CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I couldn’t hear myself think as we drove to Death by Tacos. Bo had the music turned up so loud that the windows were rattling.
Even my spiders hated this crap. They kept crawling over each other, unable to settle.
And you know what? Even though Bo was enjoying every minute of it, he still found time to complain about the car’s stereo system.
“The bass ain’t supposed to sound like that,” he said, fiddling with the equalizer. “This speaker system needs to eat a sandwich. How’s anybody supposed to hear the finer details with these muddy-ass speakers? Oh well—this is my jam, boss man—”
We cruised down the street as Bo rapped along to a song about breaking out the champagne and condoms. That was all I had to hear before I checked out.
The bass was thumping in my bones
