Crocodile Tears: A Boy Meets Girl Story

by Daya Daniels

  “Nothing.”

  I groan but I don’t push any further. It bothers me, that how she feels fucking bothers me. I can’t concentrate when she’s like this.

  Liv’s blue eyes stare in the direction of the glass, at all the equipment that lines the walls of our suite.

  “Why do you have so many guitars?” she asks.

  I chuckle. “I need them—all of them actually. They all serve a special purpose.”

  “Such as.”

  “Well, I have studio guitars. I have stage guitars and then I have acoustic guitars that I use to write songs—like this one,” I tell her tapping the Gibson J-45 Standard that rests on the concrete next to us.

  “Oh. They take up a lot of space.”

  “They do.” I place a kiss to her forehead.

  I pick up the guitar and run my fingers over it. “This here is known as ‘The Workhorse.’ It’s one of the best-known acoustics in the world. This round-shoulder, dreadnought acoustic guitar gives me full, balanced expression, warm bass and excellent projection.” I kiss her forehead again. “This is thanks to the AA-grade Sitka spruce top and the solid mahogany body it has,” I say tapping on it with my knuckles before I place it back down.

  “My favorite one is probably the Gibson Firebird and the Les Paul Studio I use. It’s nice to be able to afford them now.”

  “Interesting,” she whispers, tracing a finger over my nose. “Who taught you how to play?”

  I laugh. “I taught myself.”

  Liv smiles. “Of course, you did.”

  “I was ten and living in Nashville. I ended up at this thrift store one day just looking around with Dexter. I came across this guitar. It was old and beat up. I picked it up, strummed it for a bit and kind of fell in love with it. For a week after school, I went back to that shop messing around with it. It was fifty dollars.

  “I know it seems like just fifty dollars but I didn’t have that kind of money. I debated stealing it but I didn’t. It would have been hard to run out of a store, holding an entire fucking guitar.”

  Liv giggles.

  “The eighth day I went back, the old man that owned the place told me I could have it, since I seemed fixated on the damn thing. He knew I was from the group home—maybe he took pity on me, I don’t know. Anyways, the old man said the guitar was his grandfather’s, who had made it himself like twenty years before. He even threw in some old music books.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, so every day after school when I had the chance, I would find a quiet place down by the Cumberland River and I’d sit and teach myself how to play. I even learned how to read and write a bit of music then. Over the years, I got better. I became good at teaching myself how to play nearly anything I put my hands on.

  “Often, I just watched and repeated. I still do, sometimes.”

  “That’s cool.”

  I smile and run a hand over my jaw. “Yeah, I didn’t have fancy music lessons, Liv. I didn’t study at Juilliard.” I laugh. “I’m just a foster kid, who discovered maybe he has a talent.”

  “You do have a talent.”

  I shrug. “I guess only the people can be the judge of that. People that love you, can’t,” I say tapping the end of her cute nose.

  “Any idols?” she asks. “Guitar heroes, I guess they’re called.”

  “Yeah, sure.

  “Um, guys like Brian May from Queen, Jimmy Page, Eddie Van Halen, Slash from Guns n’ Roses, who I’ve had the pleasure of meeting a few times. Kim Thayil from Soundgarden. The greats like Jimi Hendrix. I have plenty of people I looked up to, especially when I was just learning.”

  “I’ve met all of them,” Liv whispers.

  I tickle her side. “Showoff.”

  She giggles and shifts further into my hard-on. “Where do you see yourself in five years?”

  I smile. “I feel like I’m on an interview.” I take a deep breath. “I don’t know. I write a lot of music, Liv. A lot of it doesn’t see the light of day, mostly because some of it isn’t rock—maybe some of it could even be pop.” I chuckle. “There’s also a lot of talent out there that could be fostered. I think about producing—getting new artists out there.

  “I want to work on my own music but I never have the time. I don’t know, there’s a lot I want to do.

  “What about you?” I ask her.

  Liv breathes out. “I don’t know.

  “You ever thought of going to college?”

