A Quarrel Called: Stewards Of The Plane Book 1 by Shannon Wendtland

sets to put together before Colton’s brother’s friend’s
party tonight, and I needed to bring my A-game. The mysterious Lily from the
record store had kept her word and texted me for info on the gig, and I had
sent her the address. Presumably, that meant that she was going to be there.
Presumably that also meant that she was serious about having a gig she could
offer me. If she could really guarantee me a thousand bucks, I could finally
afford to buy a crappy car of my own, which meant I could potentially land more
gigs and upgrade my rig.
    I decided to warm up the crowd with a couple of my old
standbys and then slip into a couple of layered tracks. After that, I’d play
some trance and some dubstep, and then I would read the mood of the crowd and
see which direction to go. I wasn’t fooling myself into thinking I was an
undiscovered Tiesto or anything, but I knew I had a
certain flair for the dramatic. And if things went well, I had something that
would make Lily smile, swoon even, but somehow I didn’t think that a girl like
Lily would ever be caught dead swooning for anyone. Fine by
me. After being chased by Tara and ignored by Melody for the past year,
I could dig a chick like Lily.
    I copied the sets I’d just finished to a backup solid state
hard drive which had cost me a month’s salary but was totally worth it – super
fast, no skips, compact and lightweight. It was one of my favorite additions to
my rig.
    The phone rang—not my cell phone, but the land line—and I
practically jumped. That phone never rang unless it was my mom calling or a
bill collector. I lifted the handset to check the caller ID and saw ANONYMOUS
CALLER. Groaning, I answered, hoping that it was Mom.
    “Hello?”
    “Hey, Sammie. Just calling to let
you know I won’t be in on Sunday like I originally thought. I had to stay a
little longer to close some sales, but it looks like we might be eating steak
and lobster this month instead of mac n’ cheese. Don’t be mad, okay?”
    “Sure, Mom.” Secretly I was
relieved. That gave me an extra few days to clean the house – especially the
kitchen. “You at a party? Sounds like you’re at a
party.”
    “What? Oh, just a business lunch. You know how the clients
love to take us out to lunch on the company dime.”
    “Yeah. So I’ll see you Tuesday.
Sorry I’ve got to run, I have to go to work – I took an extra shift.”
    “Oh, sure kiddo. See you Tuesday.”
    We hung up and then I punched the nearest wall. Not hard
enough to make a hole in the sheetrock, but that’s only because I didn’t feel
like having to explain to her why I’d damaged the house. She would pretend not
to understand. She would pretend she hadn’t been drinking. She would pretend
that me being an ungrateful kid is what drove her to drinking in the first
place.
    And then just like that, I flipped that little switch inside
that let me go from caring too much to not caring at all, and I went back to my
room, my music, and my meager wardrobe. Whatever else happened tonight, I was
going to look the part. Lily’s comment about my work clothes the other day had
stung a little; I wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
    #
    The party was lame. But I kept telling myself that was
because the people were lame, and not my music. The lights were too bright, no
one cared about my samples or my mixes and the only thing they had to drink was
a keg of crappy domestic beer in the corner, which meant I either drank beer or
I drank nothing at all. What the hell kind of party didn’t even have soda for
the designated drivers? Broke-ass college party, that’s what. Not-very-gently
used furniture, posters stuck to the walls with double-sided sticky tape,
overly serious guys with beards like billy goats, and
stuck-up girls with under-arm hair… if this is what college parties were like,
I resolved never to go to any.
    So I drank nothing because I wasn’t going to chimp out on my
own vow to never spin and drink at the same