Stay Until We Break (5 page)

“Awesome, I think a bunch of us are heading over there after the show.”

“Sounds like a party.”

Great. I know Sunny isn’t my girlfriend or anything like that but I guess I’m feeling a little . . . I don’t know. Something along the lines of “get the fuck away from her,” and I just played my balls off on stage so if I want to talk to her, I’m just going to blow this catfish out of the pond. But as I’m about to make my move I have this sort of epiphany, and that’s the realization that Sunny is all glinting, shiny smiles at this college boy and she’s stone-cold sober. Hasn’t had a drink all night. And not once have I seen her radiate that sexy smile in my direction when she wasn’t blitzed. So maybe she actually likes this guy. I mean, why wouldn’t she? I check out college boy again, and he’s tall, tan, decent looking. Perfectly straight teeth like all the kids from Saddle River means his dad got him braces because nobody gets teeth that straight without them.

Sunny has teeth like that.

Instead of making my move, I walk away. I go to the men’s room and wash my hands, run them through my hair. Try not to feel pissed off or whatever. It’s not like I actually believe there’s any real possibility for me and Sunny, not one that has any kind of future. Above all, I’m a realist and I know I’m too blue collar for a girl like that. Unless I’m on stage, that is. That’s when she can’t take her eyes off of me. Not to be a dick, but I do get that from girls. They like rock stars. They don’t care that I’m about as close to being John Paul Jones as I am to being elected to the US Senate. It’s the fantasy they want, and I get that, because so do I. But I’ve played the up-and-coming rock star in that drama enough times to know how it ends. As soon as these college girls realize that by forty years old you’ll be just another working stiff with your good looks long spent, they’re on to the finance majors.

I mean, imagine Sonia bringing me home to dinner to her parents’ house in Hopewell.

“What are your plans for the future, son?” I can just see her father, the law professor, with his manicured nails asking me over poached salmon. “Graduate school? Wall Street?”

“Actually, Mr. Grant, I’m a reformed drug dealer and a high school dropout, so I’ll be pumping shit out of people’s septic systems for the rest of my life.”

Like she’d ever invite me to dinner with her parents in the first place. I think if that was even a remote possibility she might show an interest in me other than when she’s wasted. And case in point, she never has.

Not a nice realization to make, but an important one nonetheless. It does a man no good to forget where he comes from or where he’s going in this life.

With that in mind, I decide to move on. I’ve got three weeks left to be the rock star. I may as well enjoy it and not spend it dwelling on a girl I can’t have. I scope the room for anyone who’s not Sunny I might want to talk to, but I’m not in the mood. Not even that one there, in the Dinosaur Jr. T-shirt, or the cute one in the shorts with a gap between her teeth who’s been eyeing me for an hour. Maybe I’ll feel different at the after-party, at least I hope so. I decide to hang out with Emmy and Trap up near the stage and just watch the rest of Chimp Cringle’s set, which is on fire. I’m really digging it. Shen and Joey are going nuts, dancing with the blow-up dolls and being complete idiots, but it’s entertaining. Then, just as I’m starting to get the edge of my good mood back, Sonia finds me near the front and tugs on my T-shirt, with college boy in tow.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“This guy is the station manager for TJU,” she says. “They’ve been playing your single like crazy!”

“Awesome.” Like I give a shit. I mean, I’m sure this guy will say anything to get under her skirt, and does she even know? Does she even realize this guy looks at her like she’s a hot fudge sundae on the last day of Lent?

Then she takes me by the hand and motions she wants to tell me something, so I bend down so she can reach my ear.

“Can you please do the thing again where you pretend you’re my boyfriend?” she asks. “Because I think this guy thinks I’m interested.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Seriously?”

“Well?”

“No,” she says. “And I don’t want to be a bitch because he’s a nice guy and I suck at . . . well, guys in general.”

