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“Bruv, how about a snack?” Callum draws me out of whatever daydream I drifted to. “Eden fancy a bit of a nibble?”
“I wouldn’t say no,” she says, smiling at me like the sun breaking through the clouds after a storm. Genuine, warm, and it lights up the whole damn room.
Fuck, I need to get out of this damn fixation I have. I can never go back to where I was with her. None of us can afford that.
She’s unstable and untrustworthy, and I have no idea why she agreed to join us here after she threw us all out of her home. If she’s on some avenge mission, I need to keep my knob in my pants and keep wanking myself to shower moments until we finish these demos, and she can go back to her desert.
I reach for the drawer and pull out several bags of crisps.
“I’ve got salt and vinegar here. How does that sound, Eden?”
“What?” She looks up at me with a wild look.
“You said you want a snack. How’s salt and vinegar?”
“Fuck no, asshole.”
Okay. I sigh and look back down into the drawer, rummaging around.
“Cheese and Onion? Worcester Sauce?”
“Got any prawn cocktail?” I hear Callum shout out, and I keep rummaging.
“Nope. I’ve got pickled onion, though,” I suggest and look at Callum and then Eden.
“What the hell?” Eden asks with a frown. And I hold up the bright green bag for her, and she huffs at me.
“Crisps,” I clarify.
“You and your strange as fuck flavors. Haven’t you heard of normal chips? I prefer to eat plain salted chips.”
I breathe out a sigh of frustration.
“Do I look like a fucking chippie?”
She furrows her brows and dives her head back into her journal, muttering something about babies dropped on their heads and throwing me at a wall, which I’m sure her grumble is aimed at me.
Callum gets up and snatches the green bag from me. “You do realize she was referring to salted crisps, you git. Not flippin’ chips or fries as she knows them.”
I shrug, toss the remaining bags back into the drawer, and pull out a tub of salted Pringles.
“Here,” I actually attempt to aim it at her, but the tub lands on Asher’s shoulder.
“Fucking hell, you need to up your contact subscription,” he says and gets up from the floor to give them to Eden and flops onto the sofa next to the armchair she sits on.
Actually, I removed my contacts when we all returned earlier. I go over to the small drawer where I keep my knick-knacks and find my pair of dark-framed spare specs.
“Fancy a beer, anyone?” I ask, reaching into the fridge and pulling out a six-pack. As expected, the three lads agree, but Eden refrains from alcohol. I don’t know when she stopped drinking. It must have been after we broke up.
After handing out the bottles, I join Asher on the sofa, and he passes me a music sheet.
“You know we need a name,” Jagger says moments later. “Oliver’s been pressing me for one.”
Jagger’s always led this band crew, so I don’t see why things should change. He’s also been leading the discussions with Oliver Jones.
“Thunderstrike,” Callum blurts out.
“Cheesy,” Eden says without looking up from her writing. I have to agree with her.
