A Light in the Dark Read online

  “Okay,” I whispered back, wishing with all my heart I could give him more. He stood and left the room. I turned away from the door, not wanting to see it close behind him, and stared at my phone for several moments.

  I couldn’t do it. Not tonight. I’d call Sebastian in the morning. Maybe I’d wake him up super early and catch him before he had a chance to put on his snark.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The sound of my name being yelled had me lurching upright in bed until I heard the male giggles that followed. Then the hollering looped back and started again. Those bilge rats messed with my phone after I’d stormed out of the meeting, resetting my ring tone. I recognized Corny’s startlingly high-pitched snicker, Sly’s calm shushing, a sound I’d heard him use rather often on his kid, and Jon’s constant rhythmic thumping in the background. That boy could make a drum out of anything. Then Tom’s bellow, “Tish! Tish! You’re on fire! Run!” followed by a volley of laughter. It was the dumbest thing ever.

  “Ha ha,” I growled, pressing the volume knob to silence their voices. I checked the time—after midnight—then the number of the person calling me. It seemed familiar, but it wasn’t one I recognized in my groggy state. “Hello?” I answered before I really considered what kind of person might be calling me in the middle of the night. I doubted it was a benign sales call.

  “Tish? Tish Ransome with Marauders?” The voice was quiet, husky, on the other end of the line. “It’s Sebastian.”

  “What? Wait, who?” My sleep-addled mind was still trying to make sense of things.

  “Touché,” he muttered with a low chuckle. “Sebastian Jeffries. Music Theory III. Auditioned for Marauders last week.”

  I pushed up onto one elbow, waking up more fully now. I brushed my hair from my eyes and squinted at the clock again, double-checking that I’d gotten the time right. “Dude. Seriously? It’s after midnight.”

  “Yes. I know. I just wanted you to know that I’m still interested in joining the band. I was kind of a chump earlier when you called. Tried to be funny, but couldn’t pull it off.”

  Really? Was that supposed to be an apology? “A chump? Is that French for jackass?”

  “Classy, Ms. Ransome. Classy.”

  Oh. My. Gosh. “Um, excuse me. Did you call me in the middle of the night to apologize for being a chump?” I sneered as I said it, making a mockery of his choice of words.

  “Nope,” he replied. I could practically hear him scowling. “I called to tell you I’m still interested in being in Marauders. I also called to tell you I’m not usually such a chump around the ladies, but I’m thinking it’s possible you might just be the exception to that rule. I don’t know why, but I find myself leaning toward chumpiness around you.”

  “And you think insulting me will increase your chances of getting into my band?” Why was I even still talking to him?

  “Me? Insulting you? I’m not the one calling people names.”

  I lay in the dark, biting my tongue to keep the comebacks at bay, the most obvious being that he’d called himself a name, and I’d only asked for clarification. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out where this animosity between us came from. We barely knew each other, but we shared a deep passion for music, something that should have drawn us together immediately. Why on earth were we at each other’s throats like this? Finally, I took a deep breath, and simply said, “Fine. I have your number. I’ll call you when I’ve decided if I want you in my band. Goodnight, Chump.”

  Then I hung up on him. Again.

  I set my phone to vibrate and laid it on my bedside table, having no desire to be awakened by my cackling idiot band mates again. I rolled over and gazed out the window at the night sky. The moon had arched past my line of vision, and the stars sparkled against the midnight canvas. I was wide awake now, and really hungry. After my temper tantrum earlier, I’d fallen asleep without any dinner. Throwing back my covers, I sat up and stretched. I still wore the leggings and T-shirt I’d had on all day and I grimaced as I ran my fingers through my tangled hair, sweeping it away from my face and tucking it behind my ears. I needed food and a shower.

  Grabbing my phone and ear buds, I found my favorite radio station, and tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen. I smiled when I opened the fridge. “Thanks, Mom,” I murmured and pulled out a plastic-wrapped plate bearing a sticky note with my name on it. A baked potato, four slices of bacon, and a pile of broccoli. Yum. While it heated up in the microwave, I dug around in the fridge for sour cream and shredded cheese.

