Page 34 of Over You
After an hour alone in Georgia’s house, I got antsy.
It was closing in on twenty-four hours since I’d been high, and my mood was swinging in a bad direction. My stomach growled. I went to the fridge and found nothing but yogurt and vegetables. Boxes of rice and fig bars filled the pantry, and I was craving a bag of Cheeto’s, some Whoppers, and a Red Bull.
I let myself out through the back door and rounded the townhomes, then crossed over to the market I’d bought liquor from the night before. The acne-riddled teen behind the register peeked over his book when I walked in. I froze, waiting on him to ask for an autograph, but he barely gave me a second glance before going back to reading.
I grabbed a drink and then made my way down the snack aisle. I didn’t recognize a single thing. Walker’s. Wotsits. Maltesers—those lookedlike Whoppers.
My phone dinged with Nash’s text alert.
Nash: Jimmy Rage is going to step in and do the gig. He sucks two crab-infested left nuts.
They were going to let Jimmy Rage sing my motherfucking songs? Heat bled over my face and down my neck. I squeezed my phone until the protective film bubbled and bowed. I had a good mind to text Ricky and. . . Fuck. What did it matter?Me: MIDDLE FINGER EMO
Nash: For real though. Ditching the show aside. How are you going to leave your wingman like this?
Nash: If it’s because you’ve gone off like a rogue shark so you can attack all the pussy swimming in the waters, I’ll forgive you. And your welcome for the condoms.
Me: It’s you’re. And condoms?
Nash: Check your wallet, dildo.
A white-haired lady wearing a housecoat and a red Fedora brushed past me in the grocery aisle. I pulled my wallet from my back pocket. A string of dick sleeves sat behind my stack of bills.
Me: Stop worrying about my sex life.
Nash: I don’t want you to suffer spontaneous jizz combustion.
I rolled my eyes and grabbed a bag of Wotsits, the closest thing to Cheeto’s, and then crammed my phone into the pocket of my snug jeans on my way to the cashier. I dropped everything onto the counter.
The guy at the front huffed like I was putting him out. He placed the book on the counter.Fifty Shades of Grey.
“I hear the guy in there put a piece of ginger root in someone’s ass?” I chuckled.
He gave me a brow before punching the keys on the old register. “Ten pounds.”
I placed a wad of crumpled cash in his waiting palm, took the bag, and then left the shop. With the exception of a man in a tweed jacket walking a schnauzer, the sidewalk was empty. The rustle of the wind through the trees and the intermittent chirp of a bird were the only sounds. I’d grown up in California. The only places I’d traveled—outside of tours where I never set foot off of a bus, a hotel, or an arena—were the big cities to party. I’d never experienced anything like this. Maybe that was why Georgia had chosen to settle down here. She needed a little quiet.
I leaned against the building and tore into the bag of knock-off Cheetos and then popped the tab on the energy drink. Just as I licked the orange dust off my fingers, a scooter zoomed around the corner. The guy on the Vespa glanced in my direction, then slammed on his brakes, and turned the bike around.Here we go. . .I balled the foil bag in my fist and tossed it in the garbage can by the road followed by the empty can.
The kickstand hit the pavement, and he shuffled toward me with a goofy grin. “Mate. You’re the singer to Midnite Kills.”
Like I didn’t know who I was. Jesus. People. “Yep.”
“Ah, this is brill! Can I. . .” He patted over his vest.
I highly doubted he had a Sharpie in there. Lucky for him, I always had a pen on me—and gum. I dug out the pen, held it up, and shook it by my head like a dangling carrot.
“Thanks.” He took the ballpoint.
I tried to keep confusion from wrinkling my brow when he handed it right back to me.
“Can I get your autograph?” He rolled his sleeve to his elbow and held out his arm.
“On your arm?”
“Yeah.”
I scribble my name over his skin, then shoved the pen back inside my pocket.
