A big sign on the window reads Slam Poetry Night! Open mic! Bring us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses of angst.
Inside the Lava Java the walls are dark gray, the floor and furnishings are comprised of dark wood, and the scent of heavenly coffee lights up our senses. There’s a makeshift stage up front to the right of the coffee counter, and a young girl stands with a spotlight on her, talking about global warming with enough angst to fuel a rocket to the moon. That must be the slam poetry in action. It’s kind of catchy, and I can’t help but get sucked right into the world the girl is weaving with her angsty words.
Bodies are everywhere you look, but there are plenty of tables set out to accommodate, and we find one in the middle of the melee where we take a seat.
It’s mostly teenagers and twenty-somethings in the crowd tonight. Each table is brimming with people, coffee, and desserts. But it’s the desserts that catch my eye, especially the ones consisting of heavenly looking thumbprint cookies and thick fudge brownies, and I think I see a slice of triple layer chocolate cake that looks tempting enough to dive into and never come out of.
A spray of pink and red stars ignites, and Teddy materializes in all of her furry, fuzzy, adorable glory.
“Carlotta, it’s about time you arrived. The case is really heating up,” she trills in her ghostly warble. “Bambi is set to take the stage soon. You won’t want to miss it. Everyone here is buzzing and on the hunt for Bambi, or so they say.”
I make a face because I’m pretty sure Carlotta is getting the lowdown because Teddy is convinced she’s driving this investigative train. It would figure that stealing my mother’s limelight just wasn’t enough. Carlotta is after mine, too.
“Good to know, cute stuff.” Carlotta gives a hard sniff. “Foxy, why don’t you go up and fetch us some of that magic brew they’re doling out? My pecker’s starting to pucker.”
“Ooh”—I whisper his way—“pick up some of those cookies and brownies for us, too, would you? And don’t you dare come back without a slice of that triple layer chocolate cake. It looks so rich and moist, I might need to shake someone down in the back until they fess up the recipe.”
Everett’s lips twitch. “Make that two slices of chocolate cake.”
Carlotta shakes her head. “Make it six. One for each of us and three for the munchie monster.”
I scoff at the thought. “That would be seven slices. And I am not a munchie monster.”
Carlotta shrugs. “I was talking about Teddy, but if the munchies fit.”
“Funny.” I scowl her way as Noah takes off.
Everett scoots in next to me. “I might need to make a quick stop somewhere after this.”
“Not a problem,” I say. “Full disclosure, I was thinking we should stop off at Pickin’ Lickin’ Chicken and hit the drive-thru. I have a sudden craving to lick your fingers clean.” I give a cheesy wink his way. In my defense, all of my come-ons have been food-related as of late. I can’t help it. Everett and food are my twin cravings.
“It’s like you read my mind. I’m in the mood for a little pickin’ and lickin’ myself. I’ll aim for far more interesting places than your fingers, cupcake. But they’ll make for a fine appetizer.” His brows pinch and he looks decidedly handsome, but it’s those blue eyes of his that shine bright in this otherwise monochromatic world we’ve stepped into. “I’ll even get you your own bucket tonight.”
“Now you’re just flirting shamelessly with me.” I lean his way. “And don’t think I’ll forget about that pickin’ lickin’ threat. I’m holding it to you.”
A smile plays on his lips, but he’s too stubborn to give it. “I’ll be holding you to a lot of things.”
A sigh of satisfaction strums from me. There’s nothing like Everett Baxter in his carnal prime. A part of me wants to haul us all back to Honey Hollow, pronto.
The audience breaks out into applause as the young girl takes a bow and jumps off the stage. The room quiets down again and I hold my breath, hoping Bambi will come out of the woodwork and take the stage, but she’s still nowhere to be seen. Instead, a dark-haired girl hops up wearing a skintight black sweater, black tattered jeans, and combat boots. The room breaks out into another riotous applause. A group of girls start screaming their heads off, and half the room has jumped to their feet as they cheer the girl on before she ever says a word.
That slinky sweater, those ratty jeans—funny, that’s exactly how Evie was dressed as she left the house. My eyes sharpen over the girl as her features come into focus and I take in a hard gasp.
“That’s Evie!” I whisper as loudly as I can and Everett lifts his head a notch as he looks her way.
“Sure is.” Everett’s chest inflates, and I can tell he’s ready to storm the stage if need be to protect our feisty little girl.
“They call me Evie Stevie,” she says as she adjusts the microphone and the crowd goes wild once again.
Carlotta smacks me as she belts out a cackle. “That’s what I call her, Lot. Evie is famous, and now I’m famous by de facto!”
The crowd doesn’t let up with its applause and Evie does her best to wave them down.
“This is live on my Insta Pictures account, so if you’re here or watching this from home, this is for you.” The crowd howls with approval. “They call me Evie, but
