Page 24 of Over You
Correction.Hedidn’t know who his mother was. While I had no clue what Vicki looked like, I at least had a name. Speaking of Vicki. . . That phone call was something I had failed to mention to the guys, for multiple reasons.
Half Nash’s torso remained draped over the seat divider. He kept inching over into my space, then dipped his chin. His Aviators slid down the bridge of his nose, and his gaze set on something behind me. I turned in my seat, spotting a brunette in tight, black leggings, pushing onto her toes to reach the overhead luggage compartment. Her bag tumbled out. Coins and pens and tubes of lipstick scattered the aisle.
When she bent over, Nash groaned. “God bless yoga pants.”
“You’re a misogynistic dick,” Leo mumbled before hopping out of his seat to help the girl with the impressive ass. Ever since he’d sobered up, Leo had become the too-nice, too-sensitive one of the group. Always trying to rectify the shit Nash and I started. He was more like a counselor crossed with the Good Samaritan than a rocker. Always talking about achieving nirvana.
“Look at him,” Nash said, shaking his head. “Acting all chivalrous. You and I both know, by the end of the flight, he’ll have gotten a blow job in the bathroom.”
I settled back in my seat and closed my eyes. “Buddha would not be proud.”
The shuffle and coughs of people filing onto the plane created a soothing lull. I had almost dozed off until the grating, shrill tone of our assistant’s voice jarred me from peace.
“I’ll tell them, Ricky.”
Everything about Becca was like nails on a chalkboard. Her presence provoked an unpleasant cringe when she waltzed through the cabin in her bright-yellow pants suit and those awful 1960s Oliver Goldsmith sunglasses. It looked likeBreakfast at Tiffany’svomited up Courtney Love.
Shoving her phone into her carry on, Becca made her way down the aisle, stopping between Nash and me. “Ricky said to play a song from the upcoming album at the show.”
The upcoming album that wasn’t going to happen. I glared at her. “Tell him to fuck off.”
One side of her red lips twitched. She hated me. Admittedly, I did make her life hell, but on the same token, she drove me batshit crazy. I told the label we needed an assistant, as in, someone who made sure things were handled and left us alone. For some reason, Becca felt her duties also included acting as the morality patrol. She attempted to meddle in everything down to Nash’s excessive masturbation and my drug consumption.
“You mean that pop crap?” Nash asked. “I’m not playing that shit.”
She pointed her witch-like nail at him. “Don’t start with me. I have a migraine.”
“And I have a raging hard-on from the two Viagra I popped this morning instead of my Xanax.” Nash grabbed his junk and gave it a good jostle. “We all have issues, sugar tits.”
I laughed.
Becca rolled her eyes. “Thatpop crapis what’s in, and if you want to stay relevant and, more importantly, with the label, you’ll play it with a smile.”
That’s what the label did best. Threaten. Threaten. Threaten.
“I’ll fuck you with a smile.” Nash winked.
Any minute I expected a plume of gray smoke to billow from Becca’s ears. Three weeks ago, I had walked in on Nash going at Becca like a stray dog on a T-bone steak. As an assistant, she should have known better, but as I said before, catch a nun on the right day. . .
Becca squeezed her heavily eye-shadowed lids shut and inhaled before she held up her palms. “Why am I even entertaining this conversation?” With a quick shake of her head, she moved to the other side of the cabin.
A whoosh of air pushed through the vents when the plane backed away from the terminal. Nash sank to his seat, but Leo was nowhere in sight. And neither was that chick in yoga pants. However, the little red, occupied notice on the rattling bathroom door gave me a good indication of where they had disappeared to.
While the aircraft taxied to the runway, I posted a picture of Nash and me to Instagram. In typical rock star fashion, we were decked out in black shirts and designer shades. Tattoos on full display. Tongues out. #FirtsClassRolling #PartyLikeARockstar #MidniteKills #NashFuckFest2019 #FuckTheLabel #DevilsSideRecords #SuckMyAss @RickySwathe
And posted.
Fuck. The. Label.
After a shit landingwhere half the passengers screamed, we made our way to baggage claim. Becca and her yellow pants suit, unfortunately, were in tow. People videoed us and snapped pictures. They were on the outside, free, and we were on the inside, caged by an invisible, electric fence.
The glass doors slid open to the foggy, London morning, and I was immediately blinded by camera flashes. I stopped to scrawl my signature over some blonde’s T-shirt. Nash and Leo picked a few random items to sign. Then annoying, suck-the-fun-out-of-everything Becca was behind us, pushing and shoving us toward the waiting limo while reprimanding Nash for groping one fan’s chest.
“She asked me to do it,” he chuckled. “I was being polite.”
Becca whacked the side of his head with her passport. “You were being a jackass.”
“See, Nash,” I laughed. “This is why you don’t sleep with the help.”