  Just as I was sitting down to enjoy my midnight meal in the near dark, the hall light flipped on. I watched as Jordan stumbled toward the bathroom. I snickered at the sight of him in his saggy boxers. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand the concept of boxers. It was like wearing baggy shorts under pants, right? I mean, why bother? Not that I condoned guys going commando. I just thought boxers were silly. I shook my head and turned my attention from my brother’s choice of lingerie back to my plate.

  The bacon was only slightly limp after the microwave, but it was still tasty. I tore it up into chunks and added it to the growing pile of fixings on the potato, leaving two strips for dessert. I loved me some bacon. Just as I took my first bite, my phone buzzed, the music in my ears fading away.

  I recognized the number this time. Sebastian. Texting me instead of calling. What did he want now? I didn’t open the message—I wasn’t sure I wanted him to know I’d received it—and just read it from the notification on the main screen.

  555-1961: Sorry I was a jackass. Forgive me?

  I stared at the message while I chewed, hesitant to acknowledge it. First of all, he had a lot of nerve assuming I was still awake at this hour. Secondly, I’d made it pretty clear that I would contact him, not the other way around. And thirdly, he was now interrupting my meal. I chose to ignore it. He could just wait.

  555-1961: Come on, Tish. I’m apologizing.

  I opened my settings and turned off the vibrate, too.

  555-1961: You aren’t in bed already, are you?

  It didn’t matter that the sound was off. The screen still lit up in the near dark and silenced my music. I shoved another bite of potato in my mouth and chewed ferociously, wishing he would leave me alone. How long was he going to try to goad a response from me?

  555-1961: Just tell me we’re cool, okay? I really do want to be in your band.

  I rolled my eyes. The guy must be desperate. He was practically groveling now. I wondered how much farther he’d go. I opened the message thread so he would know I was reading along, but I didn’t respond.

  555-1961: Ha! I knew you were there. We cool?

  I couldn’t help the grin as I took another bite, imagining his dark head bent over his phone, his hair falling forward, fingers poised.

  555-1961: His name is Alejandro.

  I paused in my chewing. What? Whose name? Oh, for the love of Blackbeard. Did he have a boyfriend? My fingers twitched with the need to text him back, but I clutched my fork tighter.

  555-1961: Tribute to Lady Gaga.

  And then it donned on me he was most likely referring to his Strat. I’d introduced him to Chanticlaire earlier, so maybe this was a peace offering of sorts.

  555-1961: Tish. We cool? Tell me we’re cool.

  I picked up the phone and texted him back.

  And changed his ID to SebastianJack for short.

  JollyRockerTBird: I’m cool with Alejandro. You, not so sure. That didn’t sound like I was flirting at all, right?

  SebastianJack: That’s a start.

  This whole cryptic thing was not my style.

  JollyRockerTBird: Maybe. I tended to think out loud, which translated to sending rapid-fire texts without editing. With Sebastian, I felt like I had to consider every single word I typed. I couldn’t read him, so I didn’t know how he’d read me.

  SebastianJack: Where Alejandro goes, I go. You want him in the band, you get me, too. See? A start.

  Okay. So maybe not so cryptic. I had t
o smile; he really did seem to be trying.

  JollyRockerTBird: You drive a hard bargain. I mean, Alejandro is pretty epic.

  SebastianJack: Give Chanticleer my deepest appreciation, too.

  JollyRockerTBird: ChantiCLAIRE. She’s a she. Not Rockadoodle.

  SebastianJack: What??? Rockadoodle was my favorite!

  JollyRockerTBird: That’s a no on Rockadoodle. Too weird. A hot rooster?

  SebastianJack: Well… tell ChantiCLAIRE Alejandro thinks she’s a pretty hot chick….

  JollyRockerTBird: Oh no. You did NOT just go there. But I was surprised to find I was enjoying myself. A few moments passed, and I wondered if he might have fallen asleep. Then another text came in.

  SebastianJack: So we cool? He really seemed to need me to be “cool” with him.

  JollyRockerTBird: We’re cool. But you’re interrupting my meal.

  SebastianJack: At this hour? Never mind. Don’t answer that. But answer this.

