Carnival
Page 10
There comes a point in conversation when Fletcher’s hand covers mine and he leans close to the side of my face, whispering in my ear, “I think we should call it a night, Pipes. You’ve had the poor man talking for hours.”
The chief waves his withered hand to gesture it’s okay, but Fletcher is right. I’ve kept him long enough. I hold out my hand while asking Tui how to properly thank him for his time and teaching. I repeat what Tui says, “Vinaka vaka levu.”
Chief nods with a smile and sends us off with a feeble wave.
“That was amazing.” My face hurts from smiling and I twirl in a circle on my tip toes, tipping over into Fletcher’s arms.
He catches me with a laugh and sets me of my feet. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, love.”
“I am. I really am.” I throw my arms around his neck and hug him, pecking his cheek with a kiss. “Thank you.”
Fletcher starts to say something, but I turn and walk ahead, ducking into our tent. It’s cozy and there is enough room to where Fletcher and I won’t be lying right on top of each other. We snuggle in to our sleeping bags and look up through the mesh roof of our tent. Fruit bats flap their wings loudly and their stench wafts through the air.
“The stars seem brighter here, don’t they?” I say out loud.
Fletcher agrees with a quiet moan. “I can only think of one other thing as beautiful as this island.”
A blanket of clouds cross over the twinkling stars, giving me the opportunity to look at Fletcher without missing a thing. “What’s that?”
He doesn’t blink, looking back at me as if he can see straight to my soul. “You.”
Seventeen
Oliver
Nope. Not going well. Not. One. Bit. Shoulda known the show was gonna blow when I had to empty the rest of my burrito into the trashcan off side stage. Shoulda walked off the moment my vision blurred from the strobe lights and my head threatened to burst from the shrills of swooning women. Shoulda crawled away at the first sign of my drunken state spiraling to a noxious incoherent belligerence storming from the insistent thumping of the crowd’s offbeat feet.
Shoulda, woulda, coulda. But I didn’t. I tried to ride it out. Gave it the good ol’ college try, but failed miserably. Had the mic ripped from my hands by Hamlin when I started to accost my fans. Fell against Nash’s drums, causing them to take a nosedive off the podium. And when I collapsed to my hands and knees to violently spew the remainder of my guts out onto the stage, well, I guess you could say that was my encore. Hamlin apologized to the crowd. Fed them a line about me suffering from the flu and how terribly sorry we all were for not being able to finish the show. Refunds would be given, and then I was ushered off the stage, the toes of my boots dragging in a trail behind me.
When I pry my eyes open, I’m blinded by bright sunlight flooding in through the bus bedroom window. The light stabs my corneas straight to my brain. I clamp my eyes shut again and groan as I roll over, my stomach lagging in its own flip, sending my head off the edge of the bed to barf once more. But my body is empty and I’m left dry heaving until snot comes out my nose. I don’t bother wiping it clean. My arms don’t work. Every inch of me aches and the room won’t stop spinning. And the bus won’t stop bouncing.
This is why heroin was my drug of choice. I’d vomit once, the moment the opiate hit my brain. After that it was like being on a sleepy cloud of don’t give a fuck. No concern or regard for anything. It was peaceful. Euphoric. Alcohol, eh, it’s not the same high. Sure, being drunk lasts longer than a shot of heroin, but the instant gratification of the drug is satisfying. And deadly.
The back of my neck is brushed with something cool, wet. An eye cracks the slightest. Nash stands over me, dabbing my skin with a washcloth while he wipes my face with a tissue. “I thought I was done with this shit, man. I’m not your fucking caregiver.”
I mumble a response. Nothing comprehensible.
A glass of water is shoved in my face. “Drink. When you’re ready, I’ll help you get in the shower.”
Turning to Tito was a bad idea. He’s a selfish prick who took advantage of my delicate state. He warmed me up, made me tingle, then punched me in the balls until I was curled into a heap of flesh on the bed. Nope. No more Tito for me. Maybe Jack is a better man. Or Jim. Either way, Tito is benched.
