by Amy Andrews
‘Whatever happens, Poppy, I just know I’m going to be better after this. And it’s because of you.’
It came out sounding so trite he felt like Jack Nicholson in As Good as it Gets: “You make me want to be a better man”. He almost vomited in his own mouth.
But she didn’t seem disgusted. She didn’t recoil in horror. In fact, she wriggled closer. ‘In that case,’ she said, squeezing his bicep. ‘Let me go first. Quentin Carmody …’
She paused, dragging in a breath as he held his.
‘I really dig you.’
Chapter Eight
‘I think I’m going to throw up,’ Poppy yelled over the noise of the band as she slammed back her third tequila shot.
‘You’re going to be fine,’ Julia yelled back. She didn’t see any point in stating the bleeding obvious – the tequila probably wasn’t helping – she just lined up another one. If Poppy wanted to spend the last of her days on earth on a permanent tequila buzz, that was fine by Julia.
God knew, Julia had started drinking at breakfast just to face the day. How Poppy managed to function she had no idea.
‘I don’t know … I’ve thrown up a lot in the last six months. I’m pretty familiar with how it feels.’
‘That was chemo,’ Julia dismissed. ‘Stage fright is a walk in the park compared to that toxic shit.’
Poppy threw back another one and wiped her hand across her mouth. It trembled slightly. ‘I can’t believe I’m going to do this.’
Julia couldn’t believe that someone who had stared down a pack of great whites two days ago without blinking could be wigging out over number four – the least harrowing item on Poppy’s bucket list as far as Julia was concerned. She could still hear the creepy notes of Jaws playing in her head.
‘It’s only a song. And you’re queen of karaoke, remember.’
‘This is different,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘This is a proper band.’
Julia glanced at Ten up on the stage, his dirty-blond hair flicking as his electric guitar hissed out a heavy-metal solo that sounded like nothing but noise to her. They may be a band, but the jury was out on whether there was anything proper about them.
* * *
‘How do I look?’
A sudden rush of hot tears scalded the back of Julia’s eyes as Poppy’s question hit her in the big, spongy bruise that had formed right in her centre from Dr Dick’s very first I’m sorry. Poppy had been asking Julia that question for as long as she’d known her in that same hesitant, unsure way.
Only it wasn’t the same anymore.
Poppy wasn’t the same anymore.
She was being ravaged by an evil, mother-fucking disease, and try as she might, Julia couldn’t see beyond it. With something so ugly and brutal inside her best friend, eating her from the inside out, it was hard to see anything else.
Others could see her. Those who didn’t know. But every time Julia looked at Poppy all she could see was the black stain of cancer spreading beneath her skin like silent death, choking everything in its path.
But Poppy didn’t need to hear that from her tonight. She didn’t need to hear Julia say, I can see it eating you. She was living that shit.
Julia smiled at the person who was more precious to her than anyone else in the world. ‘You look amazing, Pop.’
Because she did – objectively. If you looked no further than the veneer, Poppy was shining like a disco ball. She’d knocked herself out tonight to look stunning. She was wearing a platinum-blonde wig cut in a sharp, chic bob that made her cheekbones and eyes look enormous. The perfectly arched eyebrows Julia had drawn on added to the glamorous ensemble.
A tight, strapless, silver lame top clung to her chest. A pair of skinny black jeans tucked into black lace-up, knee-high boots with a chunky eight-inch platform heel gave her a crazy cowgirl kind of look. On anyone else the clash of disco and boot-scootin’ would have been plain wrong. But Poppy’s particular brand of fragility wore it well. She looked like she could shatter and fly at the same time.
She touched her eyebrows self-consciously. ‘Are you sure? It’s not too … weird? I don’t look too …’
Julia hugged her before Poppy could use the adjective she couldn’t bear to hear – sick. ‘I’m positive.’ Julia had never been surer of anything. ‘You look dazzling.’
‘Yeah, but look at them,’ Poppy said, breaking out of Julia’s embrace and nodding her head at the gaggle of late teens/early twenty-somethings lining the edge of the stage, all shaking their booties and batting their eyelashes at Ten, in their boob tubes and miniscule miniskirts.
