Less Than Nothing (15 page)

“So you kids got any songs an old fart like me would know?”

Derek nods. “Sure. You name it, we play it. Beatles, Eagles, Janis, the whole shooting match.” He’s becoming more corn pone the closer we get to Denver, and I’m afraid of what will happen when we’re really in the heartland. A mental image of Derek in a pair of overalls and a straw hat, chewing on a corn stalk, pops into my head, and I have to stifle my giggle. I need sleep, but Gus isn’t having any of it.

“Well, hell, then. Sing me one a yer songs.”

Derek turns to me, and I fumble Yam out of the case. “What about ‘Rocky Mountain Way’?”

I play a few chords, and we launch into the song. By the time we’re done, Gus is impressed.

“You’re fantastic. I gotta get your autographs. I mean it. You’re really good. Play another one.”

I sing “Knocking On Heaven’s Door,” and then Derek does “Like A Rolling Stone.” Turns out Gus is a Dylan fan. We eventually run out of ideas, and after a few Bonnie Raitt songs, I throw in a couple of Janis Joplin numbers. When I sing “Me & Bobby McGee,” he almost runs off the road.

We’ve covered most of the sixties and seventies and we’re on to Elvis by the time we roll through Salt Lake City. Gus’s eyes are bright as we trundle along, and he insists on singing off-key on most of the choruses.

Derek’s got Elvis down cold, and I’m enjoying his renditions almost as much as Gus is. It sounds corny, but the sound of Derek’s voice sends chills up my spine, even after hearing him as many times as I have. That can’t be bad, I reason. Unless he’s decided we should just be friends. In which case I might as well join a convent, because nobody else has ever had the effect on me he does. Which of course gets my little hamster brain running endlessly on the ‘what if’ wheel. You’d think I’d know better, but apparently not.

By 3:00 a.m. I’ve played out every possible nightmare scenario in my head while we sing our entire roster of golden oldies – Derek being uninterested in me as a female, Derek leaving me high and dry in New York, Derek rejecting me when I make my sly overture. I’m getting hoarse and yawning a lot, but Gus doesn’t get the hint. Another six songs and I beg off any more so I can get a few hours of sleep before it’s daylight.

Gus has found a new best friend in Derek, and can’t stop talking about how much he enjoyed our little impromptu concert. Derek’s in full roar, charming him all the way to Denver, and as I doze off, I’m smiling.

If the talent show judges are all long-distance truckers, we’ll walk away with the prize.

Gus is a lifesaver for us. When we pull into Denver around 10:00 the next morning, he gets on his radio and beats the trucker tom-toms to see who can give us a lift east. A female friend of his is leaving for St. Louis, Missouri, in two hours, and agrees on Gus’s recommendation to let us ride with her.

I’m a little surprised that a woman is a long-haul trucker, though I’m not sure why. It’s not like a female can’t drive a truck as well as a male. It’s just that the business seems like the territory of unshaved guys with bloodshot eyes and service tattoos.

Gus drops us off at a truck stop on the outskirts of town and tells us to wait for Helen, who’ll be around by noon. He refuses to accept any money, and he’s so sweet I can’t help myself and give him a parting kiss on the cheek. Underneath his gruff exterior he’s a butterball, and as he drives away, he promises to tune into the talent contest to cheer us on.

Our fan club having built to a total of one, we decide to eat brunch while we wait for Helen. Derek’s tired, which is no surprise given that he stayed up all night. Even so, to my eye he looks like every girl’s fantasy – or at least this girl’s. We tote our stuff into the restaurant, which smells like bacon grease and ass, and sit at a red vinyl booth by a window. Derek skims the menu while I look over the specials card stuffed into a scratched plastic stand, and when the waitress arrives, we order coffee while I think about what I’m going to have.

When she returns with our drinks, I ask for the number two special, which contains enough pork by-products and lard-based food groups to clog all my arteries. Derek gets the same. I dump most of the sugar bottle into my coffee while Derek watches with quiet amusement, and I blush when I realize what a complete sugar whore I look like. I slide the bottle across the table to him and reach for the cream.