What the hell does that even mean? I don’t know, but I put my arm around her and tonight she’s in this black-and-white-checked halter dress, with those exposed, perfect shoulders right there, right fucking there where I’ve been staring at them all Goddamn day. I pull her close to me and it’s a mixed bag of warmth and the sweet scent of her hair and sharp regret for all the stupid shit I’ve ever done in my life. It’s not comfortable, but what am I gonna do, say no? Of course not. If I can pretend with everybody else that I’m in the band for the long haul, I can pretend to be Sonia’s boyfriend to get her out of an awkward situation. Though if I was really the gentleman she accuses me of being, I wouldn’t be considering milking this fake boyfriend gig for a fake ass-grab right now. I opt for running my hand over her bare shoulder, and shit, the way she leans into me I decide to go for it and put my hand on the back of her neck, let my fingers slide up into her hair, and I know I’m not imagining things when she catches her breath and wraps her arm around my waist.

What the fuck am I even doing? Is this my head driving me here or my dick? Or something else entirely?

I catch a sideways glance from Emmylou, which I ignore. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here, so her questioning eyes aren’t getting any answers from me tonight. I turn around to give college boy the once-over, and when he nods in recognition that yeah, he gets that Sunny is off-limits, I nod back. He leans forward so he can talk to me (because it’s loud as fuck in here) and says, “You guys are seriously good. I was talking to Sonia about having you come back for our big homecoming festival. We’ve got the Pumps booked—you can open for them.”

I want to laugh in his face and tell him to fuck off, because we’ll never open for those Maybelline-wearing dickwads, but I won’t even be in the band by then. My eyes hurt from the effort it takes not to roll them.

“Did you give Emmylou your number?” I ask.

“I gave it to Sonia. She’s your manager, right?”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure she’ll be in touch.”

“You know, she’s awesome,” he says, and I feel my jaw go even more stiff and my eyes start to get mean and I have to check myself. “She came upstairs before your set and rallied everybody who was there for the Chimp to come downstairs to watch you. She and Jeremy were like cattle herders, it was great. Really glad I didn’t miss your set.”

“Thanks.”

Sonia turns to me and there’s that look again.
What now?
she seems to be asking, but I don’t fucking know
what now
with her. All I know is that this skin of hers feels like flower petals under my hand and I’d sure like to feel more of it. I know she’s not other girls, she’s not the girl who works at Monticello, and she’s not the girl with the gap in her teeth. Those girls might smell good and look good and feel good under my touch, but they’ll never be Sunshine. What the fuck am I going to do? I honestly don’t know. Do I play out the fantasy with her now and then deal with the fallout when we get home and she learns I’m quitting the band and moving back to Lodi to be a plumber?

What now,
I guess she wants to know. I look back at her, cock an eyebrow, and smile.

Your move, Sunshine.

Sonia

Time isn’t what it used to be, that’s one thing I’m learning about the road. For example, at home three a.m. is diner time—the last stop before fall-drunk-into-bed time. But on the road, three a.m. is when the real party starts. It’s Sunday night and nobody here has to worry about getting up for class, for work. Nobody has a paper due or an exam to stress out over. All we have to worry about is making it over to Lexington tomorrow night to play with Crown the Robin, our friends from Jersey City, who we’ll be sharing a leg of this tour with.

The night is ours.

We turn down a long, moonlit, gravel lane behind Chimp Cringle’s and the Crypt Whores’ Econolines, where we find an old Virginia farm. Back behind the house, a number of people from the club are already hanging out around an in-ground swimming pool. Some of them are actually
in
the pool, which looks really inviting after a long, hot night in a bar, but I didn’t think to bring a bathing suit on this trip. Then I realize none of the swimmers brought suits, either.

“Whoa, naked people!” Emmy says. “Awesome!”

“Awww, yeah, tonight’s my night,” Joey insists. He’s still hanging on to Debbie and Jenny, and Jenny is half on my lap because blow-up dolls take up a lot more space when the drummer refuses to deflate them. (As soon as Joey falls asleep I think Jenny is going to meet her untimely end on a piece of farm equipment, because I have no intention of spending the next two and a half weeks with this oversized, oversexed Barbie on my lap.)

