Punk 57
Page 5
Scrolling down, I spot a video that starts playing, and I watch as a girl takes a bar gun, faces it upward and away from herself, spraying water. It shoots up and then falls back down like a fountain.
She performs a sexy little dance move and laughs at the camera. “I’m standing in a fountain!” she announces, her breasts barely contained in her tank top.
A tank top she’s wearing in the chilly New England February weather.
But then one of the bartenders snatches the gun out of the girl’s hand and sets it back in place at the bar, shooting her an annoyed look.
I hear a quiet laugh from the other side of the camera.
The girl in the tank top reaches for the phone. “Okay, that was embarrassing. Give it here. I need to edit it before I post it.”
“Uh, uh,” the female voice behind the camera taunts as she backs away.
But tank top girl charges her, squealing, “Ryen!” And then I hear laughter, and the video ends.
I stand there, staring at the iPad, my heart slowly starting to pound in my chest.
Ryen?
The girl behind the camera is named Ryen?
No, it’s not her. It can’t be. There are tons of girls who probably have that name. She wouldn’t be here.
But I look at the video, and my gaze is drawn to the names at the top of the post. She’d tagged the band and a few other people, but then I look at the name of the person who posted it.
Ryen Trevarrow.
I straighten my back, my chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.
Oh, my God.
Shit! I instantly look up, unable to stop myself from scanning the crowd, drifting from face to face.
Any one of these girls could be her. She’s here? What the fuck?
I look down at the iPad again and hover my finger over her name, hesitating.
Seven years I’ve known her, but I’ve never seen her face. If I search her out now, there’s no going back.
But she’s here. I can’t not look for her. Not when I know she could be within arm’s reach.
That’s too much to ask of anyone.
And we never promised we wouldn’t look each other up on Facebook. We simply said we wouldn’t communicate on social media. For all I know she’s searched for me. She could be looking for me right now, knowing what band I belong to and that this is our event. Maybe that’s why she’s here.
Fuck it. I tap her name and stand frozen as her profile comes up.
And then I see her.
Her picture appears, my stomach drops, and I stop breathing.
Christ.
Slender shoulders under long, light brown hair. Heart-shaped face with full pink lips and a daring look in her bright blue eyes. Glowing skin and a beautiful body.
From what I can see, anyway.
I let my head fall back and draw in a breath. Fuck you, Ryen Trevarrow.
She lied to me.
Well, she didn’t lie exactly, but I damn well got the impression from her letters she didn’t look like that.
I’d pictured a geek in glasses with purple streaks in her hair dressed in a Star Wars T-shirt.
I look back down at her picture, my eyes falling down her back where parts of her skin peeks through the design of her sexy shirt as she looks over her shoulder at the camera. My body warms, and I quickly scan her profile, looking for some clue—any clue—that it’s not her.
Please don’t let it be. Please just be sweet, socially awkward, shy, and everything I’ve loved for seven years. Don’t complicate it by being hot.
But it’s all there. Every clue confirming that it’s Ryen. My Ryen.
The check-in at Gallo’s, her favorite pizza place, the songs she’s listening to, the movies she’s watching, and everything posted from her latest version iPhone. Her most favorite possession in the world.
Shit.
I turn off Dane’s iPad and start weaving around people as I slip through the crowd. The heaters warm the frigid air, and I pass more fire pits, smelling the roasted marshmallows. Music blares from the speakers all around, and I flex my jaw, trying to calm my heart.
I walk up to the bar and set the iPad down, turning and crossing my arms over my chest. Just stay put. If she’s here to see me, she’ll find me. If not, then… What? I’ll just let it go?
“Hi.”
I dart my eyes up, my heart plummeting into my stomach. The fountain girl from the video stands in front of me, a few feet away.
And next to her…
My eyes lock on Ryen, and I know her friend just spoke, but I don’t care. Ryen stands quietly at her side, eyes slightly thinned, looking at me hesitantly.
Her hair is long and straight—not curled like the Facebook photo—and she’s wearing a black, off-the-shoulder sweater and skinny jeans that are torn to near shreds. I can see bits of her thighs.
Ryen. My Ryen. I tighten my fists under my arms, my muscles tensing.
She isn’t saying anything. Does she know who I am?
I hear her friend clear her throat, and I blink, dragging my eyes over to her and finally answering. “Hi.”
Fountain girl cocks her head at me. “So, I need a kiss,” she says matter-of-factly.
I breathe shallow, so aware of Ryen it hurts.
“Do you now?” I say, noticing her long, dark hair spilling around a scarf she wears with a gray tank top. It’s fucking freezing in here.
She gestures to her card. “Yeah, it’s on my scavenger hunt.”
And then her eyes fall down my body, a smile playing on her lips. I guess that means she wants a kiss from me?
