Read Online Red Hot Blues by Rachel Dunning - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rachel Dunning
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and
cried. And cried.
Some guy walked past—bald, beer-bellied and
drunk—and said something funny and consoling. You know how drunk
people are, always sharing the love.
I laughed. And that was cool, because it
helped me forget.
But there is no forgetting. Because there are
always mirrors. Mirrors, mirrors, everywhere. And couples, happy
couples—of men with muscles and chicks with hard asses.
I don’t hate my life. But I hate the way I feel in life.
I always feel shit.
And I always feel a heavy ache in every part
of my bones.
And it never goes away.
-25-
Layna admires my tits. That’s what she calls
them: My “tits.” She said she’d give her right arm for tits like
mine. Layna is an A cup.
I said I’d take her right arm, but then I’d
look funny because I’d have a huge left arm and a tiny right
arm.
She didn’t like that. She says I should stop
putting myself down. That I’m not fat. That I’m sexy. That I could
get any guy I want because I’m “shapely” and “curvaceous.”
Only problem is, I don’t want any guy. I
wanted Brett Lexington, the guy who did me and dumped me when I was
seventeen. And I don’t want to be “curvaceous,” I want to be
skinny. I want the insides of my thighs to not graze against each
other when I walk. I want my belly to not roll over itself when I
bend over. I want my hips to be straight-up washboards.
Layna might give her right arm for breasts
like mine.
I’d give my soul to the devil for a body like
hers. Babes with a body like hers get the cream of the crop, the
top of the cake, the crème de la crème of men.
Girls like me get everything else. And
everything else just ain’t worth writing about.
-26-
Outside the Blues Bar, that Tuesday night, me
crying on Layna’s shoulder, drunk dude saying something funny:
She said, after I’d settled down, “Dude had
eyes for you. Dude had eyes for you all night.” She was talking
about Ace.
Somehow that made me laugh. A good cry does
that to me. Suddenly things are not so serious after a good cry.
“You think?” I played.
She held me back, eyes wide. “He had fuckin eyes for you! He has the hots for you! Trust me. I
know!”
A little worm of doubt crept into my mind. Really? I looked at her suspiciously.
“Didn’t you see how he rammed that other punk
away? That freak with the Cowboy Hat?”
“Huh?”
She told me about some loser—the typical guy
who chases me after an act—who was aiming for me, and how Ace
chested the dude out the bar.
The worm of doubt crawled deeper.
I looked over at the cowboy cat on the
garbage can. Layna looked at it as well.
We had one of those moments where nothing is
said, but everything is said. Just like Ace and I had had on the
stage.
I went home feeling happy. And hopeful.
The hope lasted all week. I wasn’t afraid, I
wasn’t worried.
He rammed a dude out of the bar that was
coming for me?
I couldn’t deny it. That was hot.
There was only one thing left to prove
whether or not he was, maybe, possibly, interested in me: If he
showed up on Tuesday. Today.
And if he didn’t, I could deal. I could.
Because nothing had happened.
Yet.
-27-
So I dressed up. Black. All black. Because I
know black makes me look sexy. Yeah, I never said I was ugly. I
said I was fat. Fat and ugly are two different things. And I know
that if I push up my “tits” I tend to turn heads. The problem has
been that the heads I turn are usually not the heads I want to turn
(pun intended), but, OK, I’m feeling a little flirtatious
today.
I’ve gone with mostly my usual make-up before
a gig, but chose a darker shade of red for the lipstick, and
thicker eyeliner. Going for the whole Femme Fatale thing. Nothing
wrong with a little bad-assness. Nothing wrong with putting on some
paint to cover the insecurities.
Lace sleeves. Silver chain with a blue
pendant. Black pumps. Sexy pumps. And a purple velvet bolero.
I catch myself hoping, really hoping,
as I walk into the bar, that Ace is
cried. And cried.
Some guy walked past—bald, beer-bellied and
drunk—and said something funny and consoling. You know how drunk
people are, always sharing the love.
I laughed. And that was cool, because it
helped me forget.
But there is no forgetting. Because there are
always mirrors. Mirrors, mirrors, everywhere. And couples, happy
couples—of men with muscles and chicks with hard asses.
I don’t hate my life. But I hate the way I feel in life.
I always feel shit.
And I always feel a heavy ache in every part
of my bones.
And it never goes away.
-25-
Layna admires my tits. That’s what she calls
them: My “tits.” She said she’d give her right arm for tits like
mine. Layna is an A cup.
I said I’d take her right arm, but then I’d
look funny because I’d have a huge left arm and a tiny right
arm.
She didn’t like that. She says I should stop
putting myself down. That I’m not fat. That I’m sexy. That I could
get any guy I want because I’m “shapely” and “curvaceous.”
Only problem is, I don’t want any guy. I
wanted Brett Lexington, the guy who did me and dumped me when I was
seventeen. And I don’t want to be “curvaceous,” I want to be
skinny. I want the insides of my thighs to not graze against each
other when I walk. I want my belly to not roll over itself when I
bend over. I want my hips to be straight-up washboards.
Layna might give her right arm for breasts
like mine.
I’d give my soul to the devil for a body like
hers. Babes with a body like hers get the cream of the crop, the
top of the cake, the crème de la crème of men.
Girls like me get everything else. And
everything else just ain’t worth writing about.
-26-
Outside the Blues Bar, that Tuesday night, me
crying on Layna’s shoulder, drunk dude saying something funny:
She said, after I’d settled down, “Dude had
eyes for you. Dude had eyes for you all night.” She was talking
about Ace.
Somehow that made me laugh. A good cry does
that to me. Suddenly things are not so serious after a good cry.
“You think?” I played.
She held me back, eyes wide. “He had fuckin eyes for you! He has the hots for you! Trust me. I
know!”
A little worm of doubt crept into my mind. Really? I looked at her suspiciously.
“Didn’t you see how he rammed that other punk
away? That freak with the Cowboy Hat?”
“Huh?”
She told me about some loser—the typical guy
who chases me after an act—who was aiming for me, and how Ace
chested the dude out the bar.
The worm of doubt crawled deeper.
I looked over at the cowboy cat on the
garbage can. Layna looked at it as well.
We had one of those moments where nothing is
said, but everything is said. Just like Ace and I had had on the
stage.
I went home feeling happy. And hopeful.
The hope lasted all week. I wasn’t afraid, I
wasn’t worried.
He rammed a dude out of the bar that was
coming for me?
I couldn’t deny it. That was hot.
There was only one thing left to prove
whether or not he was, maybe, possibly, interested in me: If he
showed up on Tuesday. Today.
And if he didn’t, I could deal. I could.
Because nothing had happened.
Yet.
-27-
So I dressed up. Black. All black. Because I
know black makes me look sexy. Yeah, I never said I was ugly. I
said I was fat. Fat and ugly are two different things. And I know
that if I push up my “tits” I tend to turn heads. The problem has
been that the heads I turn are usually not the heads I want to turn
(pun intended), but, OK, I’m feeling a little flirtatious
today.
I’ve gone with mostly my usual make-up before
a gig, but chose a darker shade of red for the lipstick, and
thicker eyeliner. Going for the whole Femme Fatale thing. Nothing
wrong with a little bad-assness. Nothing wrong with putting on some
paint to cover the insecurities.
Lace sleeves. Silver chain with a blue
pendant. Black pumps. Sexy pumps. And a purple velvet bolero.
I catch myself hoping, really hoping,
as I walk into the bar, that Ace is
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