Broken Strings (A Rock Star Novel) (15 page)

Chapter Nineteen

Go Greyhound

Forty minutes later it’s finally my turn at the ticket
window. I’m dead on my feet and I just want to sit down some place where I
don’t have to keep one eye open.

“Where you headed?” asks the man at the counter.

“Oakland. I just need a one way ticket, and please make it a
direct route and not some 24 hour milk run.”

“Sorry ma’am, but we specialize in 24 hour milk runs. You
want a direct route, take a plane. I can put you on the 8 o’clock bus, number
2112 from LA to Oakland.”

“Eight? That’s in four hours. What am I supposed to do, hang
out here for four hours?”

“That would be eight in the morning, Missy. You’ll have to
hang out here for 16 hours.” I look around the crowded station. There isn’t
even a bench to sit on, much less lay down. This cannot be happening to me.
“Well? Asks the ticket man.

“I’ll take it.”

He spends a couple minutes punching buttons then prints out
a ticket for me. “You’ll want to board bus 2112 at 8am.”

I trudge across the station saying a silent prayer for
someone to get up to use the restroom. After a half hour or so of standing,
shifting from one aching foot to another, I decide to just sit on my bag. Three
hours later, three times as desperate for a seat. I search around in my purse
and pull out two twenties. Surely some homeless fellow will be willing to give
up his seat for forty bucks. I walk up to the guy who seems to be the most
approachable and in the most need of a little cash.

“Excuse me,” I begin. “Would you be interested in giving me
your seat for twenty dollars?”

He looks up at me and scoffs. “Twenty, seriously?” he asks
as his eyes roam my things.

“Forty?” I ask. He looks a little more interested, but still
he hasn’t made a move to get up or to take my money. Time to sweeten the pot.
“Sixty?” I ask.

Still he makes no move for the money. If he thinks he can
outlast me here, he’s probably right. Every second my feet hurt more, and with
every passing second of pain I become increasingly willing to sweeten the pot.

Finally, a cool one hundred dollars lighter, I get my seat.
I glance at my watch. It has taken exactly three hours to secure a place to sit
and wait for my bus. I lean back on the filthy bench, breathe a sigh of relief,
and seriously consider sleeping. I have my backpack in my lap and my feet on my
suitcase. I think I’ll wake up if someone tries to steal either one.  I’m just
about to close my eyes when I see a little old lady making her way into the
station. The poor thing must be nearing eighty, and is quite frail. I watch as
she surveys the room, obviously looking for a place to rest. Surely one of
these guys here will relinquish their seat for an old lady.

Twenty minutes later I’m pacing the station, seething with
anger. How did I get forced into giving up my hard-earned seat? I decide to
stand by one of the selfish young guys and see if I can guilt him into giving
up his seat. The guy I walk up to looks like he’s no older than twenty one. I
stand in front of him, making a show of how much pain my feet are in. After ten
minutes and not even a sideways glance from him, I give it up.

It’s nearly eleven at night, only nine more hours of pacing
left. As I sit back down on my suitcase and lean against the filthy wall, the
gravity of my situation sinks farther in. If this legal thing with the email
hacking ends up in any kind of conviction, my career as a paramedic is dead in
the water.

I cannot keep my license with any kind of a record, even a
misdemeanor, and impersonating someone online and hacking their account is
probably more than a misdemeanor. There’s gotta be some way to get Brand to
back off and help me out. I’m pretty sure if he pleads my case they’ll
understand I had the best intentions and will not be interested in prosecuting
me.

But the more I think about it, the more unlikely that seems.
Brand is way too pissed and feeling far too betrayed to consider helping me
out. As I pace around, I try to use the time constructively by thinking of a
way out of this mess, but I’m just too mentally and physically exhausted.

The toll of the last few days is rushing at me like a
freight train. My vision is beginning to narrow, and the room begins to spin.
What the hell is happening to me? Maybe I just need some fresh air. I get up
from my suitcase that I’ve been sprawled out on and something suddenly occurs
to me. I haven’t seen my backpack. I look around frantically, but it’s nowhere
to be seen. Someone has lifted my backpack! I struggle to my feet. It has to be
somewhere in the station and with the person who took it. Despite my fatigue, I
feel a sudden surge of energy. I have to get that pack back. My purse was in
there with my bus ticket, my ID, credit cards, and my money. If I don’t get
that back, I can’t even go home.