  I laugh out loud. “Nope, and I still don’t.”

  Liv smiles and snuggles against me.

  “College was never in my plans. Yours?”

  “Not really,” she mumbles. “I’m afraid of what’ll happen if I don’t.”

  “Being a college graduate doesn’t govern your future, Liv. I guess in some cases it makes it easier, I don’t know. You can finish with that piece of paper, that has your name written across it. It’ll only confirm in most cases that you’ll be that little worker bee, who’ll show up five days a week, doing that nine-to-five job that makes you want to blow your fucking brains out. But it doesn’t determine if you’ll be a success or not.

  “Only you can decide if you should go, Liv.”

  “Do you think my work is any good?” she asks, referring to her art while a skeptical expression spreads across her cute face.

  “Fuck yeah. I think it’s incredible but if you hide it from the world, who’ll know it’s there.”

  Liv takes a deep breath. “Yeah, you’re right.”

  “I know I’m right,” I say, lighting another cigarette. “I’m living the dream to be able to do what I love—most people don’t get to.”

  “Yeah,” she breathes out.

  She shifts in my lap and moves to straddle me. She presses a soft kiss to my lips that undoes me and before I know it, I’m holding her in a grip that might make me explode in my fucking pants. I kiss her hard, while she grinds against the length of me.

  “You seem different these last few weeks,” she says when I release her wet top lip from mine.

  I know why but I don’t elaborate. As of lately, I was wound tight, despite my relaxed demeanor, that was only the result of always being high. I had a lot on my plate between managing my own life, the demands from being a member of The Vigilantes, and now, having a girlfriend. I was knotted so tight, sometimes it seemed like I might strangle myself.

  “It’s nice,” she whispers.

  I slide a hand up her shirt, squeeze her breasts and tease her pink nipples, that are already hardened buds between my fingertips.

  The doorbell rings and I groan.

  Liv gives me a strange look and eases out of my lap. “I’ll get it.”

  “Yeah, I’ll go put a shirt on.”

  Liv

  “Happy New Year!” Cash sings out, saluting with an open bottle of Taittinger in his hand.

  He’s covered in sweat and his face is crimson. Rachel stands next to him visibly drunk.

  “It’s not New—” I begin to say but then realize it’s pointless.

  “Where’s that asshole?” he asks pushing his way in the door.

  He presses a kiss to my cheek, then Rachel does the same, as she sways in on her five-inch gold heels. She places her hand on my shoulder to steady herself. Her eyes are half-shut and the halter top she’s wearing is torn on one side. The pair look like they’ve just crawled out from the bushes.

  I step out of the way and let them in. Cash heads straight to the bar and Rachel follows behind. I hug myself and head nearer to them to watch the monumental disaster unfold right in front of me.

  “Do you want some scotch?” Rachel mumbles out, pouring herself a glass.

  “No, thanks. I’ll just have a beer,” I say, scooting by her to grab one.

  When I spin around Zane is watching us with tired eyes. He runs his fingers through his black hair, shaking his head but he doesn’t speak. Cash finds some vodka and pours a line of four shots. He’s laughing, talking about football and other random shit.

/>   “It’s late, Cash,” Zane grumbles, before putting another cigarette in his mouth.

  “Yeah, yeah I know. I figured you and I could stay up late tonight and shoot the shit for a while.”

  Rachel leans against the wet bar and sips from the rock glass in her hand. She slow blinks and then gives me a brittle smile.

  “We have a big show tomorrow night and rehearsal in the afternoon. I need some sleep.”

  “Sleep. Shmeep. Bleep. Kleep. Weep. Teet. Whattttt the fuck ever, man,” Cash rattles out jokingly, bobbing his head from side to side like an idiot.

  Cash downs two shots, then finds the remote and turns the stereo on. Enter Sandman by Metallica pounds through the speakers.

  “Come on, man, not so fucking loud. Turn it the fuck down.”

  Cash drops his hands to his side. “Why are you being such a fucking tampon, Z? You’re ruining the fun. Have a shot?” he suggests.

