After a month of celibacy, he was used to their taunting. Especially as the sexual offers heightened with
The Burn
’s skyrocketing notoriety. Hot girls, too. As in big-tittied, tight-bodied, wild-in-the-sack kind of girls. They cornered him after shows, in parking lots, and followed him into the fucking bathroom. He moaned inwardly.
Just made him want Charlee more. And dammit, he would come to her as a clean and deserving man. Thank Christ the clinic in Florida confirmed he was free of STDs.
With all his focus on seeing her again, his neurotic episodes and bouts of depression had become less frequent. How was that possible?
His youth counselor had used terms such as
PTSD
,
internal and external triggers
, and
cognitive behavioral therapy
. It was difficult to identify what cued his internal trigger. Sometimes all it took was the recollection of a memory. His external trigger was simply a hand, intentionally placed on his body. When he was unable to manage his environment, rather than turning to drugs like he used to, he simply thought of Charlee.
He tried not to think about what might’ve been going on with her and her boyfriend or if there would be any room for a rising musician in her life. The possibility that he could win her on the other side of their tour was enough. One more month.
Gah.
Another month.
Impatience buzzed through him. “How about we make St. Louis our next stop and I’ll write your damn song.”
“You know we can’t do that. We’re booked every night along the Gulf until we return to L.A.”
Disappointment sunk him into the seat. They were opening for some of the biggest rock bands in the business, and concert goers had begun to take an interest in them. If he bailed out, he’d be bailing on his friends. A venue cancellation would void thousands of ticket sales, and the penalties would be monstrous.
Rio’s grin widened. “I guess if you’re going to compose while you’re hung up on a girl, just try to save your menstrual tearjerkers for your jerk off sessions.”
“Where’s the faith?”
“I have faith in you, but we’re not a soft rock band.”
“I’m not writing soft.” He traced a finger over the fret of his guitar. “It’s a rock ballad.”
The stare returned. “As good as
Huntress
?”
He’d composed
Huntress
the night he met Charlee, and the fans loved it. “It’s better. Now go change your tampon or whatever it is you do in the bathroom, so I can make a phone call.”
A laugh burst from Rio’s barrel chest. “I like this.”
“Like what?”
“Straight edge, pussy-whipped, jolly Jay.” He jumped out of the van and leaned in the open crack of the door. “Just don’t let that faggoty shit anywhere near our music.” He slammed the door.
Jay shook his head as he pressed
Redial
on his cell and put it to his ear. “Please pick up. Please pick up.”
Ringing blared down the line. Once. Twice. He sucked in a breath.
Beep.
Fuck. He squeezed the phone to keep from throwing it through the windshield. Then he did what he always did when he heard her voice over the recording. He closed his eyes and visualized her gorgeous blue eyes and blinding smile.
“You’ve reached Kilroy Tattoo. I’m either inking or sleeping. Leave your deets and I’ll holler back.”
“Hey, Charlee. It’s Jay Mayard again. I really need to talk to you…uh…about finishing the tattoo. You should have my number”—he’d only left it a hundred times—”but here it is again.”
He rattled off his digits. What else could he say to convince her to call him? “You know, I realize I might’ve come across like a dick the night I was there. If I did, I’m sorry. I…um…”
Christ, he was fucking this up. “The tattoo…it…well, it changed a lot of things for me. Made me look at things differently, and I’m anxious for you to finish it. I’ll be there in a month, but I would really like to talk to you about it ahead of time. Just…just give me a ring, okay?”
His
The Burn
’s skyrocketing notoriety. Hot girls, too. As in big-tittied, tight-bodied, wild-in-the-sack kind of girls. They cornered him after shows, in parking lots, and followed him into the fucking bathroom. He moaned inwardly.
Just made him want Charlee more. And dammit, he would come to her as a clean and deserving man. Thank Christ the clinic in Florida confirmed he was free of STDs.
With all his focus on seeing her again, his neurotic episodes and bouts of depression had become less frequent. How was that possible?
His youth counselor had used terms such as
PTSD
,
internal and external triggers
, and
cognitive behavioral therapy
. It was difficult to identify what cued his internal trigger. Sometimes all it took was the recollection of a memory. His external trigger was simply a hand, intentionally placed on his body. When he was unable to manage his environment, rather than turning to drugs like he used to, he simply thought of Charlee.
He tried not to think about what might’ve been going on with her and her boyfriend or if there would be any room for a rising musician in her life. The possibility that he could win her on the other side of their tour was enough. One more month.
Gah.
Another month.
Impatience buzzed through him. “How about we make St. Louis our next stop and I’ll write your damn song.”
“You know we can’t do that. We’re booked every night along the Gulf until we return to L.A.”
Disappointment sunk him into the seat. They were opening for some of the biggest rock bands in the business, and concert goers had begun to take an interest in them. If he bailed out, he’d be bailing on his friends. A venue cancellation would void thousands of ticket sales, and the penalties would be monstrous.
Rio’s grin widened. “I guess if you’re going to compose while you’re hung up on a girl, just try to save your menstrual tearjerkers for your jerk off sessions.”
“Where’s the faith?”
“I have faith in you, but we’re not a soft rock band.”
“I’m not writing soft.” He traced a finger over the fret of his guitar. “It’s a rock ballad.”
The stare returned. “As good as
Huntress
?”
He’d composed
Huntress
the night he met Charlee, and the fans loved it. “It’s better. Now go change your tampon or whatever it is you do in the bathroom, so I can make a phone call.”
A laugh burst from Rio’s barrel chest. “I like this.”
“Like what?”
“Straight edge, pussy-whipped, jolly Jay.” He jumped out of the van and leaned in the open crack of the door. “Just don’t let that faggoty shit anywhere near our music.” He slammed the door.
Jay shook his head as he pressed
Redial
on his cell and put it to his ear. “Please pick up. Please pick up.”
Ringing blared down the line. Once. Twice. He sucked in a breath.
Beep.
Fuck. He squeezed the phone to keep from throwing it through the windshield. Then he did what he always did when he heard her voice over the recording. He closed his eyes and visualized her gorgeous blue eyes and blinding smile.
“You’ve reached Kilroy Tattoo. I’m either inking or sleeping. Leave your deets and I’ll holler back.”
“Hey, Charlee. It’s Jay Mayard again. I really need to talk to you…uh…about finishing the tattoo. You should have my number”—he’d only left it a hundred times—”but here it is again.”
He rattled off his digits. What else could he say to convince her to call him? “You know, I realize I might’ve come across like a dick the night I was there. If I did, I’m sorry. I…um…”
Christ, he was fucking this up. “The tattoo…it…well, it changed a lot of things for me. Made me look at things differently, and I’m anxious for you to finish it. I’ll be there in a month, but I would really like to talk to you about it ahead of time. Just…just give me a ring, okay?”
His
Similar Books
