Free The Long Game by J. L. Fynn

charter. The Order of
Irish Augustinians was unique to Balanova and explained why all the
sisters had last names like Murray, Ryan, and Donnelly. I made a
mental note to tell Maggie about the group and their apparent
devotion to all things Gaelic.
    Colorful bundles of maize decorated tabletops
and hung from light fixtures. The room was a sea of orange-,
brown-, and green-clad sorority sisters and their guests. I’d
settled on a blue button-down and tan cargo shorts, but then, I
hadn’t realized what this party was supposed to be celebrating
before I’d decided to crash it. I scanned the room for a familiar
face and found Kay by the picture window that occupied a large
portion of the front wall of the living room. Orange wildflowers
were woven into her hair, and she stood next to a guy with hawkish
features and carefully arranged bedhead. When she saw me, she
flashed her Colgate smile and waved me over.
    “Fancy seeing you here,” she said.
    “Yeah.” I ducked my head in feigned
sheepishness. “I’m sorry to show up without an invitation.”
    “No worries.” She turned to Bedhead. “This is
Shane. He’s from New Orleans. Cool, right?”
    Bedhead jutted his chin in the barest of
acknowledgments, moving in closer to Kay in an obvious attempt to
stake his claim.
    “Hey.” I gave him my own bare
acknowledgement. “So listen,” I said to Kay. “I think your friend…”
I paused, as if searching my memory. “Spencer? I think this belongs
to her.” I held up the phone in its red case.
    “Oh my god! She’s been looking for that
everywhere.” Kay grabbed my arm. “Let’s go give it back to
her.”
    We left a dejected Bedhead standing by the
window, and I allowed Kay to lead me through the crowd of
partygoers.
    “There she is,” Kay said, moving toward a
small group gathered in one corner. I’d already seen Spencer before
Kay pointed her out. She was pretty hard to miss in the strapless
green dress that Kay had so accurately predicted she’d look hot in.
As we got closer, though, my opinion changed. Hot wasn’t really the
word. It was more like stunning. An uncomfortable warmth spread
through my veins, and I was suddenly second-guessing my plan.
    “Nah, you’re totally off, man,” said a lanky
kid with long, straight hair tucked behind his protruding ears. He
waved his hands wildly as he spoke. “Brian Jones created the
Stones. They wouldn’t have been anything if it hadn’t been for him.
Jaggar and Richards are so overrated. They were total fools to
replace him with Ronnie Wood.”
    Another kid, this one in an
ugly orange hoodie, hissed in disgust. “Seriously? Please tell me
you’re kidding. Jones could barely play the harmonica, let alone
the guitar. By ‘66, he wasn’t even recording with them anymore. He
was banned from touring because of his multiple drug convictions. They had to
replace him. They had no choice.”
    The lanky one sneered and opened his mouth,
but Spencer beat him to it. “Actually, you’re both wrong,” she
said. Everyone turned to look at her, and the girl who’d partially
obscured her until now shifted so that Spencer was in full view of
the group.
    “How’s that?” Lanky asked.
    “Well, first—” Spencer directed this at the
kid in the orange hoodie. “—Jones made several pretty big
contributions to the group, even after Richards and Jaggar took
over as songwriters.” He crossed his arms and pursed his lips
doubtfully, but gestured with a bob of his head that she should
continue. “The sitar line in ‘Paint It, Black’ is probably the most
well-known, but he also played both dulcimer and harpsichord on
‘Lady Jane.’ Oh, and oboe and sax on ‘Dandelion.’ And he was only
banned from touring in the U.S., which didn’t happen until after
‘69.”
    “See, man, I told you!” Lanky gave his
opponent’s shoulder a backhanded smack and grinned at his new
ally.
    She gave him an apologetic smile in return.
“But he’s right that it was a good decision