She steps forward, but before she gets too close, I take her card out of her hand and skim it.
She performs a sexy little dance move and laughs at the camera. “I’m standing in a fountain!” she announces, her breasts barely contained in her tank top.
A tank top she’s wearing in the chilly New England February weather.
But then one of the bartenders snatches the gun out of the girl’s hand and sets it back in place at the bar, shooting her an annoyed look.
I hear a quiet laugh from the other side of the camera.
The girl in the tank top reaches for the phone. “Okay, that was embarrassing. Give it here. I need to edit it before I post it.”
“Uh, uh,” the female voice behind the camera taunts as she backs away.
But tank top girl charges her, squealing, “Ryen!” And then I hear laughter, and the video ends.
I stand there, staring at the iPad, my heart slowly starting to pound in my chest.
Ryen?
The girl behind the camera is named Ryen?
No, it’s not her. It can’t be. There are tons of girls who probably have that name. She wouldn’t be here.
But I look at the video, and my gaze is drawn to the names at the top of the post. She’d tagged the band and a few other people, but then I look at the name of the person who posted it.
Ryen Trevarrow.
I straighten my back, my chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.
Oh, my God.
Shit! I instantly look up, unable to stop myself from scanning the crowd, drifting from face to face.
Any one of these girls could be her. She’s here? What the fuck?
I look down at the iPad again and hover my finger over her name, hesitating.
Seven years I’ve known her, but I’ve never seen her face. If I search her out now, there’s no going back.
But she’s here. I can’t not look for her. Not when I know she could be within arm’s reach.
That’s too much to ask of anyone.
And we never promised we wouldn’t look each other up on Facebook. We simply said we wouldn’t communicate on social media. For all I know she’s searched for me. She could be looking for me right now, knowing what band I belong to and that this is our event. Maybe that’s why she’s here.
Fuck it. I tap her name and stand frozen as her profile comes up.
And then I see her.
Her picture appears, my stomach drops, and I stop breathing.
Christ.
Slender shoulders under long, light brown hair. Heart-shaped face with full pink lips and a daring look in her bright blue eyes. Glowing skin and a beautiful body.
From what I can see, anyway.
I let my head fall back and draw in a breath. Fuck you, Ryen Trevarrow.
She lied to me.
Well, she didn’t lie exactly, but I damn well got the impression from her letters she didn’t look like that.
I’d pictured a geek in glasses with purple streaks in her hair dressed in a Star Wars T-shirt.
I look back down at her picture, my eyes falling down her back where parts of her skin peeks through the design of her sexy shirt as she looks over her shoulder at the camera. My body warms, and I quickly scan her profile, looking for some clue—any clue—that it’s not her.
Please don’t let it be. Please just be sweet, socially awkward, shy, and everything I’ve loved for seven years. Don’t complicate it by being hot.
But it’s all there. Every clue confirming that it’s Ryen. My Ryen.
The check-in at Gallo’s, her favorite pizza place, the songs she’s listening to, the movies she’s watching, and everything posted from her latest version iPhone. Her most favorite possession in the world.
Shit.
I turn off Dane’s iPad and start weaving around people as I slip through the crowd. The heaters warm the frigid air, and I pass more fire pits, smelling the roasted marshmallows. Music blares from the speakers all around, and I flex my jaw, trying to calm my heart.
I walk up to the bar and set the iPad down, turning and crossing my arms over my chest. Just stay put. If she’s here to see me, she’ll find me. If not, then… What? I’ll just let it go?
“Hi.”
I dart my eyes up, my heart plummeting into my stomach. The fountain girl from the video stands in front of me, a few feet away.
And next to her…
My eyes lock on Ryen, and I know her friend just spoke, but I don’t care. Ryen stands quietly at her side, eyes slightly thinned, looking at me hesitantly.
Her hair is long and straight—not curled like the Facebook photo—and she’s wearing a black, off-the-shoulder sweater and skinny jeans that are torn to near shreds. I can see bits of her thighs.
Ryen. My Ryen. I tighten my fists under my arms, my muscles tensing.
She isn’t saying anything. Does she know who I am?
I hear her friend clear her throat, and I blink, dragging my eyes over to her and finally answering. “Hi.”
Fountain girl cocks her head at me. “So, I need a kiss,” she says matter-of-factly.
I breathe shallow, so aware of Ryen it hurts.
“Do you now?” I say, noticing her long, dark hair spilling around a scarf she wears with a gray tank top. It’s fucking freezing in here.
She gestures to her card. “Yeah, it’s on my scavenger hunt.”
And then her eyes fall down my body, a smile playing on her lips. I guess that means she wants a kiss from me?
She steps forward, but before she gets too close, I take her card out of her hand and skim it.
