Over You

by Cole, Stevie J.

  That’s what the label did best. Threaten. Threaten. Threaten.

  “I’ll fuck you with a smile.” Nash winked.

  Any minute I expected a plume of gray smoke to billow from Becca’s ears. Three weeks ago, I had walked in on Nash going at Becca like a stray dog on a T-bone steak. As an assistant, she should have known better, but as I said before, catch a nun on the right day. . .

  Becca squeezed her heavily eye-shadowed lids shut and inhaled before she held up her palms. “Why am I even entertaining this conversation?” With a quick shake of her head, she moved to the other side of the cabin.

  A whoosh of air pushed through the vents when the plane backed away from the terminal. Nash sank to his seat, but Leo was nowhere in sight. And neither was that chick in yoga pants. However, the little red, occupied notice on the rattling bathroom door gave me a good indication of where they had disappeared to.

  While the aircraft taxied to the runway, I posted a picture of Nash and me to Instagram. In typical rock star fashion, we were decked out in black shirts and designer shades. Tattoos on full display. Tongues out. #FirtsClassRolling #PartyLikeARockstar #MidniteKills #NashFuckFest2019 #FuckTheLabel #DevilsSideRecords #SuckMyAss @RickySwathe

  And posted.

  Fuck. The. Label.

  After a shit landing where half the passengers screamed, we made our way to baggage claim. Becca and her yellow pants suit, unfortunately, were in tow. People videoed us and snapped pictures. They were on the outside, free, and we were on the inside, caged by an invisible, electric fence.

  The glass doors slid open to the foggy, London morning, and I was immediately blinded by camera flashes. I stopped to scrawl my signature over some blonde’s T-shirt. Nash and Leo picked a few random items to sign. Then annoying, suck-the-fun-out-of-everything Becca was behind us, pushing and shoving us toward the waiting limo while reprimanding Nash for groping one fan’s chest.

  “She asked me to do it,” he chuckled. “I was being polite.”

  Becca whacked the side of his head with her passport. “You were being a jackass.”

  “See, Nash,” I laughed. “This is why you don’t sleep with the help.”

  Becca grabbed the collar of my shirt and snatched me uncomfortably close. “And you,” she snarled, teeth bared like a rabid raccoon. “Maybe try acting a little more grateful. You didn’t smile. Not once. And you barely said two words to any of those girls.”

  “Tormented souls don’t smile, sweetheart. Now let go of the Versace.” I flicked her hand away before ducking into the limo.

  Leo and Nash climbed inside while Becca stood on the curb, barking orders at the guys handling our luggage.

  I closed the door and locked it. Once the driver crawled behind the wheel, I let the partition halfway down. “Hey, man. I’ll give you a grand if you drive off without that angry woman outside.”

  The middle-aged man glanced over his shoulder.

  Nash barked a laugh while digging through the mini bar. “This is why you’re asshole of the year.” He tossed a miniature of Woodford Reserve to me.

  “Man,” Leo sighed. “You can’t abandon her.”

  Abandon? We were at Heathrow airport. Uber existed. Cabs existed. Buses and subways. She had a cell phone. . . “We aren’t in the wilderness, Leo. She’ll be fine.” I lowered the partition a smidge more. “Seriously, man. A grand. Just to leave the bane of my existence to wait for another ride.”

  “Plus tip,” Nash added.

  Becca, finally off the phone, tried the door just as the driver shifted gears. “Spencer!” She slapped her palms against the window. The glass fogged from her breath. “Open the door.”

  “Nah. You’re a cunt. Take an Uber.”

  Her eyes narrowed into a hateful scowl. “I swear to God, I’m going to talk to Ricky about terminating your contract. You’re a walking disaster, and I’ve had—”

  I gave her a two-finger salute while the limo pulled onto the street.

  Leo stared at me with a disapproving look one would think only a father could muster. “Karma’s going to bite you in the ass, Spence.”

  “Fuck karma, Leo.” I broke the seal on the bottle and chugged. “Hey, Nash. Did Danté ever tell you what was in that inferno crap he gave us?”

  “A little coke. A dash of PCP.”

  “Makes sense.”