  Zane slow walks to the bar and picks up the shot, tossing it down his throat. He backs away and tucks his hands in his lounge pants. I sip my beer watching him. Rachel sags against the counter. I pull out a stool and nudge her to sit in it. She pats my shoulder, before I back away.

  “A few shots, Cash, and then go. I have to be up early tomorrow and I’m fucking exhausted.”

  Cash runs a hand over his shaved head. He steps closer and looks Zane over like he smells shit. He lets out a loud exhale. “Oh, I see.”

  Zane gives him a dead look.

  Cash laughs and reaches into his side pocket. He pulls out a full baggie of white powder and drops it on the coffee table between them. Zane swallows hard. His grey eyes shift from the baggie to Cash and to the baggie again, then to me. Time ticks by slowly, while both men just stand there, almost sizing each other up.

  Rachel exhales loudly.

  I finish my beer and place the bottle down. Cash lifts his index finger slow in Zane’s direction.

  “One line and then, I’ll go,” Cash says in a hushed tone.

  Zane only nods.

  A victorious smile spreads across Cash’s face.

  The two take a seat on the sofa and turn up the stereo. Inwardly, I sigh and decide to have another beer.

  Rachel taps me on the shoulder. “I don’t know what they’ve told you about me but I bet it’s bad,” she mumbles.

  I shake my head a little. “No, not really.”

  Rachel giggles. “I’m not a bad person, Liv. I’ve had a lot of bad luck you know.” She clucks her tongue. “I’m like these guys. I’m from nothing, just trying to be something.”

  She drops her elbows on the counter and I spot the needle marks that litter her pale skin. I allow my eyes to find hers again.

  “Where are you from?”

  “I’m from California.”

  “California. Yeah, nice.” She laughs.

  “It is nice.”

  “I do love him you know—Zane,” she confirms, staring at the glass in front of her, which she continuously spins in place with her fingers. “But I love Cash, too, but of course, Cash doesn’t believe it.”

  She’s in love with my boyfriend!

  I wasn’t sure if I should listen to her go on, or punch her the fuck out.

  “Cash always thinks that Zane gets everything he wants but it isn’t true. Those two guys love each other to death but they hate each other all the same. It’s crazy shit, believe me.”

  I give her a weak smile.

  “But Zane needs a special woman. I know I’m not that but I think you are, Liv. You’re that special woman for him. The one that can twist his goddamn insides up.”

  I only stare at her.

  “Zane needs a woman to bring him to his fucking knees. Maybe then he’ll get off that fucking high horse he’s on.” She snorts out with a tight face, glaring in his direction. “He’s been so calm lately. It’s fucking eerie.”

  Rachel fishes in her purse for a tube of lipstick and takes a minute to apply hot pink, to her collagen-injected lips, occasionally missing every now and again and simply paints her face. “This band is my life. They’re the reason I can get paid. They’re the reason I have somewhere to live. You know, shit like that.

  “Cash gave me a job as his stylist but I never buy him clothes really or ever have to dress him. It just looks like I do.” She laughs. “But I don’t. He just gave me the job to make sure I have money, you know.”

  I nod. “That’s nice of him.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She giggles. “It is.”

  “These guys are good guys, Liv. They really are,” she rasps out, nearly falling asleep right in front of me.

  “You know my mother always told me I’d be a whore,” Rachel jokes, giving me a big smile. “I figured maybe after all these years I did something right, since I haven’t disappointed her.” She giggles.

  I stare at Rachel and listen to her, certain my forehead is furrowed. This woman is broken. Rachel is broken. Her gaze flickers over to where to the two men sit across the room, who talk and laugh.

  “I don’t like when Cash gets like this, so I’m out of here, Liv.”

  “Night,” I breathe out.

  “Good night,” Rachel says back, before the door shuts and I wonder what part of it truly is good.

  Liv

  I don’t know what time I managed to fall asleep last night but when I awake, it’s around seven in the morning. Metallica’s Black album seemed to be on replay in my head, since it was on all night, last night. The sun is just rising and I’m starving.