“Mark my words,” he goes on, staring at the naked swimmers with a gleam in his eye, “that girl in the pool with the nice . . . personality and the gap in her teeth? Little Lauren Hutton? Mine. Back at the club she said she appreciated my stature.”

“Your stature?” I say. “Like, your Paul Bunyanesque physique?”

“Just wait until she gets her hands on his trunk,” Travis says.

“God, let’s hope so,” Emmy chimes in. “Because if you even consider sticking your dick in one of these dolls, I swear to you I’ll set it on fire.”

“Hey, don’t talk like that!” Joey protectively covers Debbie’s ears. “She’ll hear you.”

And he’s not even drunk.

The thing about post-show musicians is that they don’t need to be drunk to be insane. The show itself is the drug, and the more shows they do, the more they crave. You’d think that might be a bad thing, and I know to my parents, who can’t understand why I’d take three weeks of my summer to sleep on people’s floors, it can seem like a life-ruining path to pursue. But this high is the good kind—the kind that makes you feel alive. And I know by now I’ve got a contact high, because after tonight’s show I’m starting to feel like I could do this forever.

We park and try to convince Joey to leave the girls in the van, but he insists Shen will be offended since he offered them to us as some sort of transcultural, punk rock goodwill gift. That makes us the weirdest-looking bunch here as we lug our sleeping bags and backpacks and two blow-up dolls across the driveway over to the studio, which is an enormous, converted barn, fully equipped with three bedrooms (where the Crypt Whores are living right now), a kitchen, bathroom, and this big, main room where the recording actually takes place. That’s where we’re sleeping tonight.

“Welcome to the Crypt, whores!” Shen says with a huge grin as he throws the lights on in the main room, and I’m still not sure if he knows what that word means. We stash our stuff and follow him and Jeremy out to the pool, where everyone is hanging out, many of them half-naked with towels draped around them. We are totally overdressed, especially me as I’m actually wearing a dress.

Little Lauren Hutton comes up to us, a towel draped around her waist but not her . . . personality. I try not to stare.
Look at her face, look at her face,
I tell myself. Then I feel my claws extend as she beams her personality right at Cole and says hello. He acts totally cool, though, like hey, I’ve seen a lot of tits in my day. I groan inwardly as I consider just how true that probably is. When Joey comes over, she seems to forget about Cole and gives him the rock star treatment instead, kissing him on the cheek and everything, and I’m so glad I can’t see Joey’s boner, hidden as it is behind Debbie, who he is
still
clinging to. Then Little Lauren Hutton (not her actual name) turns to me, tugs playfully at my skirt, and says, “Hey, you should lose this dress and come in the pool with me.”

“Oh, yeah?” I try to act super cool, like no big deal, naked women ask me this all the time. Meanwhile, I ignore Joey gawking behind her back and Cole’s amused little smile as he cocks his head at me like an intrigued Labrador.

“It is a beautiful night for a swim, Sunshine,” he says. “And you do look a little warm.”

“Nah, I’m totally good,” I say. “You know, maybe later.”

“Yeah?” Cole says.

“Really?” Joey’s eyes pop.

“Yeah, no,” I say. “Probably not.”

“Well, hey, I’ll go,” Joey says.

I’m a little alarmed when he strips his shirt off over his head and hands it to Cole right on the spot, but damn, I’d forgotten what a nice body Joey has. He really is a lumberjack, minus the sideburns. I look away when he drops his pants, though. I have no need to see Joey’s junk, even if it is probably enormous. Luckily, he keeps his boxers on as he follows Little Lauren Hutton to the diving board. Then he does a cannonball into the deep end with Debbie and Jenny tucked under each arm. Maybe we won’t even need farm equipment to take them out.