‘They’re so young and hot and curvy and—’
‘No!’ Julia was afraid Poppy was going to say alive, and damn it, she wasn’t dead yet! She was going to get up on stage and sing. And that’s all she needed to be thinking about now.
‘Don’t look at them, Pop. Look at him. Look at Ten.’ Poppy glanced up and Ten was gazing at her as if the rest of the room didn’t exist, as if he was playing for her alone. He grinned at her, giving her the one-minute sign.
For the first time since she’d met him, Julia wanted to smack a big kiss right on his mouth. ‘He’s only got eyes for you, Pop.’
Poppy grinned back then turned to Julia and grinned at her, too, before throwing her arms around her. With those chunky platform heels, diminutive Poppy was almost Julia’s height and Julia hugged her back fiercely. She hugged her long and hard, refusing to let go until the song ended.
They pulled apart as the usual avalanche of ecstatic applause and female screaming rang around the bar. Ten waited for the noise to settle before moving in close to the microphone, gaze fixed on Poppy as he announced, ‘This is going to be our last gig for a while, so this one’s for Poppy.’
Girls’ heads swivelled as they tried to track where he was looking, but then the watery notes of a familiar guitar riff filled the room and all eyes were back on him. Spike came in with the drums and the two of them played the iconic opening notes as he nodded at Poppy to join him.
She turned to Julia, grabbing her arm, the blunt edge of her bob swinging. ‘I’m terrified.’
Julia blinked. Poppy was dying and this terrified her? ‘You’re going to be great,’ she enthused.
Poppy shook her head. ‘What if I … screw it up?’
‘You could sing this song backwards, Poppy.’
‘No, I mean … I don’t want to let Quentin down. I don’t want to … embarrass him in front of his fans.’
Julia looked over Poppy’s shoulder. Ten and Spike were keeping the riff going but the natives were getting restless. ‘You won’t,’ she said. ‘This is your moment, babe.’
Ten raised an eyebrow and Julia gave a helpless shrug of her shoulders as Poppy chewed nervously on her lip. ‘This isn’t just about me tonight,’ she said, turning to look at the crowd clapping and cheering, urging the band to launch head-first into the Nirvana classic.
‘Don’t look at them,’ Julia said. ‘Look at him.’
Poppy looked at Ten, who smiled at her, pressed his lips to the microphone and crooned, ‘Come, as you are …’
It sounded so husky and dirty that Julia was pretty damn sure every woman in the first three rows just came as they were.
‘Go,’ Julia urged, giving Poppy a gentle push. ‘Break a leg.’
Poppy took her first tentative steps towards the stage in those ridiculously high boots and Julia knew she’d be the one throwing up if Poppy actually did break her leg in the damn things. Dr Dick had told them all the illnesses Poppy was now susceptible to, and the very long list still rang in her ears.
Ten’s gaze locked tight on Poppy as he sang to her. Julia watched as he drew Poppy closer and closer, trance-like, with the power of his vocals and the moody pull of the beat. The crowd seemed to part as Poppy walked into it and then suddenly dozens of hands were lifting her onto the stage and a microphone was being thrust into her hand and she was singing.
Julia’s arms broke out in goosebumps as Pop
py’s shy, hesitant vibrato added a touch of innocence to the lyric. Ten smiled at her encouragingly, his lips pressed to the mic as he joined her and their voices blended into something sweet and dirty all at once.
By the end of the song Poppy and Ten held the crowd in the palm of their hands and it wasn’t until the music had crashed to a halt that Julia realised she’d been holding her breath. She sucked in huge lungfuls of oxygen as the audience went wild. Poppy grinned crazily in the spotlight, launching herself at Ten, who quickly pushed his guitar out of the way to accommodate her, lifting her high, her bent knees digging in to straddle his waist. He looked up into Poppy’s excited face and laughed, then twirled them around and around, Poppy’s chic platinum bob swishing sexily in the spotlight.
Julia turned back to the bar, needing something to hold her upright as relief washed through her. She pressed her hand to her face, feeling flushed from the rush. Her face was wet and Julia realised she’d been crying.
