Page 66 of Not Quite Dead Yet

‘Yeah. Tuesday is the only day Allison will let me do it.’

‘When’s it start?’

Billy glanced back at the microwave, at the little clock. ‘Literally ten minutes. I should already be down there, setting up. People are waiting.’ He finally looked at her, resting the case on the tops of his shoes. ‘But I can cancel it, I can stay, if you –’

‘– No, no,’ Jet cut him off. ‘You go. Wouldn’t want you to get in trouble with Allison. I’m fine.’

Billy hoisted the guitar case on his back, his eyebrows furrowing. Maybe his arms were sore too: Jet’s were killing her. OK, OK, she heard it.

‘I mean,’ Billy said, quieter now, unsure, ‘you could come down, i-if you want. It’s not far.’ He attempted a smile, but it didn’t reach his pale eyes. ‘You’ve been staring at that hammer for hours already. A quick break might, I don’t know, do you good.’

Jet opened her mouth, but she couldn’t find an excuse in time.Busywas already out the window, she knew it, and Billy knew it too. She couldn’t saylater, ornext time, because those weren’t options either, not anymore.

Billy watched her, jumped in to fill the silence. ‘Your mom told me to make sure you’re getting enough rest and … she terrifies me.’ He laughed, catching it in his closed fist. ‘I’m not … I’m not terrible, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘I didn’t think you were terrible.’ Lie.

Billy smiled, like he knew it. Ah, fuck sake, Billy Finney, looking at her with those sad blue eyes, a tug of warm guilt in her chest, sliding down to her belly.

‘Yeah, OK,’ Jet said. ‘Maybe I’ll see you down there.’

Billy’s eyes lit up, a different blue somehow, trading ice for a summer sky.

‘OK,’ he said, a lopsided smile. ‘See you down there.’

The front door closed behind him.

‘Fuck sake, Billy,’ Jet muttered, closing the lid of her laptop. She pushed herself up from the floor, the muscles down the backs of her arms complaining. An ache they didn’t forget as she headed into the bedroom. Well, she couldn’t go down to the bar in her sweats, could she? And her clothes from today were basically ruined.

She slipped on the clean pair of jeans, searched her backpack for a shirt. Hmm, see, this was why you didn’t pack in ahurry, or when you were mad as fuck. She hadn’t packed anything bar-appropriate. Her eyes scanned up to Billy’s closet, pulled it open. Flannel shirts of almost every color combination, checked and striped and checked again. Billy was a Country Boy and he knew it. And he probably wouldn’t mind if Jet borrowed one. Probably. Jet pulled one out – navy and cream – and buttoned it up.

In the bathroom, Jet sprayed some of Billy’s deodorant, pulled out her makeup bag, and studied her face.

Her hair was a mess. Should she try to wash it sometime, around the wounds? Was there even a point? Jet tried to get a brush through; it was still matted around the bandages, but it would have to do.

Next, her face. Her skin was a little blue, a little swollen, by her temple, the bruise creeping out from under the bandage there. A bit of foundation covered that, and the circles under her eyes. Blush on her cheeks and a little on her nose. Eyebrow gel to stick them up the way she liked them. A pale pink on her lips, up and down the sharp lines of her cupid’s bow.

Jet leaned closer to the mirror, mascara wand in hand. She blinked. The pupil on the right was still dilated, a dark abyss in the middle of her eye, mismatched from the other. There wasn’t much the mascara could do about it. But, hey, for a dying girl, she could have looked worse.

Jet had her own table, the one by the upside-down-witch-legs lamp, hands cupped around a cold bottle of beer, stinging the raw scrubbed-clean skin of her palms.

The bar was busy, surprisingly busy, maybe forty people in here, shuffling feet and chatter crammed into the small space. A completely different world from earlier, when it had just been Jet and Billy and Andrew Smith.

The crowd started to cheer, bursts of clapping, and Jetwatched as Billy emerged from the door behind the bar, his hand around the neck of his guitar. He jogged toward the makeshift stage, the microphone on a stand waiting for him. More applause, whoops from a group of middle-aged women, a wolf whistle from a burly man at the back.

‘Thank you,’ Billy said into the microphone, a screech of feedback. ‘Thanks Steve.’

Jet gripped the underside of the table, too nervous for him, crossed her legs because she couldn’t sit still.

‘I’m Billy, and it is my pleasure to play for you tonight,’ he said, strumming one chord, hooking the guitar strap over his head. ‘I’m gonna start off with a song probably none of you have ever heard before.’

He started to play, fingers dancing across the strings, and the opening riff drew a laugh from the crowd. More when he started to sing.

That song everyone knew. The one about Vermont and sticks.Verypopular around here, especially at this time of year, right on the cusp of the season of the sticks.

The crowd quieted and Billy continued the verse, and Jet gripped the table harder and … wait a minute. Wait a fucking minute. Billy was good. More than good. He could actually sing, oh my god, he could actually sing. A raspy tone to his voice that wasn’t there when he spoke, climbing the notes like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Jet felt the hairs standing up along her aching arms. She hugged them to herself. Billy Fucking Finney, eh? Who would have thought?