“What?” I ask. He’s just staring at me.

“Nothing.”

“You can’t do that and then say nothing.”

He grins. “I just did.”

“I’m glad I’m providing entertainment value.”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

He’s still staring as he streams sugar for a few seconds into his cup and stirs slowly, like he’s mixing explosives. When he finally speaks, I have to strain to hear, so soft is his voice.

“I was just thinking that you look beautiful.”

I’m glad I don’t have a mouthful of coffee. It would be awkward if I projectile-blasted it out my nose.

Even with only a few hours of sleep and no caffeine yet, my heart trip-hammers like I’ve just run a four-minute mile. I try to decide whether he’s screwing with me, but his expression says he’s not.

“I think you’ve confused your reflection with me,” I say and want to suck the words back into my mouth the moment I’ve spoken.
Crap.
That totally didn’t come out the way I wanted it to.

His eyes narrow. “You’re not super good at taking compliments, are you?” he says, more a statement than question.

I debate another smart-ass comment, but decide that’s not a good road to go down when your dream dude tells you you’re beautiful. So I try honesty instead. Probably because I’m so tired.

“No, I guess not. I’m not used to getting them.”

“I’d have thought you’d gotten so many you’re tired of hearing them.”

“Ha. I wish.” Ralph’s hateful face pops into my mind, and my stomach’s instantly swimming in acid. “My family’s not exactly what you’d call…supportive.”

He shrugs. “Their loss. You’re going to be a star, and then you can tell them to suck it.”

I laugh at the thought, but his words warm me. “Boy, wouldn’t that just kill them.”

“Another reason to give it your all.”

“Like I need one? Living in the park’s a pretty good motivator.”

“Yeah, but being on top of the world’s not a bad one, either.”

Our breakfast arrives, a nightmare of congealed glop and unidentifiable chunks of mystery meat along with enough starches to qualify me for bypass surgery.

It smells like double scoops of awesome, and I can’t eat fast enough. Derek’s slower. You can learn a lot about a person by watching them eat. I mean, theoretically you can learn more by sneaking looks at them in the shower and sleeping with them, but right now, all I have to work with is breakfast.

He’s methodical, and unlike me, who sort of goes face down into the plate like I’m trying to win an eating contest, he starts at one end and works his way across. But it’s more involved than that, because he also sticks with one food group until he’s finished with it, and then moves to the next. My technique consists primarily of smushing everything together and shoveling it into my pie hole as fast as possible. Which is yet another thing I’m ashamed of. I feel like a farmhand after watching him finish, cleaning his plate and leaving it looking like it had just been washed.

A word pops into my brain to describe it: thorough. Derek eats like he does everything else – he’s totally focused on the task, has a system he follows that he sticks to, and doesn’t stop until he’s through.

Which tells me nothing about his character I don’t already know, but gives me an excuse to gaze at him like I’m hypnotized. Which I suppose I am, just a little.

Okay, maybe more than a little.

Derek sits back, satisfied, and holds his cup up, signaling to the waitress, who’s no more than twenty and has been shamelessly checking him out, that he wants a refill. She’s at our table with the pot in ten seconds and gives him the kind of smile that’s usually reserved for wedding nights. When she’s done filling his cup, she glances at mine like I’m something she wiped off her shoe, and offers an insincere courtesy smile – the type you get from car rental agents or stewardesses, about as warm as a crocodile eyeing a bunny.

“More?” she asks me as she returns her gaze to Derek, who seems oblivious to her.

“Sure. And the bill, please.”

She whips a pad from her apron and thumbs through it. When she gets to our ticket, she tears it off and hands it to Derek. I’m half convinced she signed it with a little smiley face and her phone number. Probably Candi or Brandi or one of the other should-end-in-y names.

My inner bitterness dissolves when Derek slips a few ones under the sugar and stands.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, and every female eye in the place follows him to the cash register.