Unexpectedly, a shot glass appeared in front of her and she glanced up to find Owen, the bar owner, brandishing a tissue and a bottle of tequila. She took the tissue and dabbed at her face as he poured. ‘Get that into you. On the house.’
Julia, who’d been too busy feeding alcohol to Poppy before the show to indulge in a stiff drink herself, didn’t argue. The band had a regular Saturday-night gig here and she’d got to know Owen. He was one of those strong silent types. She wasn’t sure how much he knew but she was damn sure he knew a shitload more than he ever let on.
‘Thanks.’
‘No worries. Here—’ He poured another. ‘The hordes are about to descend. No telling when I’ll get back to you.’
Owen was right. Swiftly, with the band taking a break, bodies pressed in all around her. She threw back the shot, feeling it join the other and ooze through her system, mellowing her out somewhat now that Poppy’s big performance was out of the way.
Julia eased out of the ever-thickening bar crowd, looking around for her best friend. She and Ten were on the stage being all kissy-kissy and Julia rolled her eyes. She wanted to sit with Poppy and analyse the performance late into the night like they’d analysed everything they’d ever done together, but it didn’t look like that was going to happen anytime soon.
‘Oh please, get a room,’ a curvy brunette muttered to her friend as they brushed past Julia to stand in the queue. Julia smiled.
‘Yeah,’ her equally curvy blonde friend commiserated. ‘What does he want to be with that skinny bitch for anyway? Looks like he could snap her in two.’
The smile died on Julia’s lips.
‘She’s not even very pretty,’ the blonde continued. ‘She’s got no tits and those eyebrows are freaky. And she seriously needs to spend some time on a tanning bed. She looks like a corpse.’
The colour drained from Julia’s face. Then she saw red. She turned around, reached past two other people who’d just joined the line and grabbed the blonde by the shoulder.
‘Hey!’ she protested as Julia spun her around.
Julia stuck her face right up into Blondie’s. Her pulse whooshed through her ears, beating like one of Spike’s drums in her head. ‘Why don’t you shut the fuck up, you ignorant imbecile,’ she growled.
There was an audible gasp from the friend. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You heard me,’ Julia snapped, switching her attention to the other woman, her pulse roaring like a cyclone now as her brain fought against images of Poppy’s corpse. ‘Why don’t you tell Trailer Park Barbie here to watch her mouth?’
Blondie let out a strangled noise from the back of her throat. ‘Oh fuck off, you big ranga bitch.’ The blonde stepped back, pushing both of her flattened hands in the direction of Julia’s chest.
Julia braced herself for the contact, reaching out her hands to yank at the blonde’s pretty up-do, but the push never landed and the blonde’s hair slipped through her fingers as Julia found herself being lifted away from the confrontation, her legs running in mid-air, her hands still grabbing for flesh and bone.
‘Oh-kay, ladies, let’s not fight.’
The curvy short blonde pouted. ‘Tell that to that mad fucking bitch, Spike. I was just minding my own business.’
Spike? Julia turned her head to find herself staring into the eyes of a dragon and the red mist grew even thicker.
He was supposed to be on her fucking side.
‘Let me go, you bloody great oaf,’ Julia spat, struggling against the thick band of arm muscle clamped around her waist as she tried to launch herself at the smug blonde and her equally smug friend.
‘Whoa!’ His arm tightened around her as he dragged her back further. ‘Time to cool down, sugar doll.’
Julia’s temper went from seething to explosive as she struggled some more. ‘Don’t tell me to cool down, you sexist Neanderthal.’
‘Okay.’ His sigh ruffled the hair at her temple. ‘I didn’t want to do this.’
Without warning Julia was upside down, staring at the ground as Spike threw her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Julia was no delicate flower. She was tall and strong, but the hand clamped across the backs of her legs wasn’t giving an inch, no matter how much she kicked and struggled. ‘Spike! Put. Me. Down.’
He didn’t put her down. In fact, he didn’t answer at all. Just strode out of the bar area with her squirming and protesting all the way, her hands clinging to the damp singlet covering his ribcage for purchase as she lolled from side to side with every stride.