  I waited. And waited. Finally, I gave in, probably playing right into his hands.

  JollyRockerTBird: Answer what? Like he’d been waiting for me to ask, the reply came back instantly.

  SebastianJack: Am I in?

  JollyRockerTBird: In what? I chortled at my own wickedness. I knew exactly what he was asking, but I wanted him to grovel a little more.

  SebastianJack: You want Alejandro, you get me. We’re a package deal. So tell me you want me, Tish Ransome of the Marauders.

  Whoa. My thumbs froze over the keypad. How the crusty cutlass was I supposed to respond to that? Finally, I started typing, erased, typed again.

  JollyRockerTBird: I’ll tell you tomorrow. My bacon is getting cold.

  SebastianJack: Look at your clock. It is tomorrow.

  JollyRockerTBird: I know what time it is AND what day it is. I meant tomorrow. As in Saturday. Of course I wasn’t going to make him wait, but I wanted him to sweat a little. For a whole semester he’d been the worst kind of chump to me, and I didn’t think he’d made full restitution yet.

  SebastianJack: You need me, Tish.

  “Not going there, Sebastian,” I muttered to myself.

  JollyRockerTBird: Marauders needs the best guitar player for the band.

  SebastianJack: That’s me. I’m the best. You already know it’s me. I know you know it.

  JollyRockerTBird: Oh? And how do you know I know it? I took another bite of potato. It really was getting cold.

  SebastianJack: You called me, remember? Ah. Why, yes. Yes, I did.

  JollyRockerTBird: Wait. That was you? I thought I called this guy named Chump.

  SebastianJack: Touché! Now tell me you want me. Tell me it’s me.

  JollyRockerTBird: Goodnight, Sebastian.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I stared down at the phone in my hand. What was all that? Tell me you want me? My heart raced at the crazy notion that he might actually be asking what he was asking. “No way,” I muttered. “Don’t be an idiot.”

  “Who’re you talking to at this hour, Squeak?”

  “Shut up.” I didn’t really hate the nickname, at least not like I used to, but sibling rivalry was a time-honored tradition in our home, and I wasn’t about to be the mature one about it. I set my phone face-down on the counter beside my plate and watched my brother as he approached. “Nice boxers. Especially the open front window.”

  Jordan stopped mid-schlep and glanced down. Of course there was nothing showing. And even if there was, it was too dark in here to see, especially with him backlit by the hall light he’d left on. I laughed at his gullibility and went back to my food.

  “You find Campbell’s replacement yet?” Tom had been Jordan’s friend before he’d been mine, but Jordan wasn’t the possessive type and was totally cool with sharing the love.

  I pulled the ear buds from my ears and dropped them in a tangled heap on top of my phone. “Actually, I think we might have. Tom really, really wants him, but Tom isn’t the one who has to stay and play nice with him. I think he’s a bit of a diva, if you know what I mean.”

  “Really? Can a band survive with two divas?” Jordan pulled a jug of orange juice from the fridge, unscrewed the cap, and took a long swig. I didn’t even flinch. As the only girl with four older brothers, swapping saliva on milk jugs, juice cartons, and community water bottles was par for the course in the Ransome home. Cups and glasses were reserved for special occasions or to impress visitors.

  “You’re a funny guy.” I threw my wadded up napkin at his head.

  “Who is he? Anyone I know?”

  “His name is Sebastian Jeffries. Heard of him? He was in my music theory class this last semester, but I don’t know anything about him. He was kind of a loner.” Understatement of the year, T-Bird.

  “Jeffries?” Jordan frowned. “The name isn’t familiar. Want me to check around a little?” Having a brother who worked at the university was a double-edged sword for me. I had access to pretty much anything happening on campus that wasn’t strictly confidential. The flip side of it was that he had access to pretty much anything happening on campus, even if it was strictly confidential. Including my grades.