The shuffle to the bathroom is torturous. Dead man walking.
Nash is standing in the small galley outside the toilet, waiting to assist me.
“I got it,” I stammer.
He watches me maneuver through the bus, movements that resemble a marble being shot haphazardly through a pinball machine. When I struggle to open the bathroom door, Nash steps in and takes over. He turns the water on in the shower to warm it up. He places my toothbrush and paste on the small counter. A fresh towel is placed on the rack outside the stall. “If you need anything, holler.” Nash slaps me on the shoulder.
“Dude.” I cower from the sting.
Nash smirks, not the least bit sorry.
My skin is tender; any brush against my flesh is like being stung by a swarm of wasps. The hot water is enough to bring tears to the corners of my eyes, so I stay in the shower long enough to soap up and wash my hair. Fluffy towels piss me off. I hate them. They are meant to dry the body, not be all comfy and snuggly. On any other day, I would be bitching at whoever washed the towels in fabric softener, but not today. Today, if I could get down on my knees, I would kiss their feet. The fluff of the towel is smooth and welcoming and doesn’t irritate my sensitive skin.
Nash is setting a plate of food on the table next to a cup of black coffee. He waves me over. “Sit.”
I secure the towel around my waist and collapse onto the bench. “Thanks,” I mumble, nibbling on the bacon. Gulping in a slow breath, as my stomach clenches, I think the bacon may come up. I drop the slice back on the plate and try the scrambled eggs, which go down easier than the greasy pork. With every bite I’m lifting my droopy eyes to see Nash staring at me. He watches me in silence, leaned back against the small counter with his coffee in one hand while the other is stuffed into his pocket. “What?” I snap at him.
Nash’s beady eyes burn to mine.
I set my fork down and sink into the seat. “Just say it.” I wait for him to pick up the conversation where we left off last night, but he’s quiet. Maybe I dreamt the whole thing.
He gives me the silent treatment, turning his back to me to begin washing the dishes. I shovel the remaining food into my mouth, ignoring the protest of my stomach, then retreat back to my room so I don’t have to deal with this bullshit.
I know what Nash is trying to do. He’s letting me stew in my own thoughts. Thoughts that sound much like Nash’s voice yelling at me to grow the fuck up. To get my life together. It says I can’t go back down that road, the one that almost took my life. It cries how it won’t go through it again, that it won’t watch me self-destruct.
Nash is right. He knows it, I know it. I just wish it was that easy.
Eighteen
Piper
There is nothing better than waking up next to the man I love. His face hovers over mine, his eyes bright and his smile wide. It causes my face to mimic his, and when my lips spread, Oliver presses the tip of his finger into the dip of the dimple in my cheek.
“Good morning, sleepy head,” his voice purrs.
“Goo—” I start to say, but he cuts me off, covering my mouth with his. I wrap my arm around his neck and pull him into me, deepening our kiss. I moan. He growls. Oliver nips at my bottom lip, sucking it between his teeth, and I bite at the tip of his tongue.
Oliver pulls away. “I love when you do that.”
“Then let me keep doing it.” I grab the collar of his shirt and yank him back down.
“I love this spot.” Lips brush my cheek, over my dimple. The voice foreign.
Not foreign. But not Oliver.
My eyes pop open, confronted by Fletcher’s face nuzzling at my neck. His lips graze my skin from my jawbo
ne, over the dimple, towards my…whoa there, buddy. I jerk my head and his kiss lands at the corner of my mouth. I stiffen. “What are you doing?”
Fletcher leans back, looking at me equally as bewildered. “I, oh, I’m sorry. I said good morning and then you grabbed me and—”
I scoot away from him, tugging and synching the sleeping bag up around my neck. “I wasn’t. I didn’t. No.” My words fumble off my tongue.
“No. Of course not. Sorry.” Fletcher further separates us by moving to the far side of the tent. His eyes wander, not looking at any particular thing. Especially me.
Awkward. It’s downright uncomfortable. I remove myself from the tent and start to busy myself with preparing our things so we can continue the second part of our rafting trip down the Navua River.
