Page 60 of Side Trip

“She left you?”

He shakes his head.

“Then what happened?”

Their deal happened, the second one they made at the end of their trip. But that isn’t what he tells Chase.

“Jack.” The name slips out, surprising them both.

“Your dad? What does this have to do with him?” Chase asks at the same moment Dylan can tell the meaning dawns on him. “You’re not him.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Dylan says, snagging the notebook. “But this industry isn’t conducive to long-term relationships, and I like my freedom.”

“That’s a load of crap.” Chase stares him down for a stretch of time, then shakes his head, disappointed. “Get some sleep. You’re not thinking straight.”

“You don’t need to ask me twice,” Dylan says, already on his way out.

“The songs?” Chase gestures at the notebook.

“I’ll think about it.” He slams the door.

CHAPTER 18

BEFORE

Dylan

Somewhere BFE (Joy’s idea) to Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, to somewhere one hour northeast of Oklahoma City (Dylan’s idea)

Joy showered at the campground facilities and Dylan waited, and waited. Words pinged his brain. They had been all day, and finally, as he’d taken his own shower, they coupled into lines of lyrics.

Now, as he leaned against Joy’s Bug waiting for her to do whatever it was that she did to look starchy perfect, he jotted the verse into his notebook before something distracted him and smoked the words from memory.

Two verses and a chorus in and the song his unexpected companion inspired was taking shape.

Pleased with his progress, he put the notebook away and went back to waiting, leaning against the car, arms folded on his chest, legs crossed at the ankles, thinking about his muse.

Holy skinny-dip, she’d surprised him today. Daring with a capitalD, and he’d loved it in a way that he hated. Her impulsiveness had thrown him off-center, but he enjoyed chilling with her and doing absolutely nothing. Too bad she was off-limits to him. Too bad he wasn’t a schmuck who didn’t care. They could go from hanging out today to hooking up tonight.

He scratched his wrist. The leather bands, damp and brittle, itched. Billie gifted the bands at the outset of each season the Westfield Brothers toured. Every so often a band would snap. He always made sure that he replaced them. Thirteen bands. Thirteen reminders that he intended to remain single. Thirteen reminders to stay focused on his future as a music executive and producer.

The bands also reminded him of his mom, Billie, which of course reminded him of his parents and the last day he’d seen them together. Because his mind just had to go there. Dumbass.

He’d been thirteen when Billie woke him up in the cramped middle bunk of the tour bus. She was outside, railing on someone. Obvious guess would be his dad, Jack.

Dylan had looked out the small rectangular window. The light outside was weird so he peeked at his watch. Five thirty-five a.m., just past the butt crack of dawn. Yet Billie was fully dressed with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder, ripping his dad a new one.

What was her deal this time?

Better yet, what had Jack done now?

His dad stood there, barefoot and shirtless. He hadn’t bothered buttoning his fly. His jeans hung low on his hips and his hair stood on end. Dylan’s mom must have woken him and dragged his sorry ass out of bed. Last Dylan remembered, Jack hadn’t been in his bed. He’d been passed out on the couch on the same bus Dylan was on, the band’s bus, not his parents’ bus.

Crap. Dylan groaned and flopped back on the foam mattress. Billie was probably shredding Jack about Dylan and Chase. They were all doomed.

Memories from the previous night pounded his brain as if it were a drum set. The party on the bus had lasted until 4:00 a.m. That was less than two hours ago. But the rank smell of secondhand bong smoke, the taste of warm beer filling his gut, and the feel of some gal’s hand dick diving into his jeans seemed like eons ago.

His stomach revolted at the memory. The girls he and Chase had hooked up with looked seventeen but swore they were twenty-one. He and Chase convinced the girls that they were eighteen. Stupid idea in retrospect. The girls had been all over them, cornering them in the back lounge and plying them with cheap beer.

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