Wicked Game Read Free Page A

pleasure to meet you, sweet lady.” He reaches across the table, takes my hand, and draws it to his full lips. My eyes go all moony and un-professional under his gaze, which is softened by a pair of dark-rimmed glasses lying low on the bridge of his nose. Noah’s green, gold, and red knit cap perches atop a fetching set of chest-length dreadlocks. I’m relieved the seventies are represented by reggae instead of disco.
    “Oh, please. Get the fuck off her, you wanker.” Despite the Briticism, the punk/Goth woman—Regina, I presume—has a flat midwestern accent. Beneath a shower of spiky black hair, her face is a study in monochrome, with black eyeliner and lipstick setting off her skin’s porcelain perfection.
    Regina gives me a chin tilt and a “yo,” before turning to Shane. “You can pretend to wake up now.”
    He slides his flannel-shirted arm from his face, then turns his head. I take my first full breath of the evening. His warm eyes and crooked smile make me feel like I’m really here and not just a stain someone left on the rug.
    “Hey.” Shane drags his battered Doc Martens off the couch and stands up slowly. Even with the grunge-cool slouch, he’s taller than the others. As he approaches, he flicks his head to sweep a tangle of nape-length, pale brown hair out of his eyes.
    When our hands touch, he starts as if I’ve shocked him. He pronounces my name perfectly, and so softly I wonder if someone else in the room is still sleeping. Then his gaze cools, and he half-turns away, hands in his pockets.
    Aw, he’s shy. How lovable, huggable, stuff-in-a-bag-and-take-home-able.
    Or not, as I look at Regina, whose eyes are slicing me in half. Shane must be her boy. She could probably weap-onize any of those six facial piercings in seconds.
    An enormous stack of chips sits in front of her next to an open bottle of tequila. “Who’s winning?” I ask, in an effort to get on her good side.
    “I have two hundred ninety-two dollars,” Regina says. “Jim has forty-six, Noah one hundred sixty-seven, and Spencer, ninety-eight. No, wait—ninety-nine.”
    “Shane bombed early,” Jim says, “not that he had much to start with.”
    The flannel-clad man in question turns to David. “She’ll be fine. Can I go now?”
    “Sure. Thanks for coming in.”
    Jim fishes a set of keys from his pocket and tosses them to Shane. “Happy hunting. And remember, none of that low-octane shit this time.”
    Shane heads for the door, sparing me a cool glance of acknowledgment. My eyes shift to follow him, but not my head. I congratulate myself on my restraint.
    “What do the rest of you guys think?” David says. “Should we hire her?”
    They examine me like I’m a cow at a 4-H auction. I try not to moo.
    The four DJs exchange looks, then nod, more or less in unison. David rubs his hands together and starts to make a declaration.
    “Wait,” Spencer says. “What about Monroe?”
    David shifts his weight from foot to foot, then shakes his head. “I don’t want to interrupt his program.”
    “Who’s Monroe?” I ask David.
    He points to a closed door in the corner with a glowing ON THE AIR sign above it. “He plays the
Midnight Blues
show.”
    “But it’s only 9:30.”
    “It starts at nine, ends at midnight. That’s when Spencer takes over, then Jim from three to six, on alternating nights. The other nights feature Noah, Regina, and Shane, same schedule.”
    The DJs make a point of picking up their cards again, dismissing us. David beckons me to the bottom of the stairs.
    He shuts the door behind us and jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Do you know what they are?” he whispers.
    It seems like a trick question, so I shake my head.
    “A revolution.” David’s eyes are googly with fanaticism. “They each dwell in a time when a new sound embodied the zeitgeist of a generation and knocked the world on its ass.”
    Code Yellow again. “When you say they
dwell
in that time—”
    “Musically.”
    “So what’s with