We climb into the kayak and talk with Tui as he starts our guide down the river, not once talking to each other. I refuse to acknowledge that I was the one to kiss Fletcher, thinking it was Oliver. Dreaming it was him. Musing on the love I’ve tried so hard to not feel for him. And now I’ve gone and given Fletcher the wrong signs, thinking of another man while reacting to the internal feeling with the man who is in my presence. I sure hope Fletcher doesn’t read too far into that kiss because he will sadly be disappointed.
Rain dumps through the ceiling of veins above us. We’re drenched like scraggly wet dogs. The humidity is stifling and it’s hard to breathe. At this rate, we’ll never be dry, our skin sticky under the water of the rain. The channel is still breathtakingly beautiful, but today I’m struggling to find peace. I don’t want the kiss to ruin my time here, but trying to focus on the river when Fletcher is so close behind me isn’t working.
Tui begins to sing, and his voice drowns out my wandering thoughts. His tone is rich and I find my eyes closing and my head tilting toward the sound. Between the rushing water and his vibrato, I’m lost to the harmonization.
The river’s pulchritude is enough to ease my mind, to forget about any nagging drama of an inconsequential kiss. When I glance over my shoulder, Fletcher appears to be relaxed too. The corner of his mouth rises with a hint of a smile when our eyes meet. I return his weak grin with my own then point out a bright blue bird with a stark white breast and long beak.
“Collard kingfisher,” Tui says with a flick of his head.
“He’s gorgeous.” My eyes squint, straining to see what it’s holding in its beak. My nose crinkles. “Is that a—”
“Frog,” Fletcher interrupts. “It looks like a frog.”
“Ew,” I say.
“Yes,” Tui confirms. “Collard kingfisher like frog. Worms and lizards too.”
I cringe. “Yummy.”
Fletcher touches my shoulder, but it’s when his hand rubs circles on my skin that I whip my head to glare at him. He jerks his hand back quickly. “You’re burning,” he says, justifying the reason for him touching me.
“I’m fine.”
Fletcher digs into his backpack and holds out a ball of fabric. “You should put this on.”
“No thanks. I’m hot enough without wearing a god awful long-sleeved shirt.”
“It’s a sun shirt, Piper. You should’ve been wearing it this whole time to protect you from getting burnt. And it’s lightweight.”
“Well, apparently, it’s too late, so thanks but no thanks. I’m good.” I turn back around to end the conversation, ignoring Fletcher’s sigh of frustration.
When our tour of the river comes to an end, Fletcher and I assist Tui with beaching the kayak. We follow him to a van that is waiting to take us back to our vehicle, and while Fletcher shakes Tui’s hand, I wrap him in a hug. The drive to the car is long and hot. Our driver must not believe in air conditioning; the only breeze is from the hot air through the opened windows. My chest is heavy and it’s hard to breathe. Sweat drips down my temples, between my breasts, and down my tailbone. I have never needed a shower more than I need one right this moment. And a drink. I could use the stiffest drink a bartender can mix up.
Fletcher has the door of the van opened before the vehicle comes to a complete stop. He ignores the driver who is trying to exchange pleasantries and jogs towards the car. I’m left to socialize with the man, scooting out of the backseat even as we chat, hoping he will get the hint that I’m ready to get out of this sauna of a van. I thank the driver for dropping us off and pull the door shut. My skin is clammy; the dirt kicking up under my feet is sticking to my legs.
I collapse into the seat, grateful Fletcher started the car to get the AC running.
Fletcher hands me a bottled water. “Here, drink some water.”
I crack the cap and take a deep swig. “Thanks.” I use the hem of my shirt to wipe my face clean of sweat.
“Are you okay?” Fletcher asks. He’s inspecting my face, worried.
“I’m fine.”
“You look like you’re about to pass out. Are you overheating? You look like you’re overheating.” He adjusts the air vents so they are all pointed on me. “This should help.”
“It does. I’m fine, though.”