I settle into a lounger by the poolside between Cole and Craig, the station director from TJU. He strikes up a conversation with us about radio promotion, never mind all the naked folks milling about. As I get more absorbed in the conversation, Cole gets up to go chat with Trap and another girl (who happens to have clothes on) when it dawns on me that Joey isn’t out here any longer, and neither is Little Lauren Hutton. I can only hope for the best.

Every so often, Cole looks in my direction and makes eye contact, and every single time he does it I can feel his hand on the back of my neck again, his fingers threading up into my hair like when he did that back at Tokyo Rose. Fucking zing. I’m right back there. I think about his offer . . .
I can help you out—all you have to do is ask . . .
and I know it’s a bad idea, but I’m seriously considering it. Ever since he kissed me last night back at Stache’s, all I can think about is hooking up with him. The problem is we’re friends, and we have to be able to live together in the van and get along for the next three weeks. Hopefully after the tour is over, too, if Soft will keep me on as their manager. And if we hook up, I just don’t expect him to take it—or me—seriously. He doesn’t seem to take any girl he takes to bed seriously. And I would consider just doing it anyway, with the mind-set that it’s just a casual hookup. But I don’t know if I can.

As Craig talks to me, I stare at Cole, watch him laugh with Travis, his eyes all bright and happy. I stare at him for minutes and minutes without stopping, waiting for the moment when his eyes find mine again. I never tire of watching him.

“Hey, where’s Joey?” Emmylou asks, sitting in the lounger on the other side of me. “I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“Yeah, I hope it’s a good sign,” I say.

“Let’s pray it is,” she says. “But Debbie and Jenny are missing, too, so, you know . . .”

“I can’t even consider that possibility.”

“How sanitary are those things, anyway?”

“I like how you think I’d know that.”

“You’re the practical one,” she reminds me.

“Well, I don’t think you can really catch anything,” I say. “But I’d worry about chafing.”

“That’s gross, Sunny.”

“That’s why I brought Lubriderm.”

“Oh God, I hope dick chafing is not the real reason you brought lotion. Is it?”

It isn’t, but I just smile and shrug at her horrified expression.

She polishes off her beer and then saunters over to Travis, and the way he eye-fucks her as she walks to him is practically indecent, but just made my list of life goals. I try to imagine what it would feel like to be that desired by someone, but I can’t because I never have been. I find myself looking at Cole again, wondering who he’s ever wanted like that.

He catches me staring as I’m half listening to Craig, raises his eyebrows, clearly a sign. A glorious, obvious sign, but I’m not sure if I’m grimacing or what, because he turns back to his conversation with Travis and Emmy. But then he heads over to where I’m standing and my stomach drops like I’m about to take a free fall.

“Sorry, Craig, I need to borrow Sunny,” he says, taking me by the hand. When I look up at him he smiles. “I need you to help me find something in the back of the van.”

“Find what?” I ask, because I’m really that dense.

“I’ll show you when we find it.” He gives Craig this knowing sort of wink before he leads me away from the party, and my mind races as I walk with him.
Is he serious? He wants to get with me in the van? Right now with all these people here? And . . . am I doing this?

Oh, how I’m regretting my choice to stay sober tonight. My hand is cold and clammy in his and I can’t stop feeling like an awkward sixteen-year-old. And I really can’t deal with how good he looks in that plain black T-shirt with that beautiful little mole on his neck, just under his hairline and perfectly visible with all this stupid, magical moonlight.

“Should we get a beer first?” I suggest. “Or maybe five?”

“Oh . . .” He’s caught off guard. Great. “I mean yeah, sure.” He lets go of my hand. Go, me.

“Or not,” I say.

“Hey, I’m sorry. I thought you looked like you’d had enough talking about radio promo. If you want to hang out with Craig, that’s fine. Seriously.”

“I don’t,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s not that.”

“What’s not what?”

