Free SirensCall by Alexandra Martin Page A

paces to my door. Before I reached for the
doorknob, the door flew wide open. I blinked, staring at the five-foot-tall
pipsqueak standing before me. She’d done something to her hair…curled it until
her short strands were poodle-perfect and she’d attached a pair of glittery falsies
to her lids, giving her eyes more bang for their buck.
    Combined with the neon-pink dress that covered little of her
thighs, the magenta leggings, a light-pink sweater and the pompom earrings, Viola
delivered more of a fluffy-puppy look than whatever she’d intended.
    I tilted my head to the side, the first smile of the
afternoon hovering on my lips. Viola caught my grin and laughed in return.
    “Like my outfit? I’m going for counterculture. By showing up
to a punk rock concert in the least punk-aesthetic outfit possible, I’m the
most punk person there.” There was a mischievous glint in her eyes.
    I snorted and poured day-old coffee into an empty mug lying
on the counter. Not even a jolt hit me as I chugged the coffee-flavored sludge
and wiped my mouth with my forearm. The caffeine kind of stops working when you
drink a potful a day.
    “Can I skip ahead to the part where I have a job again?” I
ran my hands through my hair, trying to ignore my looming headache from this
lack-of-job business.
    “Dave’s a twatwaffle. Fuck him.” Viola rested on my chair,
boots on my rickety coffee table.
    I grabbed my purse from the table. “Yeah, well, the not-fucking
thing is what got me canned.”
    “Eh, not worth the nasty. He was a creepy little worm.
Although it couldn’t hurt for you to hit the town for some tail. What’s it
been, like twenty years?” Viola glanced my way, swinging her legs onto the
floor. “Your claptrap’ll get dusty, darling.”
    I gave her a level look. “Thanks. Times like this I remember
that friendship is masochism.”
    Her grin widened as she strolled to the door, curls bouncing
with her walk. “That’s why you love me, Liz!”
    I followed her out and locked up. As we walked down the
corridor, our footsteps echoed all around us like the marching of a thousand
angry men.
    * * * * *
    One of the pluses and minuses of living in a small town is…well,
how small everything is. Of course, there was one place that featured real
music outside of the banjo and twangy crap played in barns.
    The Red Door was our one decent music venue and most times
of the year, local bands clustered there looking for ever-elusive fame. Like
any talent scouts would be out our way.
    A bright-red door marked the place and the wide windows
displayed their café, which was swarmed by the teenagers of this town on a
regular basis. On weekend nights some tart would be wailing away on her
acoustic guitar, but on rare occasions—and I mean rare —there’d be a
variation to the music, like a metal or punk rock band.
    With the umber streaks of fading sunset mingling with ashy
clouds, the night was dark. Darker than usual, at least. I for one was glad I’d
chosen pants after watching a gaggle of girls giggle as they clicked across the
street in their heels.
    Viola strolled with me, looking poodle-tastic as we marched
our way to see which one of these bands dabbled in fae business.
    Viola strode in first and the overhanging bell clanged with
our entrance. A couple of slim guys sat at one of the tables, books out but no
one reading. One look at the titles and I snickered. Of course—Hemingway,
Salinger and the sort. These were wannabe elites who, once they popped on big-boy
pants, would be infiltrating New York with their pretentiousness.
    The floorboards vibrated to the beats pulsing downstairs.
Jamie sat behind the counter, hunching over in his seat and not paying
attention. He stared at something below the countertop with the same intensity
a librarian would read their favorite book.
    “Hey, jack off on your own time,” Viola called out.
    His head whipped up, long strands of hair covering his face.
The reddening of his cheeks incriminated