Aisling pressed a finger to her bottom lip. She really was incredibly cute, and the tuxedo just added to it. “Let’s see, I think it’s called FOKC.”
I’m like, “Did you say Fock?”
She giggled. “No, FOKC. F-O-K-C. Feed Oklahoma City.”
“Wow, that’s some acronym,” I said. “So, you used to be pretty close with Ashton?”
“Oh my God, yes. We were practically like sisters. Brett too.”
“I guess it was kind of—I don’t know—awkward when she stopped making time for you.”
“I don’t know about awkward,” Brett said. “Actually, it kind of pissed us off. I wouldn’t put it past her to get all involved with that charity just to have something else to put on her college application.”
And Aisling’s like, “Don’t say that, Brett. Ashton wouldn’t do that. Anyway, I wasn’t mad. It was just that we missed her.”
“Sure, we missed her,” Brett agreed. “But she had a way of making you feel guilty for wanting to have fun instead of driving down to some high-crime ghetto where you could get your throat cut just to deliver ham sandwiches.”
“Well, there was that,” Aisling said.
“Yeah, that’d be annoying,” I said. “Was there any particular person she pissed off more than anyone else?”
“You mean besides Rowan?” Aisling asked.
“Rowan?”
“Yeah, he didn’t like it that she spent more time on her charity stuff than at Gangland and everything.”
“So Ashton used to come here?”
“Sure,” Brett said. “But then she decided it was too—I guess—frivolous.”
I wanted to dig into this Rowan thing a little more, but just then Randy showed up.
“Hey, girls,” he said, grinning. “Either of you want to dance?”
Brett and Aisling glanced at each other. “Uh, no,” they said in unison.
“Oh, come on. Why not?” Randy insisted, keeping the grin burning.
“Because no one’s dancing?” replied Aisling.
“And because the band is atrocious?” added Brett.
Randy’s grin fizzled.
“Look,” Brett said to Aisling. “There’s Tres. Let’s go see how he’s holding up.” She reached over and touched my arm again. “Talk to you more later?”
“Sure.” I watched her wind through the crowd to catch up with Tres. She had a whole different walk from the sexy girls at my school—a little less lubricated in the hip area—but it was sexy just the same.
When she latched onto Tres, she gave him a tight hug and leaned her head on his shoulder in a consoling way. He looked like he enjoyed it. I thought it was strange, though, that he’d showed up here, with his sister missing and all. I mean, I could understand that the rest of the kids needed to blow off a little steam, but Tres? You’d think his parents would order him to stay home and hide or something.
A moment later, Nash stepped up next to him and shook his hand. Then with Brett and Aisling, they formed a line and snaked through the crowd and past the stage, Nash in the lead. I had to hand it to Nash—he moved with such easy confidence, like it was something he was born with along with his blond hair and blue eyes. A guy like that—he had plenty of mojo.
They disappeared into a corridor to the right of the stage, and I’m like, “I wonder what goes on back there,” and Audrey’s like, “Probably plotting their gang activities.”
“The chicks here must already have boyfriends,” Randy observed. “I couldn’t get a tumble out of a single one.”
“Did you ever think it might be your mustache?” Audrey said. “You really do need to get rid of that thing. It looks like a caterpillar with mange.”
“Hey,” he said. “Show a little respect for the ’stache. It’s working as hard as it can.”
“Well,” Audrey said, “Dylan’s already had two girls flirting with him.”
“Those two hotties you were talking to? Give me a break. They were probably just high.”
“Yeah,” I said. “High on Dylan Jones.” But I couldn’t help thinking Randy might have a point. Both of them very well could’ve partaken of some chemical appetizers on their way to Gangland. And maybe they were going back for seconds with Nash somewhere down that dark corridor into the bowels of Gangland. A good investigator, I told myself, wouldn’t leave before checking out where that corridor led.
CHAPTER 16
Colonoscopy plowed through a couple more songs before taking a break. At that point, Rowan hopped onto the stage again, and after a few sarcastic remarks about how great the band was, he turned serious, basically repeating the same spiel he handed me about how everyone needed to break up the darkness that Ashton Browning’s disappearance had cast over them. “But make no mistake,” he said. “This isn’t lighthearted fun tonight. It’s heavyhearted. This is serious fun, the kind that’s required to bring us together so we can make it through the hard times until Ashton’s back with us, safe and sound.”
It sounded good, as if he really meant it. But, with a guy like Rowan, there was about a 70–30 chance he was putting on an act.
While he was still on the stage, I noticed Tres emerge from the corridor where he’d disappeared earlier. This seemed like a good time to get a word in with him, but before I could make it over there, he veered away and took the stage next to Rowan.
Everyone cheered as Rowan handed him the microphone. The two of them whispered something to each other, and then Tres looked down and nervously brushed the top of his head. None of that easy confidence for him. He appeared almost scared as he gathered his thoughts. Finally, he looked up at the crowd—kind of—and started to speak, but the microphone squawked with feedback. Rowan stepped over and nudged his hand to move the mike back from his mouth.