Mutilate My Heart

Chapter 4

Sunlight leaks through my curtains as I twirl the white guitar pick between my fingers. If I didn't know better, I'd swear it was made from a bone. Sketch's name is etched deeply into it. I smile at the memory of last night. It was real after all, and I have the pictures and the beautiful bassist's guitar pick to prove it.

I stash the guitar pick inside my wallet in front of my license and head downstairs.

Mom sits at the kitchen table wearing the shirt I got her last night and flips through my concert pictures for the third time. I debate telling her who I'm meeting at the mall. I mean, I should tell her because one: she's my mom. And two: he may be a psycho serial killer. So she totally needs to know these things.

"I swear, Becca, I feel like you relived my experience from when I saw the band Brian Hawkins was in twenty years ago. Except for the making out and him dying part. At least you weren't stupid enough to fall into lust with a rock star," Mom says in that reminiscent tone only parents can pull off.

Maybe it's best I don't tell her I'm meeting Sketch. I mean, what she doesn't know won't kill her, and come tomorrow, Sketch will only be a beautiful memory that I can reminisce about to my kids in twenty years.

Mom's still talking about Brian Hawkins and plane crashes when I head to my room to get ready. It's time for me to decide on what may be the hardest decision of the day...what I'm going to wear.

A Mutilated Arteries shirt is out of the question. I don't want to look like a massive fangirl. I'm not wearing another Depressed Michael shirt because I don't want him to think I have no other clothes than band tees. I need something simple yet hot.

A lone black tank top calls out my name from the corner of my closet. That'll work just fine.

I touch up my makeup, dress quickly, and tell my mom that I'm meeting Carli at the mall before dashing to my car. The faster I can get out of here, the less questions Mom can ask, and in turn, the less I have to lie about. I inhale deeply and stare at the clock on my dashboard. 11:43.

I just have to act natural when I get there. I mean, he's just a guy who happens to be kind of awesome and in my favorite band. I'm sure this kind of thing happens all the time and girls don't freak out. Okay, yeah right. He's probably not even going to show up. Why would he? He's a super-hot rock star, and I'm just some random girl he met on tour. Oh, this is going to end badly. I can feel it.

Fifteen minutes of trying to think of conversation starters in case he is there and remembering to breathe later, I walk through the huge glass doors of the mall for the second time in three days. I scan the food court, but he's not there. Of course he's not, and I'm an idiot to have thought anything else.

"You're late."

I let out the breath I'm holding. He stands against the entrance of the arcade with white and red game tickets wrapped around his wrist and a huge plastic cup in his right hand.

"I am not," I say.

If anything I'm early. I pull my cell phone from my pocket. 11:57.

He laughs. "I'm just messing with you, Becca. Come on."

We walk past the rows of green and tan metal seats and around the carousel. We stop beside one of the many brown trash bins for him to dump the half-finished drink. He unravels his red and white arcade tickets and starts tearing them off of their chain, one by one.

"Are you not going to use them?" I ask as he drops the individual tickets into the bin after his drink.

"Nah. I only have enough to buy cheap girly jewelry or a sticker of a hippo. I'd rather just throw them away," he says.