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Ken opened his passenger-side door and held my arm as I climbed in. “Maybe you should call him.”
Yes. Call him. Duh.
I dug my phone out of my purse, picturing Jason’s body in a twisted, bloody heap on the sidewalk below his balcony.
Today’s Sunday. Fuck. We didn’t go over there this weekend. I didn’t even think about it.
I found his number in my Contacts and hit Send.
Please be okay. Please be okay. Please be o—
“Whasss up, girl?” Jason slurred over a cacophony of background noise.
“Hey, J!” I plugged my other ear to hear him better and raised my voice. “We missed you at Allen and Amy’s engagement party. Everything okay?”
“I’m at Pearl Jam!” Jason yelled into the phone.
“Pearl Jam?” I made eye contact with Ken as he pulled out of the parking area. “Those tickets were like two hundred bucks a piece.”
“Two-fifty!” Jason corrected.
I laughed. “Where’s my ticket, asshole?”
But Jason couldn’t hear me. He’d erupted into the chorus from “Jeremy” and was singing his little drunken heart out.
I was just about to hang up when he got back on the line and said, “Hey, B?”
“Yeah?”
“You gonna come over next week?”
Guilt tugged the smile right off my face. “Yeah, man. I’ll be there.”
Jason’s off-key voice howled along with Eddie Vedder’s during the last few bars of the song. The music got significantly louder, like he was holding his phone up to an amplifier or something. I winced and hung up.
“He’s fine,” I said, dropping my phone back into my purse. “He’s at Pearl Jam.”
“That fucker.” Ken chuckled. “He should hire me to be his driver.”
“But you’re my driver.” I batted my eyelashes at him.
“Speaking of”—Ken flashed me a sideways smile—“can you be packed and at my house by eight tomorrow? I want to beat all the spring break traffic.”
I nodded with a grin. “You got it.”
