Page 25 of Over You
Becca grabbed the collar of my shirt and snatched me uncomfortably close. “And you,” she snarled, teeth bared like a rabid raccoon. “Maybe try acting a little more grateful. You didn’t smile. Not once. And you barely said two words to any of those girls.”
“Tormented souls don’t smile, sweetheart. Now let go of the Versace.” I flicked her hand away before ducking into the limo.
Leo and Nash climbed inside while Becca stood on the curb, barking orders at the guys handling our luggage.
I closed the door and locked it. Once the driver crawled behind the wheel, I let the partition halfway down. “Hey, man. I’ll give you a grand if you drive off without that angry woman outside.”
The middle-aged man glanced over his shoulder.
Nash barked a laugh while digging through the mini bar. “This is why you’re asshole of the year.” He tossed a miniature of Woodford Reserve to me.
“Man,” Leo sighed. “You can’t abandon her.”
Abandon?We were at Heathrow airport. Uber existed. Cabs existed. Buses and subways. She had a cell phone. . . “We aren’t in the wilderness, Leo. She’ll be fine.” I lowered the partition a smidge more. “Seriously, man. A grand. Just to leave the bane of my existence to wait for another ride.”
“Plus tip,” Nash added.
Becca, finally off the phone, tried the door just as the driver shifted gears. “Spencer!” She slapped her palms against the window. The glass fogged from her breath. “Open the door.”
“Nah. You’re a cunt. Take an Uber.”
Her eyes narrowed into a hateful scowl. “I swear to God, I’m going to talk to Ricky about terminating your contract. You’re a walking disaster, and I’ve had—”
I gave her a two-finger salute while the limo pulled onto the street.
Leo stared at me with a disapproving look one would think only a father could muster. “Karma’s going to bite you in the ass, Spence.”
“Fuck karma, Leo.” I broke the seal on the bottle and chugged. “Hey, Nash. Did Danté ever tell you what was in that inferno crap he gave us?”
“A little coke. A dash of PCP.”
“Makes sense.”
Nash chuckled while Leo shoved in earbuds. I settled back against the leather. The limo whirled through roundabouts like a Nascar driver.
An hour into the trek, we’d left the motorway. Town after town blipped past the window. No billboards. No advertisements. Just rolling green hills, and I was bored out of my mind.
Thankfully, airport security had let me keep my drugs in exchange for a selfie and a backstage pass to our next show in Pasadena. People were easily swayed into looking the other way when they thought it would benefit them in some way. Shaking my head at the thought of the douchebag security agent, I pulled the bag from my pocket. My keys fell to the floorboard, and the tacky souvenir keychain from Reno landed face up. Georgia and I had spent our honeymoon there, and man, we had thought we’d hit the jackpot because we had finally gotten out of California.
In the year since Georgia had left, I’d gone through two cars, but I couldn’t bring myself to put my keys on anything else. “Hey, Nash. Toss me another whiskey.”
He snagged a bottle from the mini-bar and chucked it at me.
The liquor went down the hatch in one swig. I sprinkled some cocaine on the seat and cut out a few lines. I sniffed one back before Leo swept his hand over the leather. A poof of white dust flew in the air when the bag landed on the floor.
Nash’s gaze went from me to Leo to the pile of drugs in the floor. Clenching my jaw, I reached for the bag.
“You’ve got to stop,” Leo said.
“Look, good for you. You cleaned up. You decided to go on a journey for nirvana or whatever, but I’m not ready, so stay outta my shit. It’s not your problem.”
“Your problem bleeds over into the rest of the band. You’re late to rehearsal. You sound like shit half the time in the studio.”
I scattered coke on the arm of the chair again. “You don’t like it; you can fuck off. Your riffs suck anyway.”
He glared at me, the muscles in his jaw tensing. God, I bet he was warring with his desire to be mindful and the urge he most likely had to throw a punch my way. “Go ahead and kill yourself then.”
“You know what, I’m tired of this. You’re fired. Forget Glastonbury.”