I lurch from person to person, expecting to find either it
or the evidence of it and the person who took it. I make three rounds of the
station and no one seems to have it. Somebody has it, and more than one
somebody saw who took it. I try another tact. I stand up in the middle of the
station and make my plea,

“Excuse me? Someone just stole my backpack. Somebody here
saw who took it, and whoever did, you can have the money, I don’t care. I just
want my bus ticket back, my driver’s license and my credit cards. The rest is
yours. Give it back and no questions will be asked and I won’t call the
police.”

I look around the room expectantly. Most people only give me
a cursory glance before returning to whatever held their attention before I
made my little speech. I wait a couple more minutes then decide to sweeten the
deal.

“Okay look, whoever took this, I guess you plan on using the
credit cards, right? Fine, knock yourself out. But please, I need my ID and my
bus ticket. I just wanna go home!”

I look around the room again, paying special attention to
people’s faces. My attempt to read them proves fruitless. Nobody will even meet
my gaze. I’m starting to feel desperate. Well, more desperate than I was ten
minutes ago. I decide to give my speech one more try.

“Look people…I just wanna go home. I have been up for the
last…four days with no sleep, no rest, and almost nothing to eat. Now I have no
money and no ticket. Please, whoever took my stuff, I’m gonna sit right over
there on my suitcase and I’m going to bury my face in my hands and close my
eyes for one minute. When I’m finished I expect to see my ticket sitting on top
of this trash can. So please do the right thing and give me back my ticket so I
can go home.”

I sit down and do just what I said. This time I feel certain
that someone will do the right thing. I give them five minutes. You know, just
in case someone is wrestling with his conscience and needs a little more time.
When I finally do open my eyes, I am sadly disappointed. There’s nothing on the
trashcan lid, not a single thing. I look around the station for the other
trashcans just in case someone was confused about which can to leave my stuff
on, but they don’t have my stuff either. How can a shitty bus station have a
code of silence? This is ridiculous!

Having done everything I can think of, I collapse back on my
luggage. This time despair comes like great black ocean waves. I look at my
watch. It’s nearly one in the morning. That means I have seven hours till my
last hope of getting home departs the station.

I thought I felt pretty crappy when Brand was raking me over
the coals about what I had done to him. I also thought I felt pretty damn
shitty when Silas told me off and dumped me here. But all that, it’s nothing
compared to how low I feel right now. I have no money, no ID, no credit cards,
no cell phone, no nothing.

Finally, the person who’s spent her entire adult life saving
others needs saving herself and no one is coming to my rescue. Guess you could
make a pretty strong argument for Karma here. If I hadn’t have done what I did
to Brand and Silas, I wouldn’t be in this mess. In a way, it’s payback. I was
trying to do the right thing, though. I only wanted to help my dying boyfriend
and my new lover. There’s not a malicious bone in my body.

Finally I can hold the tears back no longer. With each sob,
my body quakes and shudders, almost like the tears are being forcefully taken
from my body. It’s not an easy cry, and it’s not one of those soul cleansing
ones either. It’s a deep, dark and despairing cry. Dirty tears sluicing over a
sickly soul. I have no idea how long it takes to empty my body of tears, but
when I my eyes finally dry up I feel no better. In fact, I think I feel worse.

I take a peek at my watch, it’s almost three. Holy crap! Did
I really cry for hours, or did I pass out? I must look like hell too but I
don’t want to risk losing my suitcase by getting up and going to the bathroom.
I guess I could drag it with me, but I just don’t have the energy.

“Where you headed?” someone says beside me.

 Shit, someone is actually talking to me? Can’t they see
this is not a good time for conversation? I decide if I ignore the voice it’ll
go away.

