him and settled in. He leaned in to give her a quick peck on the cheek as if he literally could not resist it.

I bit back a grin.

He’s in love already.

“Okay, who wants to deal first?” Martinez asked, clapping his hands together.

Wordlessly, Grant grabbed the deck of cards and began shuffling. Catching my doubtful expression, he simply said, “We’ll explain as we go, don’t worry.”

As it turned out, following the rules of their game—four-handed euchre, which they simply called “four-handed” since it could apparently be played with modifications for four, five, or six players—was like trying to paddle a boat upstream with only one ore while simultaneously juggling flame throwers and reciting Shakespeare. Difficult and nonsensical as hell.

The game consisted of a single deck including only cards of nine and higher, and was played with a partner. To win the game, teams had to win at least three of the five hands per round and the game was over when a team reached ten points.

Its rules also dictated which suits were in power each round and gave some cards more power than others.

For example, jacks were stronger than any other card, but only if they were the same color as the suit in power.

And in those cases, the jacks were no longer called jacks—but instead were the Right and the Left.

Entirely too confusing, to say the least.

Martinez and Grant remained patient as Gemma and I fumbled over the first few rounds, but after twenty minutes of asking them to repeat the rules, it was getting embarrassing. The fact that I managed not to drop any cards when it was my turn to shuffle the small deck was a miracle in and of itself.

“That’s not a spade, remember?” Grant laughed as he slid the Jack of Spades back over to Gemma for the second time that round. “It’s a club.”

“But it’s literally a spade!” Gemma shouted, nearly knocking her drink over as she pointed to the black spade in the corner of her card.

“Correct, but it’s the Left,” Martinez, Gemma’s teammate, explained. “So, it’s technically a club this round.”

“How is anyone supposed to remember all these rules?”

Grant bit back a smile and gave Gemma a precious, pitying look. “Babe, do you have any other spades in your hand right now? ”

Gemma studied the three cards in her hand like she was cramming for a final exam. “No.”

“Oh. Well, in that case, go ahead and play the Jack of Spades.”

Martinez burst into laughter.

Gemma gave the table an incredulous look. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I think we have time for one more round before the show starts,” Grant announced as he dealt the next hand.

“There’s a show tonight?” I asked.

“Yeah, my brother’s band is playing. That’s why we came.”

His brother’s band. Nate’s band. My cheeks heated.

Across the table, Gemma side-eyed me with a sly grin.

The little traitor.

She must’ve known they were playing tonight and conned me into coming.

She’d been dying to hear all about my night with Nate a few weeks ago, to no avail.

When she’d spilled the dirty details about her night with Grant, I left my night with Nate to her imagination.

The dry spell was broken; that was all she needed to know.

“Maybe you came to see your brother’s band,” Martinez grabbed the pitcher in front of me, “but I came for the free beer.”

“The beer is not free,” Grant said, “and you aren’t getting out of paying again, asshole.”

“But free beer tastes so much better,” Martinez reasoned with a long swig.

“Then get another guy to buy one for you.”

Martinez let out a groan. “Too much effort.”

I laughed and tried to act like I wasn’t sitting a little straighter now, like I wasn’t sneaking glances at the stage on the other side of the room and the guys who were now doing last-minute instrument and equipment checks.

“Pass or play, Olive?” Martinez asked.

Looking at my pile of cards, I scrambled to grab them and made my decision quickly. “Pass,” I said, only realizing I actually should have picked a suit after the word left my mouth.

By the time the hand was over, soft cheers and claps resounded through the bar. The crowd nearly doubled in the last twenty minutes, with people who came specifically to see the band, by the looks of it.

The four men on stage fell into position at their instruments. I recognized Jared on the drums immediately. He and Grant could’ve been twins, except for Jared’s shaggier blond waves and the stubble that contrasted his brother’s clean-shaven look.

Stage left was a tall guy with thick black curls and a gentle vibe about him.

He adjusted the strap of a bass guitar over his shoulders and sent a smile to the opposite side of the stage, where a guy with completely opposite energy stood.

The guitarist met the bassist’s smile with a stern look, which may have been his version of a smile.

He dressed head to toe in black: a black beanie, a black T-shirt under a black denim jacket, black jeans, and black combat boots.

He plucked a single key on the electric keyboard next to him, testing its volume.

But my gaze settled on the front of the stage, on Nate as he looped an acoustic guitar over his shoulders and took his place at the microphone.

“Thanks for coming out,” Nate spoke softly, casually into the microphone. “We’re Crescent Light.”

The opening song started slowly. With just an acoustic guitar, Nate played so softly that I slid to the edge of my seat and leaned in just to hear.