Page 21 of Over You
I just needed out of that room, away from the music. I needed air, but halfway through the lobby, everything went black.
10
Georgia Anne
The Practical Peacock Pub was a quaint Victorian nestled amongst a row of thatch-roofed townhomes. And while the hand-painted sign over the door of a peacock wearing a monocle may have beckoned the occasional wandering tourist, the pub was nothing more than the local watering hole.
After I finished wiping down the mahogany bar, I perched on one of the stools. The news played on the flat screen tucked to the side of the room. Brexit. That’s all they talked about. . .
“Want a drink?” Tom asked, grabbing a pint glass.
“So, you may not have noticed, but. . .” I pointed at my purple shirt with a peacock emblazoned across the breast. “I’m at work.”
Tom waved a dismissive hand through the air and placed the glass under the tap. His grandfather, Fergus Perry, owned The Peacock, and that eccentric old man didn’t care about anything. During winter, half the strays in the village wound up by the stone fireplace, and the town drunk, Henry Grimsley, had a running tab Tom swore had been open since 1985.
Tom slung beer-foam from his hand. “You don’t ever drink.”
“Not really.” I’d had my fill of that ages ago. For numerous reasons. I took a breath. “Anything else happen with Kirby?”
“No. It’s been a full twenty-four hours without her crazy arse harassing me.” He lifted his drink in the air in a one-man toast before turning it bottoms-up and chugging.
The jingle of the little silver bell over the entrance caught my attention. Fergus and Henry shuffled through the wooden door wearing their staple wool vests and flat caps—even though it was June and sunny.
“Hello, love.” Fergus patted my back before he took a seat at the bar.
Henry gave me a peck on the cheek. The stout scent of cigar caused my nose to wrinkle.
Fergus arched a bushy, gray eyebrow when I went to push up from the chair. “Where are you going?”
“Behind the bar. . .”
He took a slow glance over his shoulder where nothing but empty, mismatched pub tables sat. “For what?”
Before I could answer, Henry nudged Fergus in the ribs and pointed at the TV. “Look at that twit with his willy out.”
My gaze moved to the screen, and my jaw all but unhinged. The footage showed Spencer sprinting in front of the Coach store on Rodeo. A grainy, censored blur covered his bobbling dick.
Fergus slapped his hand over the bar top and cackled. “Turn it up, Tom.”
“. . .lead singer to the rock sensation, Midnite Kills was arrested a few hours ago on Rodeo Drive for indecent exposure after he fled an upscale day spa in nothing but a sheet and the slippers provided by the establishment. He was allegedly high.”
It was a train wreck I couldn’t look away from. The shaky footage showed Spencer stop at a crosswalk, grab the lamppost, and swing around it like he was Gene Kelly inSinging in the Rain.
“Hailstorm was also charged with solicitation as the arresting officer reported he asked if he could frisk her. The LA County Jail released Hailstorm on a two-hundred and fifty-thousand-dollar bond. Devil’s Side Records has declined to comment.”
Spencer’s mugshot flashed across the screen, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to see how blown out his pupils were.
“You’ll never catch an Englishman doing crap like that,” Henry said.
“Mick Jagger,” Fergus countered.
“Aw, Mickey never ran about with his wee-willy-winkle bobbing about.”
While Fergus and Henry argued whether British rock stars possessed more couth than Americans, I stared at the screen. A commercial for Cadbury came on, but the image of Spencer racing down Rodeo Drive butt-naked had been seared into my mind. And for the first time since I had left, IknewI had made the right decision.
11
Spencer
