Free Snow Flakes (Burnt Ashes #0.5) by K.E Taylor

“‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a…a…um…louse.”
    “It’s a ‘mouse’, Trey. For the love of God, it’s a ‘mouse’,” I say, slapping him on the back. A moment later, he slowly flinches in apparent discomfort.
    “What ?! That doesn’t make any sense!”
    I roll my eyes as I take another swig of my beer bottle. I have to peel the coaster off from under it because of the condensation.
    “Barkeep, I’ll have another, please,” Trey says, tapping the hard lacquered wood of the bar. He has a small pile of peanut shells surrounding his now empty beer bottle and shot glass.
    The bartender looks up from where he has been leaning on some draught pumps, chatting to a girl who has been holding his attention all night. He narrows his eyes at Trey and shakes his head. I guess that means he is cutting us off. Or at least Trey, and I can’t fault him for it.
    “What the fuck, man? Why isn’t he getting my drink?” Trey says. He looks around at me woozily, his cheeks flushed with colour.
    “Trey, you’ve had enough now, buddy,” I groan, feeling weary.
    “But then who’s going to buy this lovely lady a —” He looks around him and pauses. “Where’d she go?”
    “The blonde?” I ask, and he nods. “She left about five minutes ago with Sam. It was on the third time you were reciting A Christmas Carol …”
    He pouts as he groggily stands up from his barstool. “I don’t get it. I serenade her, I say how pretty she is, I even show her—” He pauses while he expels a hearty belch, “—my sweet side, and she, like…she goes off with tow-bar?!”
    “Yeah, I can’t imagine why, man…,” I say sarcastically. For a moment, Trey looks heartbroken, his bottom lip out in a pout.
    “Let’s get going,” I say, standing up and stretching. I put my half-finished bottle back on the bar and start to pull my wallet out. I barely have a chance to blink before Trey has closed the distance between us and is finishing off my beer. Another burp soon follows. With his thirst settled for the moment, we head out for the next thing on the agenda…band practice.
     

     
    I don’t know how anyone would ever imagine band practice with a group of delinquents would go. Perhaps people might think it would be all dick and fart jokes, or goofing around. But we leave that for the boy bands. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t dislike them. I mean, I like some vapid pretty girls, too. I just won’t write home about them, you know? Anyway, practice is always business. We all pitch in, bounce around ideas, and discuss what we like and dislike about a piece. Then we all take turns recreating it in our own way, and decide from there. As for the lyrics, well…most of the time that is up to Braden and Logan. Logan’s okay at it, I suppose. I mean, he has an awesome voice, which is why he’s lead vocalist, as well as being on guitar, but Braden? He’s something else. Whenever he sings solo, we kind of just listen.
    “Hey, Chace, what’re you doing with the camera, man?” Logan asks.
    “I’m recording a documentary for when we’re famous,” I say, turning the camera on him.
    Sam lets out a bark of laughter as he rests his base precariously on the bean bag chair beside him. “How are we going to be famous when we can’t even agree on a name for the band?” he says bitterly.
    I know that, truth be told, he is only pissed because he wanted us to be called Diesel Charge. Although it’s not a terrible name, the fact it was after Vin Diesel and not compression ignition engines only means one thing…Sam’s group name could go take a walk. Diesel Charge … We might as well have given Clooney Toons a go…
    “Well, you guys gonna join in or what?” Logan asks. He was getting all fired up, like he always does during practice. He can be a bit of a workhorse at times.
    “Sammm…I’m bored. Why don’t we go somewhere else?” The blonde from the bar