“Ma’am?” Damn, why couldn’t people talk to me before I just
spent the last two hours crying? “I couldn’t help but overhear. You’re headed
to Oakland, yes? I’m headed there myself with my partner. Thing is, he kinda
split and I’ve got this extra ticket and all. The thing about these tickets,
when you buy one you need your ID, but once you’ve got the ticket, the driver
doesn’t even check to make sure the ticket you’re giving him even belongs to
you. I’ll just set it here next to your foot.”

His voice trails off. I hear him shuffle his feet around for
a few seconds, then I hear him walk away. I keep my eyes squeezed shut for
another five minutes before I dare open them up to see if that little exchange
was for real or I’d just dreamed that a total stranger gave me his partner’s bus
ticket.

“Hey, if you’re not gonna take that,” It’s a totally
different voice now. I open my eyes to see a pair of feet covered in grime,
blisters, and fungus standing not six inches away from my own feet. I jerk my
feet back away from them as a hand descends to grab the white bus ticket.

“Oh no you don’t!” I spit out.

I finally spring to life and snatch up the ticket before the
owner of the feet from hell can get it. I don’t even look up. I launch myself
up off my suitcase, grab it by the handle and lurch across the station floor
trying to get as far away from those feet as I can. I find a clear space along
the opposite side of the station and park my suitcase and my ass down to wait
out the next four or five hours before I can finally be on my way home.

I look around the station to see if I can spot the owner of
the feet. I don’t see anyone barefoot. Could that have totally been my
imagination? Is the ticket even for real? I pull it out of my pocket and
examine it. It’s real alright. I look at the name of the person it belonged to.
David Pearson. His address is in Emeryville, kind of a nice suburb of Oakland
and not far from where Gabby and I live. I wonder what happened and why he
chose not to return with his partner?

When seven rolls around I can barely keep my eyes open
again, but I have to do something to try to get cleaned up a little. This time
I drag my suitcase with me when I go to find the bathroom. I’m totally amazed
that the bathroom I find is actually not so filthy after all. In fact, it’s
probably the cleanest part of the whole bus station.

When I catch my reflection in the mirror I just about
scream. I look like hell! Actually, I look far worse. My eyes are bloodshot and
so puffy I can barely open them enough to see out of. My face is covered with
dirt and grime from the station and my hair is matted down, tangled and filthy.
I have never been in more need of a shower than right this moment. Of course
there’s no shower here, so the sink will have to do.

Twenty minutes later I stagger out of the bathroom with a
clean face and wet hair. My eyes have benefited as well from the cold water I
kept splashing on them. I’m sure I must be in dire need of deodorant as well
but that’ll have to wait. I look at my watch.

The bus leaves in thirty minutes. It’s probably boarding
right now. I run back to the main part of the station and sure enough, my bus,
number 2112 is in the process of being loaded with everyone’s baggage.

I drag mine over and deposit it where it can be loaded with
the others. Fifteen minutes later I’m walking down the aisle looking for my
seat. I find it, two thirds of the way back. It’s right next to an incredibly
handsome man in his early thirties. He’s got model good looks, but there’s an
air about him that screams business professional, not someone who belongs on
the other side of the camera.

He’s dressed in a pair of designer blue jeans and a
muscle-hugging black tee. His blue blazer is crisp and is very obviously an
expensive piece of clothing; not what you’d expect to find on a Greyhound bus.
He’s got a shock of short black hair with a natural windblown look and a couple
days growth of hair on his handsome face.

His smile triggers a smile on my own face, something I
haven’t done in almost a week. He extends his hand for a shake as I make to sit
down beside him. He has a firm grip, but not crushing. His hand is smooth and
his nails expertly manicured. The guy reeks of power and success, yet he
appears to be genuinely nice.

“Glad you decided to use the ticket,” he says by way of
introduction. “My name’s Walker, by the way.”

“June. And thank you for the ticket. Sorry it didn’t work
out for your partner, but I am deeply grateful for it.”

“No worries June. I’m sure you’ll be good company for the
trip.”

I’m not complaining here, but something is a little off. He
dresses and looks like he should be flying in his private jet, not on a
Greyhound bus.