‘I swear to god, Spike, if you don’t let me down this instant, I will tell every girl at this bar that you have a bad case of the clap.’
She felt the vibrations of his laughter through the palms of her hands. ‘Good luck finding any chick in this demographic who even knows what that is,’ he said, as they turned a corner.
The noise of the crowd and the backing track receded, and Julia recognised the more subdued lighting of the corridor that led to the restrooms and beyond to the alley out the back door of the bar. If he took her out there he wouldn’t need to worry about sexually transmitted infections because she was going to injure him so badly he’d never be able to get it up again.
‘Spike!’
‘Yeah, yeah. Don’t get your panties in a wad.’ He stopped and dumped her against the wall, pinning her there with his big body, one arm pressed into the wall near her head, one lanky denim thigh thrust between hers. ‘Jeez,’ he said, stretching out his back. ‘You’re feistier than a sack full of cats.’
Julia struggled against him. He didn’t budge. ‘Get off me,’ she seethed through gritted teeth.
‘Nope. Not while you’re still this pissed.’
‘Do you have any idea what that blonde bitch said?’ she demanded.
He nodded calmly. ‘I heard what she said.’
Julia pushed hard against his chest, wriggling her hips to try to dislodge the thick wedge of his thigh. ‘So let me smack her a little.’
‘You want to get bounced out of here for fighting on Poppy’s big night?’
Julia considered it for a moment. ‘Just the once, then.’
‘Jesus.’ Spike grinned. ‘How old are you?’
She moved her hands down to his hips. The denim of his low-rider jeans was rough on her palms as she hooked her fingers through two belt loops for purchase as she bucked her pelvis, trying to displace him. ‘Old enough to know I could take her.’
He chuckled and it oozed into the spaces between them, soothing and irritating all at once. She glared at him. ‘You don’t think I could take her?’
‘I think you can do whatever you put your mind to.’
‘Except, apparently, get you off me,’ she snapped.
He grinned, slow and lazy. ‘But you should really keep trying, sugar doll,’ he murmured. ‘You’re taking me to my happy place.’
Julia’s hands stilled on his hips as his meaning slapped her in the face. ‘Oh my god.’ Her hands dropped from his belt loops as she became very aware of the thrust of his t
high and the bulk of his bare bicep on the wall beside her head. ‘Are you … are you getting a hard on?’
‘Well I am just a guy and you are rubbing yourself against me.’
‘I am not rubbing myself against you.’ She smacked a bicep then shoved a hand on his chest to keep as much distance between them as possible. ‘I’m trying to get away from you, you pervert!’
He shrugged. ‘You say po-ta-to, I say po-tar-to.’
‘Oh my god.’ Julia couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She snorted. ‘You don’t seriously think I’m going to fuck you again, do you?’
If she insulted him by her scathing tone it slid easily off his broad tattooed shoulders. ‘I think you need to burn off some anger and I’m more than happy to oblige.’
Ordinarily his audacity would have a blood vessel rupturing in Julia’s brain, but instead of an eruption, Julia was surprised by a sudden spurt of hot tears. Spike’s easy acceptance of her mood completely undid her. Her body sagged against the wall as the last of her fight drained away. She looked at Spike, a massive lump in her throat. ‘She said Poppy looked like a corpse.’
He nodded slowly. ‘Yes.’
A tear rolled down Julia’s cheek and she didn’t bother to check it. ‘I dream about that. About her … death.’
‘I know.’
Julia frowned. ‘You do?’
‘Yep. I used to dream the same thing about my mum.’
‘Did it stop?’
‘Yes. After …’
‘I’ve never seen a dead person.’
He shrugged. ‘They look the same. They’re just not there anymore.’
The lump swelled and threatened to choke Julia as she ducked her head. She didn’t want to look at Poppy and Poppy not be there anymore.
She placed her cheek on his chest and shut her eyes, and she was conscious of his hand at her nape, stroking rhythmically as she struggled for control.
She pulled back after long moments and straightened. ‘I’m okay now,’ she said because she couldn’t stay here forever and she couldn’t break down either.
