Blood Orange Soda: Paranormal Romance Read Free Page A

DeathRock Goths, not Metal Goths and not Glam Rock, either. Our music ranges from dark and ominous to campy and upbeat. DeathRock is really a post-Punk subgenre, and it should never be confused with Grunge or Emo music. Angel, like most Normals, leans toward garden variety Gothic Rock with bands like The Cure. But I digress…
    Weezer sets his guitar case on the rug and opens it as if it’s a gift he’s unwrapping for the first time. It’s a black and blue Fender Strat, nothing particularly expensive, but how Weezer swings that axe makes it sound far more premium than the hundred bills he paid for it. He slides inside the strap and adjusts the guitar low on his bony hips.
    “She’s cold,” Weezer says, caressing the guitar’s neck before he sets it back into the case. “Way too cold to play.”
    Angel thumps the bass drum. “Oh come on—”
    “It’ll warm up soon enough,” I say, picking a few bass lines.
    “No, I won’t ruin the neck playing her when she’s ice,” Weezer says. “Wait a few minutes, jeezus.”
    “You freaking prima donna,” Angel says, throwing one of her drumsticks at Weezer. He deflects it with his forearm, laughing and wheezing, then picks up the stick and chases after her.
    Angel kicks her hi-hat cymbals over as she flees, giggling, and he tackles her onto my bed, which already has a pile of dirty laundry on it. They’re rolling around, laughing and flirting, and I’m feeling like a creepy voyeur. The moment is not CraigsListy-weird, but certainly what my sister would describe as “totes awkward.” I watch them flirt, and continue playing my bass.
    Is he really hitting on her? Is that why those two were in such an odd mood when they arrived? Watching them makes me jealous.
    “That’s enough!” Angel cries out through belly laughter. “I’ll pee my pants if you don’t stop tickling me.”
    “Don’t pee my bed!” I shout.
    “Yeah, Darius already has the bed-wetting covered,” Weezer says.
    “Good one,” I reply. “At least I sleep with the light off. Whoever heard of a Goth afraid of the dark?”
    Weezer sits up, embarrassed, and scratches his spiked black hair. “I’m still hungry. Darius, you can pick up where I left off.” He runs past me up the stairs, and I can hear him rummaging through the kitchen cupboards.
    Angel remains in my bed, with her head on my pillow. She’s watching me. “Keep playing.”
    I play, mostly portions of scales, which seems to relax her. This won’t look good if Kira comes rushing downstairs, so I keep my distance from the bed and solo on as the lonely bass player.
    “I saw my photo online,” I say.
    “What photo?” Angel asks.
    “The one Bao took of me after my slap-down.”
    “He’s such a jerk! I’ll get him to take it down,” she says in frustration.
    I play more up-tempo. “Actually, I kind of like the photo. I reposted it to my page.”
    “Seriously?” She reaches in her jeans for her phone. She’s online within seconds and laughing. “Ohmygod, it’s your profile photo; that’s killer!”
    Angel sits up and scoots to the corner of my bed as I continue playing a dark, slow beat. “What’s wrong? You look more depressed than usual,” she asks.
    “Oh, it’s my mom. She looked tired,” I say. “She’s sick again; should’ve skipped work tonight.”
    “She’s had it a long time, right?” Angel asks.
    “Eight years.”
    “But people are living longer today with all the new medications,” my friend says, apparently to give me hope.
    “People with HIV live longer, but Vampires with HIV2 don’t live beyond ten years,” I say before changing the subject. “You see there was another blood bank robbery?”
    “Yeah, on the west side this time.”
    “It’s frustrating, you know? How can Vampires expect to be treated like Normals when they rob and steal from Normals?”
    “I know, it’s very sad.”
    Angel is a Normal, a non-Vampire. People put you into boxes and categories. And she’s definitely in the