Free Deathskull Bombshell by Bethny Ebert

Her
penny-colored hair spilled in her face like a veil. She wore baggy
jeans and a navy blue sweatshirt and she was very skinny. Her face
had a pointed expression, stern, almost vulpine.
    Watching her, Austin felt his breath catch in
his throat. Suddenly he wanted to sit next to her, ask her about
her favorite musicians, what books did she read, where did she want
to go to college, what did she do for fun, anything.
    He wondered what her name was, wanted to
write it on his hand and press the still-wet ink to his cheek,
tattooing her name on his face.
    Trevor strolled into the basement just then,
guitar case on his shoulder. With him it was an effortless gesture;
he made the guitar case look light as a feather. He was a fit sort
of guy, muscled arms, probably worked out every day. He pulled up a
screechy metal chair next to the redhead and reached a hand over to
brush her guitar strings. They made an ugly jarring noise.
    She looked up at him, narrowing her eyes.
    “Hey,” Trevor said.
    She nodded at him without a word of
acknowledgement, then went back to her guitar.
    “Hey, poser!” The mohawked guy again, calling
from upstairs. “Come up here and get wasted with us!”
    Austin stumbled upstairs, feeling dizzy. He’d
had enough spying for today.
    Beer was better.

Chapter fifteen
    May 2002
     
    It was Austin’s second drink, but it felt
like his seventh. The floor looked like churned butter. Warm and
inviting. A feathered bed.
    He could sleep forever.
    Beer was beautiful. Only grains, but with a
sweet taste, like honey. Funny. Fuzzy. Good sweetness, like bread.
Manna from heaven.
    Transubstantiation.
    He’d found it.
    He sat on the floor, and a few other punks
joined him. Somebody had a joint and they passed it around. He
smiled lazily as everybody talked about George Harrison and dead
musicians and politics. They were good people.
    Elizabeth, back from the basement, stood over
him. “God, you’re easy.”
    He looked up at her. It was kind of hot how
she scolded him. Kind of like a teacher. If he could only stand up
and kiss her. But his legs wouldn’t move. He was too drunk.
    Wordlessly, he curled up at her feet and
yawned. He felt like a cat.
    He closed his eyes.
    She nudged him with her shoe, but not in a
mean way. “All good?”
    “Sleeping,” he murmured into her
shell-toes.
    “HEY, DEATHSKULL BOMBSHELL!” someone yelled,
and he opened his eyes.
    “I gotta go,” Elizabeth said. She crouched
down next to him, then tousled his hair. “You have fun, kiddo.”
    “If you want,” he said, but she was already
descending the staircase.
    Fuck. She still smelled like vanilla perfume.
He wondered how a girly-girl like that ever got into drumming.
    He closed his eyes. So much beer.
    When he woke up, the music was already
started. Alone in the kitchen, he listened for a while, feeling the
cool kitchen tile beneath his warm face. The music was muffled, but
he could feel the drums and bass beat through the floor. He closed
his eyes, letting the booze slosh in his stomach a bit. After a
while he stood up and headed downstairs.
    Deathskull Bombshell had a harsh sound, fast
and discordant, unsettling. It was an old-school garage band sound
fused with emo-screamo-hardcore. Short songs, fast tempo, simple
lyrics, politics, cusses, screaming. Trevor sang lead.
    Elizabeth was a drumming maniac. She thrashed
her hair around crazy like she belonged to an eighties hair band.
She could do a lot of in-depth stuff like military taps and drum
rolls and weird things with cymbals. Long ago, Austin took up a
drumming class, but he gave up after only a few weeks. He wondered
how long it took her to learn to drum like that.
    Parker played bass with his eyes closed,
clutching the instrument for support. Probably had stage fright.
Austin worried he’d fall over, but he managed. Being the youngest,
he had a high-pitched singing voice. You could tell he hated it.
Eventually he just gave up and started yelling the words, avoided
singing