  Nash chuckled while Leo shoved in earbuds. I settled back against the leather. The limo whirled through roundabouts like a Nascar driver.

  An hour into the trek, we’d left the motorway. Town after town blipped past the window. No billboards. No advertisements. Just rolling green hills, and I was bored out of my mind.

  Thankfully, airport security had let me keep my drugs in exchange for a selfie and a backstage pass to our next show in Pasadena. People were easily swayed into looking the other way when they thought it would benefit them in some way. Shaking my head at the thought of the douchebag security agent, I pulled the bag from my pocket. My keys fell to the floorboard, and the tacky souvenir keychain from Reno landed face up. Georgia and I had spent our honeymoon there, and man, we had thought we’d hit the jackpot because we had finally gotten out of California.

  In the year since Georgia had left, I’d gone through two cars, but I couldn’t bring myself to put my keys on anything else. “Hey, Nash. Toss me another whiskey.”

  He snagged a bottle from the mini-bar and chucked it at me.

  The liquor went down the hatch in one swig. I sprinkled some cocaine on the seat and cut out a few lines. I sniffed one back before Leo swept his hand over the leather. A poof of white dust flew in the air when the bag landed on the floor.

  Nash’s gaze went from me to Leo to the pile of drugs in the floor. Clenching my jaw, I reached for the bag.

  “You’ve got to stop,” Leo said.

  “Look, good for you. You cleaned up. You decided to go on a journey for nirvana or whatever, but I’m not ready, so stay outta my shit. It’s not your problem.”

  “Your problem bleeds over into the rest of the band. You’re late to rehearsal. You sound like shit half the time in the studio.”

  I scattered coke on the arm of the chair again. “You don’t like it; you can fuck off. Your riffs suck anyway.”

  He glared at me, the muscles in his jaw tensing. God, I bet he was warring with his desire to be mindful and the urge he most likely had to throw a punch my way. “Go ahead and kill yourself then.”

  “You know what, I’m tired of this. You’re fired. Forget Glastonbury.”

  “Hey. Guys. . .” Nash coughed. “You’re kinda killing my buzz.”

  I glared at Nash and thumbed toward Leo. “I’m not playing with a self-righteous prick.”

  Nash shrugged before going back to what was most likely porn on his phone.

  “No wonder she left you,” Leo mumbled.

  That pressed a button labeled nuclear war. I launched across the limo and grabbed Leo by the throat. “Don’t you ever—”

  I tumbled to the floor when Nash pulled me off.

  Leo shook his head, rubbing at his throat. “I’m done with this.”

  I was losing it, and I knew it. The limo rolled to a stop at a traffic light. I grabbed the bag of coke, shoved it in my pocket, and threw open the door.

  “Hey. Dude—” Whatever Nash said next was cut off by the door slamming shut.

  Seething, I headed toward a row of buildings. The light turned green, but the limo didn’t move. One of the windows lowered, and Nash’s head popped out.

  “Hey.” He called from the window. “Come on, man. We’ve got a show.”

  I faced the idling limo and walked backward over the cobblestone road. I tossed my hands in the air. “Don’t fucking care.”

  I heard Leo tell the driver to leave me before I turned around and headed down a one-way street. The sidewalks were vacant with the exception of a stray dog hunting through an overturned garbage can.

  I had no idea where I was or what I was going to do. I’d left everything in the
limo, and my pride refused to allow me to call either of the guy’s and have them come back. All the shops were closed, and only a few of the Tudor-style houses had lights on. Nearly every building had greenery overflowing in flower boxes. There was a baker, a butcher. . .holy shit. . .and a candlestick maker. The place looked like the goddamn Magic Kingdom. I expected a plump Fairy Godmother to bippity, boppity, boo her ass out at any second.

  And if I believed in miracles, I’d almost say she did because when I looked to my right, there was a sign tacked above a doorway that read: Salisbury Roast Company.

  “You’ve gotta be kidding. . .” I fished my phone from my pocket, pulled up the map, and added in Georgia’s address. The little blue blip popped up on the screen. One point three miles away.

