“Please. You owe me.”
His eyes snap to mine. “How do I owe you?”
I just stare at him. Do I need to gesture to all of this?
“Right,” he says, exhaling. “Fine. We’ll go.” He pauses for a moment. “You know you won’t believe this, but I went to rave once. In college. With Dex.”
I laugh. “How the fuck did you get him to a rave?”
“Drugs, baby. How do you think everyone else gets to a rave?”
“Touché.”
Even though the I-5 between San Francisco and LA is ugly as fuck, just one big barren dustbowl, it’s quick and easy, and especially when Max is driving. I’m able to just sit back in the car and cruise and let my mind wander, keeping it corralled whenever it wants to dwell on anything unsafe (like my neglected schoolwork, like the abyss inside Max, like the demon lady, like that I almost died in an alley, like I went to the hospital, like that I’m high on Vicodin right now, like my feelings toward the man next to me are growing more complicated by the hour).
Though the drive is still long, we take the highway toward Bakersfield and Tehachapi and Victorville before barrelling down the I-10 toward Palm Springs. We hit up the high desert at sunset, driving past spiky Joshua Trees and boulders, cruising through blacktop and following the vague directions from the rave’s website. The Airbnb I managed to snag (not a yurt, unfortunately) is just past the rave, so I figured we might as well come here first and then go check-in when we’re bombed out of our minds.
Also, I say that because Max has told me one million and one times that he’s not getting high or drunk, so he’s the designated driver for the night. One of us should probably have their wits about them at all times as a precaution.
The rave is located just off the highway, in a small valley of sorts, surrounded by low, jagged mountains turned silhouettes by the moon.
In the distance are the stage and the lights and the crowd, which we can’t quite see but we can feel, all those lives, so happy to party, so very high.
We find parking right away, even though it’s a long way to the event down a dark dirt road.
“No drop-off service,” I comment, as he parks the car next to another car. We’re the last ones, until another car pulls in and parks beside us.
“Sorry darlin’,” he says to me, turning off the engine. “Maybe next time.”
“What if I said I was too sore to walk?”
He looks me over, frowning. “That true?”
“I’m just joking. I am high though.”
“You’ve been high for a while, Ada.”
“You’ll piggyback me if I get too tired, right?”
“You know this rave was your idea?” I just stare at him until he relents. “Yes. Fine. Of course.”
I get a warm feeling in my stomach, happy and content. Then again, it could be the Vicodin.
We get out of the car. The desert air has a bite to it, so we keep our leather jackets on, and even though I was once worried we’d look like a team of dorks, I think we look pretty cool.
I look Max up and down as he walks around the hood to me. Black leather jacket, white Henley underneath, dark grey jeans, Vans, red-hair pushed back off his face, the Elvis-like snarl to lips. Yeah. He looks hot as fuck.
That’s the pills talking too, by the way.
We start walking down the dirt road, past the parked cars, toward the event, the music slowly getting louder and louder as the minutes tick on, even though we don’t seem to be getting any closer. There are other groups of people walking ahead of us, but their voices are faint. Just other people on the way to dance.
But that fast EDM beat, when it does get through, makes me tap my toes. As we walk I start dancing around Max, not giving a shit.
He’s laughing, unable to keep a straight face while I’m giving it my all while maintaining very serious eye contact with him.
“Hey big boy,” I croon at him, waving my hands around as I shimmy backward. “You seem to have some rhythm. Wanna dance?”
Max shakes his head. “I’d much rather watch you.”
“But you can dance,” I say, demonstrating how badly I can’t dance.
Even in the dark of night, his face only faintly illuminated by the faraway lights, his expression gives it away. Of course he can dance.
“Let me guess,” I shout at him, “you went to Studio 54!”
“I told you, I was touring with rock bands at that time,” he says. “That wasn’t my scene, baby.”
I keep dancing, my moves morphing into nineties Madonna somehow. “Have you ever tried to write a book? Maybe it would be helpful to keep track of everything you’ve done.”