  I crawl out of bed and head to the den, only to find Yandi standing there, staring down both Zane and Cash, like she’s about to rip off the leather belt around her waist and go at their asses with it.

  “Good morning,” I mumble, running a hand through my hair.

  Zane stands and sighs. “I’m going to shower.”

  “Well, what the fuck are we supposed to do with him?” Yandi complains, looking at Cash’s awkwardly positioned body that’s passed out on the sofa.

  “I don’t know. Have Tarver take him back to the hotel, so he can sleep for a few hours.”

  “Zane, we have a television appearance in four hours and rehearsal in seven!”

  “Yandi, just fucking do it. Jesus Christ, he’ll be fine.”

  Yandi picks up her telephone and barks out some instructions. A few minutes later, Tarver comes to the door. Yandi lets him in. The very large man throws a blanket over Cash’s entire body—head and all, and carries him out of our apartment. The door shuts and it goes quiet again.

  Yandi steps towards me and places her hand on my shoulder. I hear the shower in the bathroom turn on.

  “How are you, darling?” she asks in her thick British accent.

  “I’m good.” I smile.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m good.”

  “This has been one fucking headache of a tour and we’re not even halfway through.” She laughs and then she sighs. “My boyfriend is coming in from London in a few weeks, only for a few days though. You should come to dinner with us. I was thinking of inviting Joshua and Wyatt and Dexter and his new girlfriend. It might be good for you and Zane to come along.”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  “What about—”

  Yandi smirks. “Rachel and I don’t really get along.”

  “Oh.”

  Her phone rings again and she steps off to the kitchen. She shouts and swears about a photo shoot. Then the door slams. She’s gone.

  I step farther into the den. Empty green bottles litter the coffee table—some upright. Others, on their sides. The astray is full of finished cigarettes and the baggie that was full of dust is completely done. I walk across the room to find the room service menu on a desk, pick up the phone and dial. I order healthy items—fruit, egg whites, rye toast, and orange juice. They promise me the food will be delivered in a half hour. Until then, I take a seat on a stool and simply wait. I find a napkin and a pencil and begin to sketch.

  A few minutes later, Zane em
erges freshly showered with damp hair. He’s wearing jeans, boots, and a red V-neck T-shirt. He tosses the leather jacket in his hands over the arm of one of the chairs. He steps closer to me and places a kiss to my temple and drags his fingers along my back.

  “You haven’t had any sleep.”

  “What’s new.” He chuckles. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Fine?” I ask, giving him the eye.

  “Yes, baby girl. I’ll be fine.”

  “I ordered breakfast.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “I’ll get something in the limo. I always make sure I eat, even if I don’t really want to.”

  He says it more as reassurance and less as a response.

  I nod and look him over. He gives me a dejected expression and turns away from me towards the sofa.

  “Zane,” I whisper.

  He lets out a loud breath and meets my eyes. All I see in that slow-blink is sadness, regret, and shame but I don’t push.

  Zane saunters back towards where I sit and wraps his arms around me. I press my face into his muscular chest. “I love you,” I say.

  “I love you too, baby girl,” he says pressing a kiss to the top of my head.

  A knock lands to the door. Zane heads over, allowing room service to roll the tray in that now has way too much food on it.

  Yandi is right behind the uniformed man, who sets everything out at a table near the window. He eyes the mess on the coffee table with knotted brows, then forces a smile when he realizes I see him scrutinizing the place.

  “Zane, we have to go,” Yandi says.

  He nods, kisses me again and heads out. A tangle of voices just outside the door causes me to look back. Wyatt’s dark head of hair pokes into the apartment, before the door fully shuts. Then he steps inside. He’s dressed like he’s expected at a Gap fashion shoot. I giggle at how put together he looks, while I stand in the middle of the room in a baggy T-shirt, with only panties on underneath.

  “Good morning,” he says, looking around the apartment.

  “Good morning,” I mumble.