  I’d moped around for the past year. I’d had days where I wanted to die, days where I hated myself. I’d passed up more girls than I could count because I wanted nothing more than to still belong to her. The woman I was in love with wanted all ties between us broken, and part of me couldn’t blame her. The paparazzi shots of me staggering out of nightclubs, the headlines that I’d pissed off the balcony of a swanky, NYC hotel—those things didn’t look good.

  But I had tried, and that was something the media didn’t show. I had stayed clean for short stints. Once, I had stayed clean for a month, then I’d had my wisdom teeth cut out. They doped me up with some sedative that brought the addiction monster roaring back to life. Was it good enough? Hell no. But since she had just up and left, she never saw the fight I gave for us.

  The longer I walked and thought about it, the more the anger bubbled in my chest. By the time I was a quarter mile from her house, my chest was puffed out, and my fist clenched at my side. Love meant standing with someone, roaring demons and all.

  I followed one cobblestone street to the next, nearly getting plowed over by a Volvo when I crossed a roundabout. Nash called, but I sent him to voicemail.

  The closer I came to the blinking dot on my phone, the tighter my chest grew. By the time my gaze locked on 383 Saint James Street, my palms were slick, and my shirt clung to my damp back.

  Three concrete steps led to a landing.

  My gut had tied itself in knots from a combination of excitement and worry. What if I knocked on that door and a guy answered? My fingers pulled into a fist at the thought. What if she slammed the door in my face? What if she gave me one last chance?

  My knuckles rapped on the door, and I took a step back, hoping to God she wouldn’t notice my jaw twitching from all that coke I’d snorted earlier.

  12

  Georgia Anne

  Six o’clock turned into seven, then eight. By ten, a total of three people sat at the bar—one of those being Fergus. To stave off boredom, I decided to take inventory in the stock room. Ten boxes of vodka down, Tom popped around the doorframe with a frown. “Kirby’s outside, threatening to slash my tires. Can you watch the front while I handle her?”

  “Sure.” Dusting off my hands, I pushed to my feet and made my way to the bar.

  Fergus ambled through the door, shaking his head. “Give me a cider, would you, love? I had enough moaning from my first three wives. I can’t handle listening to Tom’s nutter.” He gave a curt nod. “That one’s as mad as a bag of ferrets.”

  “Some men like a bit of crazy,” I said, filling a pint glass.

  “I hoped you’d see fit to date him. But I don’t blame you. He acts like a dog with two dicks.”

  Wanting out of that conversation, I grabbed the bar towel and scrubbed at a spot of dried mayo when I noticed a plate of steaming chips on the ledge between the kitchen and the bar. The ticket beside the dish read: table sixteen. No one ever sat at table sixteen in the back corner. Wandering tourist.

  I grabbed the platter, studying the stranger as I ambled across the pub.

  Long-sleeved black shirt. Jeans. The bill of some grungy Gucci cap hid his face from view. When I placed the plate on the table, I took the empty drink from in front of him. “Did you need another. . .” My sentence trailed off when my gaze went from the black and white checkered Vans to the bright tattoos creeping out from the sleeve of his shirt.

  His head lifted. I coughed. My heart fell into a staccato rhythm that couldn’t sustain me for very long. Spencer’s blue eyes burned right into my soul. For a moment, the world stopped. The sudden shift in the universe gave me vertigo. Over the past year, I’d convinced myself I was almost over him, and that one look was enough to send that crashing down. Spencer was Sodom and Gomorrah, and like Lot’s wife, I was just waiting to be turned to ash. The background noise of the pub faded into the hum of blood pulsing through my ears.

  “Damn,” he breathed, then stood.

  And though I willed my feet to move, they remained firmly planted in place. Warm, calloused fingers brushed my arm. I staggered backward, right into the empty table. I would have been less shocked to see Jimi Hendrix’s ghost than I was him. And a ghost would have been more welcomed. Staring into the eyes of the man who was once my life was a hard pill to swallow. Within a matter of seconds, a whole lifetime flashed in front of my eyes. The good. The really good. Then the horribly bad. My mouth went dry. Swallowing, I took another step back while my sadistic heart pleaded for one more touch.

  He stepped closer. The tiny scar across his nose that Rolling Stone had edited out was visible under the halogen lights. Cardamom. Memories.

  “What are you doing here?” I barely managed.

  “Looking for you.”

