Random Acts of Hope Read Online Free PDF

years ago.
    H e’ d ordered three items: a half-gallon jug of our newest warming gel, a flesh tunnel simulator that attache s to a tablet and offers video options for real-life fun, and a blowup female doll, complete with three fuckable holes and “real-life ab-clench simulation.”
    Stay classy, Liam.
    Under delivery options it sa id : in person.
    In person .

Chapter Three
    Liam
    After we performed at the resort on the island of Eden, doors flew open. Promoters suddenly knew who we were. W hen Darla called to try to book a gig people said “yes” at twice the rate as before, and we were offered dirt-cheap, but crappy, practice space in the basement of a decrepit warehouse not far from Louise’s entertainment offices.
    It may have been filled with mildew and mouse droppings, but it was a secured, padlocked space where we could make noise and leave our equipment.
    All four of us congregated there, doing sound checks and warming up instruments while Darla and Amy hauled vacuum cleaners and masks and cleaning equipment in.
    “This is so gender role normed,” Amy groused as she plugged in to hoover the place .
    “Someone has to clean it if we’re going to hang out here, and the guys already hauled all the wood and sc rap metal away last week,” Darla pointed out. No shit. We busted our asses. The last people to use the space were “materials artis t s,” whatever the fuck that means. Mostly it meant they left a mess and we had to clean it in exchange for free rent.
    Totally w orth it. I t was Darla and Amy’s turn to help. Amy turned the vacuum on with a snarl and pointed the hose up, sucking spiderwebs like she was exacting revenge.
    Darla, meanwhile, tackled the floor.
    My ass buzzed and I pulled out my phone. Shit. My dad. I knew it was coming, but still…not now.
    Not ever, but especially not now .
    “You answering that?” Sam asked, impatience in his voice. We both had a gig and the hours to practice were limited.
    “Nope.”
    “It’s a parent,” Trevor said dryly. He was right, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that. Easier to ignore him.  
    We had to practice without Joe, who had just gone to Philly last week for year two of torture. Whatever he got out of going to Penn Law was a mystery to me. The band was getting bigger and better, and he and Trevor were wasting it all on law school and pleasing their parents. Kissasses.  
    My mom’s words invaded my brain. “Questiona b le morals.”
    Fuck that. Doing something you hate because you think you’ll gain acceptance from other people is what I call “questionable morals.”
    Bzzz.
    I shut my phone off.
    Even with the roar of two vacuum cleaners i n the distance, we limped through some new songs, getting volume and pacing down. Later, we’d record our better efforts and send them to Joe, who would work on un-wrinkling the kinks. Once a month, we agreed, he’d come back for three days and jam through it all. He also promised to come back for every single one of our gigs, even if it meant he missed class. Cool.
    The vacuums stopped abruptly while Trevor and I were singing a chorus, the abrupt loss of white noise making our voices crack in surprise. Sam’s beat faltered and we all gave up.
    “You done?” Trevor asked Darla.
    “I got enough m ouse turds in here to fertilize an entire organic farm in Amherst,” she said.
    “Better in there than on the floor. Thank you,” he said, reaching for her and trying to kiss her.
    “I’m covered in mouse turd dust,” she complained, still wearing her breathing mask. Trevor kissed the center of it.
    “Not the worst thing I’ve ever kissed.” He muttered something in her ear and I heard the word “blowfish.” She giggled.
    A massive wall of Charlotte sla m med through me. Red lips. That ass. The look she gave me when I stripped in the kitchen. Those shaded eyes, telling me everything and nothing in one glowering glance.
    Hard again.
    God damn Charlotte.
    “You look like you’re a