  But Jordan was all right. He was the set designer for the university’s theater department. He’d graduated a year ago from his artsy-fartsy school in LA, and we had all assumed he’d be creating backdrops for superstars by now. Instead, he’d moved back home, holed up in his old bedroom for about two months, then got his act together and applied for the job at Midtown University. It was only part time, but he’d also managed to get his foot in the door with the thriving local community theater, as well as the high school drama department, so he stayed pretty busy. I hoped Dad and Mom were charging him rent, but it was none of my business.

  Jordan never acknowledged it, at least not to me, but I’m pretty sure he’d had his heart broken in Los Angeles, probably by some little wannabe starlet. And even though he was settling in back here in his hometown, to me, he seemed a little bit lost, too. Aimless. Not that he didn’t have friends and a life. He did. Put it this way; the drama program had seen a huge boost in enrollment since Jordan started working there, and he never lacked for volunteers when it came time to construct and assemble props. He didn’t even mind that the majority of those volunteering showed up in shoes and clothes not conducive to heavy lifting and operating power tools. He just recruited the boyfriends who tagged along to keep an eye on their significant others around the hot set-design instructor. My good-natured and admittedly handsome brother wasn’t interested in dating any co-eds, though; another reason I thought something must have happened to him while he was still in school.

  “Um, sure. See what you can dig up on him. But honestly, unless you find wife-beating or kiddie porn on his record, we’re probably going to bring him on. You didn’t hear it from these diva lips, but he’s really, really good. And he can sing, too.” I was quite proud of how casual I sounded about the whole thing.

  Jordan reached across the counter and snagged the last piece of bacon off my plate, and even though I was quick, he was quicker. It was in his mouth before my open palm connected with his forearm. He flinched at the impact, but grinned, chewing with his mouth open.

  “You’re such a butt-barnacle! I was saving that so I wouldn’t have to brush my teeth.” When I was little, we used to feed our beloved Betsy-Dog bacon-shaped treats that were good for her teeth. I think I might have been twelve when my mother finally convinced me that real bacon did not share the same oral hygiene benefits.

  “You know that boyfriend problem you have? The lack of a boyfriend thing? Might have something to do with the whole bacon breath thing,” Jordan teased. Then he paused and cocked his head to one side, reconsidering. “I take that back. Bacon breath is a total turn-on.” He leaned forward and breathed in my face. “See?”

  I pushed his face away roughly. “Ew.” I ignored his boyfriend comment.

  “Or maybe it’s because you hit like a girl.”

  In our home, boys weren’t allowed t
o hit girls. I really wasn’t supposed to hit my brothers, either, but they got such a kick out of antagonizing me when I was younger, knowing that no matter how hard I slapped, kicked, head-butted, or punched, I couldn’t hurt them. They refused to let up on me, regardless of the consequences, and I stopped getting in trouble for retaliating. Either that, or by the time I arrived on the scene, poor Mom was too exhausted to step in and referee. Besides, between the four brothers, someone always sported a black eye, bloodied knuckles, bruised ribs, or even broken bones. Not all of it was from fighting. I wondered if all boys experimented with bicycles, skateboards, wagons, and scooters the way my brothers did. And sticks and stones. Tools and weapons. Cars and motorcycles. It really was a miracle all four had survived this long, but each of them was fearless in his own way, and not one of them ever stepped down from a challenge.

  Except for Jordan these days. I eyed him across the counter. He’d changed. I wouldn’t say he wasn’t fearless, but he certainly didn’t rise to the occasion like he did in the old days.

  “Hey, kids.” It was Mom. Dang it. We must have been too loud.

  “Hey, Ma,” Jordan murmured, sending her a sheepish smile, completely unabashed by his state of dishabille. But then, Mom didn’t even seem to notice. She just patted his cheek gently in greeting. “Didn’t mean to wake you. We wake Dad, too?”

  “No, no. You know how he is. Once he’s out, it’s the sleep of the dead.” She ran a hand over her shoulder-length waves, once the same blue-black tones as mine, now softened by the silver shot through it. Not many women could pull off going gray naturally, but on Mom, it looked classy. Elegant. I hoped I’d be so lucky when I was her age. “Oh good. You found the plate of food I left you.” She came around behind me and squeezed my shoulders. “You doing okay, sweetie? Tom seemed a little worried about you earlier tonight.”