  Part of me sighed, finally. Part of me screamed, run. His pupils were wide, and the way he ground his jaw didn’t go unnoticed. Two days ago, he had streaked down Rodeo Drive out of his gourd on God knows what. I grasped at anything to make the longing budding in my chest wilt and die.

  “You weren’t at home,” he said.

  “You went by my house?”

  “Yeah.” He plucked a fry from the plate and tossed it into his mouth while panic tore through me. If Lottie was at home—Oh, God.

  “Was anyone there?”

  “No.” He frowned. “Good thing, because had a guy come to the door. . .”

  “Really?”

  Taking his drink, he placed it to his lips and took a sip. “You can’t blame me. You are still my wife.” He stepped closer, dipping his chin until his lips were so close I could feel their electric charge.

  My eyes fought to close, my body slowly inclined toward him while my breaths went ragged. I knew what it felt like to have him love me, and I knew what it felt like to lose him. It will hurt less if you leave now. Somehow, I did just that. I spun around. On step three, his calloused fingers wrapped around my wrist, and, much to my horror, I froze.

  “Hey.” His nose was right by my ear, his chest close enough that I could feel the heat from his body against my back. “Don’t do this. Let’s talk. Please.”

  He was dangerously close. I’d worked too hard to move past this because he hadn’t worked hard enough to stop me. “Sign the papers, and then we can talk.”

  With a sigh, his fingers uncurled from my wrist, and I wasted no time making a beeline to the bar. I spent the next five minutes washing glasses that didn’t need cleaning. Tom stormed in with an angry, red handprint on his cheek.

  “Holy crap, Tom! Why’d she slap you?”

  “I called her a trollop.”

  Fergus laughed while downing his drink. The glass hit the bartop with a thud. “You’re daft as a bush.”

  “I learned from you.”

  “Lies.” Fergus reached over the counter and grabbed my hand. “Don’t listen to a word that knob says. I taught him to treat ladies with dignity and respect.”

  “Kirby’s not a lady.”

  They went back and forth, and I finally bit the bullet and glanced at table sixteen again. Spencer was gone. The plate of chips still full. The drink, of course, empty.

  The Peacock was vacant by midnight. The floors swept and chairs stacked on the tables by fifteen after. As soon as Tom locked the
door, a beer bottle shattered against the facing of the pub. I jumped. Tom spun around. “For fuck’s sake,” he groaned.

  Kirby swayed from side to side by the curb. Her short dress was hitched up on one side. Her blond ringlets a mess. “Oi! You mingebag.” She took a few sloppy steps forward, then yanked off one of her hooker-heels and lobbed it at us.

  We both ducked even though her aim was off.

  “Look at you and your manky slag.”

  Tom slapped a palm over his forehead. “What’ve I done to deserve this?” he mumbled.

  “Oh, I’ll tell you, you twit. You been plugging her holes with your scabby dick.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Tom.” I patted his back, and when I went to step away, Kirby lunged at me.

  Tom grabbed her by her bony shoulders. “Kirby, leave her alone. She’s not had a thing to do with me.”

  Kirby fell into his chest, sobbing. Tom glanced at me and tilted his head in the direction of my townhome. “Ah, come on now, Kirby. . .” Turning her around, he draped one arm over her shoulders and headed the opposite way.

  The soles of my Converse padded over the pavement. Two houses down from mine, I heard a clink before a bottle of liquor came rolling along the gutter.

  I fiddled for the mace in my purse. Not once had I felt unsafe in this town, but the way tonight was shaping up had me on edge. A shadow emerged from the side street, and my finger rested over the trigger.

  “I’ve got mace!”

  “I’d prefer handcuffs,” Spencer slurred, and staggered under the street light.

  I shook my head before brushing past him. The scuffle of uneven steps came from behind me.

  “Hey. Wait up.” He chuckled, and I felt it between my legs. “Baby.” Then I cringed. That was a pet name he knew I hated. “Baby cakes. Baby girl.” A loud clang bounced off the buildings.

  I glanced over my shoulder in time to see Spencer pick up the trash bin he must have stumbled into.

  “What dick leaves a trashcan on the sidewalk?” He hiccupped. “And by the way, you owe me a talk.”