Page 16 of Over You
Tom Petty hit the nail on the head with that line about the vampires on Ventura. Those lyrics were something I had never fully appreciated until our first album went platinum.
As it turned out, everyone in Hollywood was a vampire. Me, Jag, the people down on the dancefloor, hoping for a brush with fame. Hell, the kid somewhere in Oklahoma daydreaming about a recording contract he’ll probably never see, he’d end up here one day, wanting to get bitten. We were all blood sucking and hungry. The thing was, I was pretty sure, after a while, even vampires wished for death. Given enough time, everything loses its appeal. Even immortality. Just like Jag said.
One day, we’d all be waiting on a stake through the heart.
8
Georgia Anne
The rusted hinges to the letterbox groaned when I opened it to pull out a handful of mail. Bills, advertisements for the new pub opening in the village over, and a manila envelope address to Rapunzel with my old Beverly Hills address in the corner—the name Flynn Ryder as the sender.
I tucked the other mail in my backpack before slipping a finger underneath the lip of Spencer’s letter. A stack of papers slid out, and like always, the gum wrapper that had been shoved inside fluttered to the concrete stoop of my townhome, landing right beside the planter full of violets.Marriage is forever.
It should have been. Turned out, addiction was his forever.
With a sigh, I crammed the papers into the front zipper of my backpack then shouldered the bag on my way to meet Lottie and Tom at the coffee shop.
The sun hit my face when I stepped onto the sidewalk, and I smiled. Puddles still stood in the crevices of the cobblestone street, and the flowers in the window boxes that decorated most of the Tudor-style townhomes drooped from the overabundance of rain.
I spent the short three-minute walk with bouts of anger bubbling in my gut over Spencer’s refusal to sign the papers. Most people in my situation would set a trial date and have it all over with. However, most people weren’t trying to divorce a world-famous rock star. When Spencer blew up, he had countless NDAs signed to keep my name out of the media. The label was more than happy to oblige. Evidently, a single rocker is much more appealing.
Of course, there were “rumors.” The paparazzi never—thanks to street clothes, ball caps, and shades the size of saucers—got a snapshot of my face. As expected, the media went nuts with stories about Spencer’s estranged wife, but still, I had escaped being married to a rock star with my anonymity intact, and the second I took our divorce to trial that would go up in smoke.
I ducked through the open doorway of the Silver Spoon Café. The robust aroma of French roast lingered in the dimly lit entrance. Chandeliers made from tangled branches hung from the ceiling. I maneuvered through the empty tables, past the watercolor pictures of deer and pheasants tacked in uneven patterns along the shiplapped wall and took a seat in my normal spot by the window.
The usual waiter came by, and I ordered a café latte with whipped cream for myself, Earl Grey tea for Lottie, and an Irish whiskey for Tom, then pulled out my English literature notes and my copy of Marlowe’s,Doctor Faustus.Halfway through outlining Act III, the gangly waiter returned and placed a steaming cup of coffee beside my English lit book. He sat the other two drinks on the opposite side of the table, and I thanked him just as Tom wandered in, ever stylish in his skinny jeans and a navy, Jack Wills shirt that did his muscles favors. His backpack hit the floor with a thud before he swiped a hand through his messy brown hair. “Why are birds so bloody insane?”
“The question should be, why do you choose to date the crazy ones? We aren’t all psychotic.”
“Do I have a flashing beacon that attracts the unstable variety?”
“Yes. It’s your arrogance.” I used the toe of my shoe to kick out the chair across the table and then nodded to the empty seat. “Stop lording over me, would you?”
“Lording over you . . .” He rolled his eyes before slumping in the chair to take a sip of his drink. He licked his lips, a slight smile tugging the corners. “You knew I’d had a shit day?”
“You’ve had nothing but shit days since you broke up with Kirby. So, go ahead and tell me what she did this time.”
“She’s mental, Georgia.”
“Yes. But to be fair, that was made clear to you after date number two when she had you stop by the petrol station so she could jab a pocket knife in her ex-boyfriend’s tire.” I grabbed my spoon and drew designs through the melting whipped cream in my coffee.
“I just thought she hated him.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
He tapped a finger over the tabletop. “If you would have dated me when I asked you out, this wouldn’t be happening to me.”
“Oh no. Don’t try to blame me for this.”
“You shattered my ego, and I had to turn to the likes of her for comfort.”
I glared at him. Tom wasthatguy. The one who had girls chasing him, but he liked to chase the girls who weren’t interested. Like me. . . He had asked me out religiously. And I had unfailingly turned him down—I was, after all, still technically married, although no one here knew that. Then he met Kirby.
“Are you going to tell me what she did or not? The suspense is almost too much, Tom.” I tapped the spoon on the edge of my cup, my tone dry as a bone.
“She put dog shit on the door handle of my car.”
“Dog crap?” I took a sip of coffee. “Are you sure it wasn’t human feces?”
