Page 37 of Over You
“Tom. . .”
“Shit.” Tom placed a hand to his brow. His text messages suddenly blew up. Reading over the texts, he shook his head. “She’s lost it.” His gaze met mine, his eyes brimming with remorse. “I’m sorry, Georgia. I’ll have my friend tow it.” His fingers tapped on his screen.
“Why am I being punished right along with you?” Grumbling, I shouldered through the crowd to inspected the damage.
It could have been worse. She didn’t key it and, at least, she left the other windows intact.
“Seriously. What have I done?”
“Nothing. She’s bonkers.” He pushed through the crowd and stood next to me, eyes fixed on my car. “I’ll pay to have the tires and glass replaced, too.”
“Sheneeds to pay to have it done.”
“She won’t.”
I glared over my shoulder at him. “She will if I file a police report.”
“Come on, Georgia. Don’t file a report. It’ll only make it worse.”
He couldn’t be serious. With wide eyes, I motioned toward my ransacked car. “Worse, Tom? And let’s not forget last night she chucked a beer bottleandher shoe at me.”
“She’s emotional.”
I deadpanned him. “Tom! Seriously?”
“Let me fix it.” He already had his phone to his ear.
I circled my vehicle, shaking my head while he arranged to have someone tow my car.
“You’ll have it back in a day or two. I’ll be your chauffeur until then, all right?” He wrapped an arm around my shoulder. “Come on.”
“Exactly what I need,” I mumbled. “Kirby will lose it if she sees you carting me around. I hope if I end up with my throat slit, you’ll at least turn her in then.”
“She’s not going to try to kill you.”
“Why do you not sound more certain?”
15
Spencer
Iwalked around the little town for all of five minutes before I went back to the church and took a seat on a bench by the walkway. People came and went, mostly happy tourists. Families with kids skipping along behind parents.
Occasionally, some teenager gave me a second or third glance. They would lean into a friend and nod in my direction. Aside from that, no one paid attention to me, which I found pleasantly shocking. Although, people prowled Hollywood intent on spotting a celebrity while people went to church to find God.
And I wasn’t God.
The minutes seemed to drag. When I checked my phone, I swore I must have been stuck in a warped time continuum where the world had come to a standstill.
My leg shook with need, my palms slicked with anticipation, and I still had thirty-four minutes to go. So I snapped a picture of the cathedral and went to Instagram.
I’m sorting through my sins. . .I posted it without any hashtags. I still had thirty-two minutes left to wait.
My finger tapped the camera icon. I scrolled through snapshots from shows. Selfies of Nash and me. Photos of Leo meditating while Nash made vulgar gestures behind him. Memes of goats. Then I went to an album from four years prior. Before Midnite Kills had taken off. Before the loss, before the drugs. There weren’t any memes. No pictures of Nash or Leo ormestrung out. That year was filled with selfies of Georgia and me in bed, her cheeks pink from an orgasm. Pictures of us on the beach. In Yosemite.
A video thumbnail stopped in the middle of the screen. I pressed my finger on it. Georgia was in the kitchen of our apartment in Van Nuys with her back to me. The Red Hot Chili Peppers played in the background. The skillet popped and sizzled. The Van Halen T-shirt she wore hit right below her ass cheeks, the purple edge of her panties barely visible. She danced in beat with the music while I snuck up on her. When I got about three feet behind her, she spun around and pointed a plastic, grease-covered spatula at me. “You arenotfilming my ass?”
“It’s just so nice.” I moved closer. The footage went to the cheap linoleum floor, and a loud clap resounded when I gave her ass cheek a playful slap. “God, you’re hot, babe.”
