mick mars

It was already half-past six.

Mick stood in the doorway of the bedroom, one boot on, the other dangling from his fingers as he leaned over to grab his guitar case. The weight of it felt heavier than usual, not because of the gear inside, because of the girl standing and whining on his floor.

He tried not to look at her again. That was the trap. He knew it.

“I told them I’d be there by seven,” he muttered under his breath, mostly to himself, slinging the strap over his shoulder. He wasn’t sure why he was still explaining. She knew the schedule. Every Thursday night: rehearse at Nikki’s, hang out, get high, yadda yadda.