Fletcher pulls a cooling rag from his backpack and holds it out the window to dump a bottled water over it to get it wet. “Your cheeks are beet red. Actually, all of you is. Here, use this to help cool you down.” He begins to pat my cheek with the rag.
I take it from him with a scowl. “I’m. Fine.” I inhale a deep breath before I lose my temper and force a tight smile. “I appreciate your concern, Fletcher, really, but I’m fine. I promise.”
His eyes study my face, gauging if it’s worth an argument. I win. He throws the car in drive and heads back towards our bungalow.
I welcome the silence, closing my eyes. The pounding in my temples wouldn’t be able to withstand having to make small talk. It would require too much effort in order to open my mouth to speak. And my stomach, it’s not happy. Every turn, every bend in the road has my tummy spinning. By the time we get back to the bungalow, I think I may throw up.
My body is weak and achy. Pushing open the car door takes two tries, and when I stand, I have to grab hold of the door to keep from falling over. It takes a second for my eyes to catch up with the rest of me that is spinning through a wave a vertigo.
“Whoa there.” Fletcher catches me by the arm and holds on until I’m stable. “Let’s get you inside and into bed.”
It’s the first time I don’t argue with him. I take Fletcher’s arm and shuffle alongside him, letting him tuck me into bed.
“I need a shower,” I grumble, tugging the covers up to my chin with a shiver. My teeth clatter together. “Why is it so cold in here?”
Fletcher presses the back of his hand to my forehead. “You’re burning up, Piper. I think you have sun poisoning.”
I can’t keep my eyes open, and I mumble, “Don’t be silly. I’m fine.”
I must’ve dozed off because when Fletcher lightly shakes my shoulder, I’m startled awake. “Here, drink this.”
My eyes come to focus and I take the water and medicine from Fletcher’s palm. I wash the pill down with a gulp of water, but the liquid feels good on my tongue so I take long drags until Fletcher removes the bottle from my hand. “Slow down, you’re going to make yourself vomit.”
He’s probably right, my stomach is doing an angry dance. If I sleep, maybe it will settle and I won’t feel so nauseous. “I’m just gonna take a little na—” But before I can get out the rest of my sentence, I’m asleep.
Nineteen
Oliver
Travel days have always been my favorite. I utilize my time on the road to write songs or read a book. But not today. Today my skin itches and I’m antsy as fuck. Not being able to get off the tour bus except the occasional gas station to fuel up is damn near driving me out of my ever-loving mind. All I think about is Piper. Every lyric I write is in reference to her. Every melody playing through my head beats to the syllables of her name. When I read a book, it is Piper’s name I see written across the pages. I want a drink. Better yet, I want…
I’m staring at my phone knowing I’m going to call her, again. I’ve tried before. Every day since she left. She doesn’t answer, but it doesn’t stop me from trying. So I pick up my phone and hold it in my hand, contemplating on chucking it across the room. I don’t. Instead, I scroll through my contacts and click on her name. It goes straight to voicemail. It always does.
I leave a message anyway. “It’s me, Oliver. Please call me back. I didn’t mean it when I said I wouldn’t wait for you. I would, until the sun dies out and the earth grows cold, I’ll wait. I’ll wait forever. I shouldn’t have let you go. I told myself, if I ever had the chance to see you again, I would never let you go. I should have stopped you from going to him. Never should have let you get into that car. Begged for you to stay, with me. I’m begging, Piper. Please.” My eyes close, and I tap the phone to my forehead. “Please just call me. Let me know you’re okay,” I whisper. I end the call then toss the phone across the bed where it lands on the floor with a thud. I need to get off this bus.
“Well, well, well. Look who decided to grace us with his presence today,” Hamlin says, showing off his full house. While I try to write music, my bandmates play poker. “Come out here to get your ass beat?”
“No,” I bark. “We need to stop. I need to get some air.”
Hamlin and Nash all set their cards down on the table in unison, hyperaware of my body language. This isn’t their first rodeo with my addiction and know I’m on the brink of caving if I don’t get off this bus.
“Pull off at the next stop, Rico,” Nash shouts to our driver.
Rico hollers back, “Rodger that.”