“It’s not . . .” I kick the dirt and look down so he can’t see me gnawing on my lip like a jerk. He’s waiting for me to explain myself, but I can’t explain that I need a drink because of how nervous I am, because that sounds pathetic.

“C’mon, let’s get a beer,” he says, and turns to walk into the barn, his hands in his pockets. I follow him, cursing myself. Why can’t I just be like any of these normal women who jump him when the opportunity arises? How many opportunities do I think I’m going to get with him before he just goes back to hooking up with girls who aren’t neurotic?

I follow him inside where Jeremy and Shen are now hanging out, all cozy on the sofa as they check out the latest
Alternative Press
. They point us to the kitchen and we help ourselves to the last two Red Stripes. Cole pops the tops off of the bottles and hands me one.

“Cheers,” he says, and at least he’s smiling.

I nod and smile too widely and exhale through my nose.

Breathe, Sunny. Just breathe like a normal person.

He starts to chat about the Tokyo Rose, thanking me for pulling the crowd down to the basement for Soft’s set. He asks me what else Craig had to say about radio promotion, and he actually seems interested so I tell him everything, including my big plans for blitzing the stations with calls from the road and to get some folks from home to make a bunch of calls over the next two weeks. I’m sure our housemates, Jeff and Adam, will do it, probably Trap’s housemate, George, too, if I offer to pay the phone bill and buy him a case of beer when we get home. And now that I’m talking business again, I feel okay. I know how to handle myself in this territory.

When we finish our beer, we head back into the main room and now it’s just us band-related folks, though Joey is still missing in action, and now I’m pretty sure of the action part. Emmy and Travis are hanging out on top of their sleeping bags on the floor. Travis is sprawled out with his head in Emmy’s lap, smiling, blissed out as she plays with his hair. Cole and I unroll our sleeping bags and he puts his right next to mine. This makes me both nervous and stupidly happy, so I try to keep myself from grinning too much. We sit on top of our bags with our backs against the sofa, and he’s sitting close enough for me to feel his arm brush mine every so often, and every single time we touch, even accidentally, my heart feels it. I think if he intentionally touches me I might combust.

Jeremy lights some candles on the side table and turns the lights out. Shen starts to play “Dire Wolf” on an old acoustic guitar, and Emmy joins in on the harmony. I’m loving the sound of her Jersey accent combined with his Mandarin. Now it feels like the family vacation I wish I got to have as a kid, where everyone gets along and all that’s required for a good time is being together. I almost want to open my mouth and sing,
Don’t murder me, I beg of you, don’t murder me . . .
but no way would I ever sing in front of these guys, or anyone. I notice Cole is quiet, just watching me, and I blush for no reason, hoping the darkness hides it.

“Wish we had some weed,” Shen says when we finish the song. “The Dead always make me want to get high.”

“I have weed,” says Cole.

“You do?” Emmy asks. “Since when did you start smoking again?”

“Marilyn gave me some. We should kill it.”

“Bust that shit out,” Travis says, sitting up. “I don’t want to drive with it in the van anyway.”

“Really, Bean? You’re gonna smoke?” Emmy asks.

“Yeah,” Travis says. “Are you?”

“Sure, if you are. We’ve never done it high before,” she says, grinning.

“Oh, do you have a checklist of sexual milestones?” Travis asks. “If so, I’ve got a few items I’d like to add.”

Emmy grins and kisses him. I look away, but something about my mood makes me want to watch, and it’s not like they’re being discreet. So I glance back, only now they’re really making out—I can even see Trap’s tongue, right here like they’re a couple of teenagers. But instead of the eye-rolling I normally reserve for moments like these, I feel the flutter of thrill deep in me and it starts to spread. I look back at Cole and he gives me a crooked smile that does me in.

“How about it, Sunshine?” he asks. “You wanna get high?”

“Um . . . yeah,” I say, blinking. “Yes.” I think I would say yes to pretty much anything he asked me right now. Petty crime, mechanical bull riding. Even line dancing.