Free Then You Were Gone by Lauren Strasnick Page B

because I won’t fuck you?!”
    “Oh my god, Adrienne.” His voice cracks and one arm flies up, accidentally knocking the takeout container out of my hand. Orange chicken skitters across the Turkish rug.
    “I’m sorry,” he whispers quickly, looking humiliated and apologetic. I dart toward the blinking television, where the white rectangular box lies, mangled, nearby on its side. “It’s fine,” I say, digging bits of fried batter out of the carpet.
    “I didn’t mean to—”
    “It’s okay, Lee.” I right myself, carrying the mess to the trash can. “I wasn’t hungry anyway.”

32.
    Open period. Julian and I share a cigarette inside his Datsun.
    “This thing work?” I ask, straining to roll down the sealed side window.
    “Jammed,” he says, biting the cigarette, touching his tongue to its filter. “You need to, like—” He stretches across the seat, using both hands to joggle the window roller. “There.” He pulls back, both elbows brushing my thighs. “Air.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Finish it,” he says, passing me the last of the cig.
    I squish the wet filter between my fingers. Touch the damp part to my lips. “I googled that guy,” I say, dragging lightly, holding the smoke in. “I have his info. I think we should contact him.” I exhale, bracing myself for Julian’s wrath, but—
    “I can’t stop thinking about, just, like, the two of them.”
    “Maybe he’ll talk to us . . . ?” I say quietly, seizing my moment. Julian’s willing, I feel it. Ready to yield. “Maybe he knows something?”
    “Maybe he did something,” he suggests.
    I look over. His face is fuchsia.
    “Those freakin’ pictures,” he says, putting his head in his hands. “And I keep going over those dates. A few overlap with shows, but the bulk of them—there’s no pattern. I can’t link them to anything specific.”
    I have nothing to offer. No theories, no fantasy scenarios. I feel bad for him. Jilted beau. Betrayed bandmate. “Want me to do it? I can call him,” I say. “Try to set something up?”
    He’s zoned out, hunched over, chewing a knuckle. After a minute: “Don’t do that,” he says, snapping back to life. “No, I know the guy.” He faces me. “I know where to find him.”

33.
    The Echo.
    Julian knows the door guy. We skate by with quick waves—no IDs, no dollars. Inside, it’s black, packed, and L-shaped. There’re mirrors. There’s a bar. Onstage, three girls beat drums and scream melodiously into mics. Julian leads me up front. We meet the crowd, scanning lit faces.
    “What does he look like?”
    “Dunno. Old. Shithead vibe.”
    We squint, searching. I gesture left. “That guy?”
    Not that guy.
    We wait. Check our watches, watch the door, watch the show. We buy drinks. Between sets, we buy more drinks. New band: loud, goth, grating. I’m ready to go.
    “Can we leave?” I scream, having hit my death-metal limit.
    Julian shrugs.
    “He’s not here,” I say.
    “Okay.”
    “Okay?”
    He nods. We head out. Then: “ There .” Julian points. “Right there.”
    By the bar, a forty-something aging rocker—leather skin, shaggy hair—sips amber liquid from a clear plastic tumbler. “Stay here.”
    “Wait, why?”
    “Because. You’re a girl. Guy’s a creep.”
    “So? Why am I here, then? I’m coming.”
    “No way.”
    “I am.”
    “Adrienne.”
    We glare at each other. “I am .”
    He relents. “Whatever.” We weedwack forward.
    Mills looks past us, at the stage. His head bops. Julian slaps his shoulder. Mills smiles back, polite-like, grips his arm, then looks away. Julian leans close. Says something I can’t hear. Mills pulls back, drags a pack of Camels from his coat, then heads to the back of the club. We follow him out to the patio. He lights his smoke. Then, out of nowhere, Julian pummels the guy.
    My heart flies to my throat. People part like the red sea. Iscream and yank Julian’s jacket, pulling him backward. He’s wailing, shouting, “What did you do