Being with the hottest guy in the state comes at a high emotional cost if you’re prone to jealous thoughts, which I try not to be. I mean, it’s not like we’re married. We haven’t even kissed. Which I’ve begun to change my mind about from the prior week, when I dismissed anything smacking of romance as an unnecessary complication. I’ve gone from trying to figure out how to avoid it to wondering about it most of my waking moments, which isn’t doing me any good. If Derek’s on the same wavelength, he should forget about the talent show and go make bank playing poker in Vegas, because he’s inscrutable, and it’s slowly driving me crazy. I’m not the kind to make the first move, and apparently using my psychic powers to will
him
to make it isn’t working.

He returns, and I give him my blank stare. Two can play the stone-face game – I’ve got a Ph.D. in detachment, earned from years of surviving in a toxic home. Derek’s got nothing on me in that department. I do wonder, though, why he hasn’t even tried anything. I mean, I’m not an expert on the male of the species, but based on my limited encounters with horny examples and Melody’s extensive recounting of her dating life, guys are always chomping at the bit to get busy, and it’s the girl’s job to fend them off.

So much for my female intuition. I get more of a reaction from the Korean grocer by Melody’s, and he’s a hundred and six.

Derek glances at his watch. “She should be here any minute. You ready to head outside?”

It’s a gorgeous late summer day in Denver. The mountain air is warm but crisp from the altitude, and the surrounding snow-capped mountains thrust into the sky like broken teeth. I nod. “Sure. Lead the way.”

Even after pulling an all-nighter with Gus, Derek hasn’t complained about being tired once. I miss some sleep and I mewl like a lost kitten. Yet another way we’re opposites, which is supposed to result in mutual attraction. So much for that. Because one-sided attraction sucks, I can now say with conviction.

He shoulders his bag and hefts his guitar, and I follow him out into the parking lot, noting that his jeans fit better than anyone’s I’ve seen. I’m so busy admiring the view that I almost run into him when he stops abruptly. He’s watching a woman about my size, probably late thirties, with long auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing cargo pants, a long-sleeved Pink concert shirt, and hiking boots.

“You Gus’s friends?” she asks as she approaches. Gus gave her a description, and we’re the only black-clad teens in sight.

Derek smiles. “Helen?”

“Yup.”

We introduce ourselves and follow her to her truck, a bright yellow Mack Pinnacle with an aggressive snout and highly polished rims. She watches as we load our gear into the sleeper cab, and then Derek gives her one of his heart-stopping grins.

“Do you mind if I catch a few winks? I’m afraid Gus and I stayed up all night,” he explains, and her face crinkles as she returns the smile.

“Sure thing, sweetie. It’s going to be eight hundred miles, so might as well grab your Zs where you can.”

I look Helen over. “Are you going to drive it in one stretch?”

“Sure. With a few potty breaks, I can clock it in twelve hours. Which should put us in at” – she checks the time – “around midnight.”

“I wish I could help you drive or something,” I say.

Helen laughs. “Don’t worry, darlin’. Just keep me company. Breaks up the monotony.”

She winds through the gears, and soon we’re on the freeway barreling east. I look back at Derek. He’s fast asleep on the little bed. Helen busies herself with chatting on the radio in what sounds like some kind of alien language, and then turns her attention to me.

“So what’s your story, Sage? Gus said you started out in San Francisco?”

I nod. “That’s right. Yesterday morning.” Has it only been one day? We’ve already passed through four states in a little over twenty-four hours.

“Gus is mighty impressed by your singing.”

I try not to blush. “He’s a great guy.”

She smiles again, and I decide I like her. “That he is.” She glances over at me. “So tell me the story of your life. What you’re running from, or running to.” Her eyes roam to the mirror and Derek.

“Well, there’s not a lot to tell. It’s pretty boring, actually.”

“Try staring at this road for a dozen hours a day. You want boring? I’ll show you boring. Don’t be shy, honey. Let’s start with where you grew up. Your family. Whatever you want to talk about. I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”