Page 14 of Over You
I massaged my temples before starting across the road. Nash had a one-track mind: women and food. Or maybe that was two tracks. Either way, he had tunnel vision.
The smell of fried steak and chicken filled the air the second we set foot inside the tiled entrance. The hostess grinned, swatting her long, black hair over her shoulder and batting her eyes when Nash sashayed past the podium in rhythm with the upbeat Mariachi music.
Within half an hour,I’d gorged myself on a Loco Boco Burrito, was on cerveza numero tres, and Nash had shown off a “cooter shot” from Barbi B that made my burrito threaten to come back up. I was ready to go home and crawl in bed, even though the sun had not yet sunk below the horizon.
The scrape and rattle of wheels over the sidewalk rumbled through the patio when a group of kids skateboarded past the restaurant. A fit of laughter rang out when one of them took a nasty spill into a garbage can. Tourists with cameras strolled down the street. Several stopped to snap pictures of us eating. Sometimes shit like that made me feel like a three-legged tiger in the zoo, but whatever. If people wanted a picture of me cramming my face, they could have at it. There had beenfarworse about me splattered over the tabloids in the past.
Filled to the brim with cheap food, I sat back in the chair and focused on the condensation trickling down the neck of my Corona. Nash pushed his plate of bottomless tacos to the side and reached across to a freshly vacated table, grabbing the latest copy ofRolling Stoneleft behind. “You know,” he said, holding up the cover with my face blazoned across it. “They can’t even Photoshop the ugly outta you. I guess that’s why they chose to interview you instead of me.” He leaned back in his seat, crossed his ankle over a knee, and popped open the magazine. “It would be a liability to women’s underwear worldwide if my mug were plastered on this baby.”
Leo laughed while stuffing stale chips into his mouth. I took a swig of beer, trying to ignore the month in the right-hand corner of the cover. June. A reminder of a wound that refused to heal. Out of habit, I grabbed a piece of gum from my pocket, unwrapped it, and tossed it on top of the half-eaten tacos while holding onto the paper. “Grab me that pen,” I told Leo and pointed to the table behind him.
He obliged and tossed me the BIC before going back to his chips and salsa.
I quickly scribbled out:No one else can ever be the first. . .
Nash sat up, slapped theRolling Stoneonto the table, then pounded his fist on it, rattling the dishes. “You know, we should have named our band Love’s Truck Stop.”
I scowled. “Or we could have named it Broken Condom Baby after you. Shut up.”
Leo drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “I still think we should’ve named ourselves Pussy Patrol.”
“That sounds likePaw Patrol.”Nash glared at Leo. “And that’s a kid’s show.”
“Why do you know that’s a kid’s show?” I asked.
“Because I watch it when I’m high, dick dribble.” He sang a bar of the theme song, placed his elbow on the table, and continued to read my interview inThe Stone—the interview Ricky said was “gold.”
Evidently, spilling my guts and bearing my scars would help fans connect. . .whatever that bullshit meant. I couldn’t fathom how telling the story of my abandonment at a Love’s Truck Stop—by my mother—when I was three weeks old would connect me to anyone. I’d often wondered what would have happened if some a lot-lizardhadn’tfound me buckled into my ratty car seat and driven me to the police station. Maybe I would have died. Maybe somebody else would have stumbled across the carrier and just taken me, but instead, I bounced from foster home to foster home and finally aged out of that shitshow. Never adopted. Never accepted. Entirely unwanted until I found her.Until I found her. . . I snagged my beer and chugged, wanting nothing more than to drown out that pain.
“Jag and Rush are going to The Club,” Leo said, staring at his phone. “Wanna go down there?”
“I don’t have shit else to do tonight.”
Nash sighed, then shoved theRolling Stoneout of his way. “Too bad you took that oath of celibacy or whatever it was.” He jabbed a finger over the print. “This is the stuff that gets you laid then laid again.”
“I’m married.”
Leo glanced at me, one brow arched while he tossed a wad of cash onto the table. “She keeps sending you divorce papers, man.”
She did. And every single time, I sent them back to 383 St James Street, Salisbury, Wiltshire, England with a gum wrapper that said.Marriage is forever.The metal legs of the chair scraped over the concrete when I stood. I eyed the gum wrapper, debating on whether to leave it on the table or not. Last minute, I grabbed it and crammed it into my back pocket.
Nash snatched his shades from the table and shoved them on. “What you need to do is fuck her outta your system.” He whacked me on the back, and the temptation to throat punch him was almost overwhelming. “Bumping uglies solves all life’s problems.”
“Buddha would not agree with that,” Leo said.
“Yeah.” Nash scoffed. “Well, that’s one reason I’m not Buddhist.”
Six months ago, Leo and I had both overdosed during a trip to Thailand. After coming to, Leo found Buddha and decided to replace all the “toxins” he’d been consuming with meditation. Me? I just noted that ninety-seven kilograms of cocaine was too much and tried to stick to ninety-five. Near death experiences affect us all differently, I supposed.
“You could fuck that girl. Or that girl.” Nash headed across the street.
I flipped down my sunglasses and shoved my hands in my pockets. Halfway through the crosswalk, we passed a group of middle-aged moms, fake tits on display, while they pushed strollers.
“Probably run a train on those women,” Nash continued.
The headlights to Leo’s Jaguar flashed. The alarm chirped. “Nash, why are you concerned about what Spencer’s doing with his dick?” he asked.
“It’s not healthy to let that shit back up, Leo.”
