“Love you too. Be good.”
She snorted. “Nah. That’s boring.”
I laughed, and left the bus. I had to push past Crow, who refused to move out the way. My car was waiting, idling, brought around for me, probably at the behest of Crow.
“Thanks,” I murmured.
“Alaska, now, huh?” He stood with his fists in his pockets, gazing steadily at me, his expression carefully blank.
“Crow, I…”
He held up a hand. “Don’t explain. I don’t need it. I get it.”
“You’re amazing.” I swallowed. “What we did was…amazing.”
“Takes more than that though.” He sighed. “I know it. I knew it, all along. I’m grateful for getting to spend time with you. It was my honor and my privilege.”
My eyes stung. “Crow, dammit.”
“Just sayin’ the truth.”
“I like you. I just—”
He touched my lips with one finger. “I said don’t, Charlie. I don’t need an explanation.” He opened my car door, ushered me in. “Drive till you get tired. Get a hotel, sleep until you wake up. Don’t think about me. Don’t miss me. You’re probably makin’ the right decision. I ain’t right for a woman like you.” He closed my door, and I lowered the window, he leaned in. “But I can sure as fuck appreciate my privilege at getting what I got with you. I won’t forget it.”
I swallowed. I couldn’t get past his violent past at this moment, but…I also couldn’t help wondering if maybe I was making a mistake. “Goodbye, Crow.”
He waved. “Bye, Charlie-girl.”
I drove away, and I didn’t look in the rearview mirror. Not even when I felt tears on my lip.
I was making the right choice. There was no future here.
There just wasn’t.
There couldn’t be.
Could there?
Crow
Watching that woman drive away ripped my heart out.
Wasn’t much point in telling her I’d fallen in love with her. Wouldn’t be fair to tie a woman like Charlotte Goode to the kind of life I could give her.
When had I fallen in love with her? Somewhere in between her kicking Yak in the nuts and feeling her come all over my cock in that nasty-ass bathroom.
I’d wanted better for her, but she’d taken to the experience with…gusto. I mean, god, the woman was a tiger, once she got going. I still had her claw marks on me, and bite-shaped bruises on my arms. I relished each one.
I missed the shit out of her.
The Denver show was a success. So were the back-to-back shows in the Twin Cities. Lexie and Myles were inseparable…and trouble. Wherever the crew was, partying, there they were. Laughing, drinking, the life of every moment. I envied them. They made it look so easy.
Shit, though, I knew there were things he wasn’t telling her. He wasn’t without his own demons he wrestled with in the small hours. Clearly neither was she. But that was their gig, not mine. I tuned and cared for the guitars, drank way too much whiskey, and played my guitar. I missed Charlie, but refused to call her—yeah, I had her number, and I’d programmed mine into her phone. Not that I was expecting a call.
Denver, Minneapolis-St. Paul, Milwaukee, Salt Lake City, Vegas, Albuquerque, Tucson…the shows went on, and the more time Myles spent with Lex, the more explosive his sets became. The woman had lit something inside him, I had to admit. I heard them playing together in his room, her on that little ukulele, singing in a voice that wasn’t technically pure or sweet, but was somehow mesmerizing in a husky, Adele sort of way. She was good, and her dad had been an idiot, God rest him.
Days, a week. Two weeks.
Three.
A month after Charlie left the tour hit El Paso, and then shit went sideways.
Tran showed up at the show.
He pulled me aside when it was over.
Tall, wiry, lean, hard, tattooed from head to toe, black hair in a graying ponytail, wearing a denim cut over a black T-shirt and blue jeans, chewing on a plug, his hard-bitten eyes assessing me.
“You look like shit, boy.” Rough, dark voice. Same as ever.
I hugged him, slapping his back. “Thanks, old man. Good to see you, too.”
He laughed. Shoved me off. “Where’s that girl of yours?”
“Alaska,” I bit out. “You called it.”
“How long she been gone?”
“Not long enough,” I said, without meaning to. “Too long.”
He drilled a stare into me. Seeing me as only a wily old fox like him could. “You love her.”
“Shit, man. What the hell is love, anyway?”
He snorted. “Quit the bullshit, son. That maudlin philosophical horse dick ain’t gonna impress me.”
I growled. “What can I do, Tran? She saw what I did, heard what you said, and got the story. It was too much. She was soft, and good, and everything that’s sweet and light in the world, but with a hidden wild side.”
He laughed, cracking me across the back of the head. “You love her, ya dumb fuck. Go get her ass.”
“And offer her what? More bar fights? Another manslaughter charge?”
“That’s taken care of. That Yak character was wanted in three states for rape, kidnapping, sexual assault, and human trafficking. You did the world a favor, and I persuaded certain powers that be to see that. It’s gone. No worries.”
I sighed. “It’s…the whole life, Tran.”
“You ain’t in the life anymore, kid.”
“But I’m always a patch, and I ain’t ever gonna be some tie-wearing Harvard type.” I winced. “Yale, I mean. She’d correct me.”
“She wants you to be that?”
“Well, no. That was her ex. He was a piece of shit, didn’t appreciate her. Cheated on her.”
“And she asked you to be somethin’ you’re not?”
I growled. “No, but she still left. Said she just couldn’t. Whatever that means. Figured it just meant a man with a past like mine is no good for a woman like her.”
“I may be not much but a crusty old road dog, but it sounds to me like she’s just scared of loving you. You’re a hell of a lot of man to figure out, not sure you’re aware of it.” He roughly cupped the back of my neck and shook me. “You’re scared of her.”
I snarled at him. “I ain’t scared of shit.”
“Then go see her, son. Better yet, quit this job you’re wasting your talents on, empty out that storage locker, and haul your shit up to Alaska. You know damn good and well that if you took a mind, you’d be every bit as good of a luthier as your gramps was. You got the gift. I still got that piece you made me, and it sounds sweet as honey to this day. You are wasting your fucking life away as a guitar tech, Corvus. Quit bein’ a goddamn pussy and go get the life you want.”
Corvus. He was the only person, ever, to call me that, and he only used it when I was being stupid. It stung. Cut worse than the scar on my ribs had.
“That was a phase, man,” I muttered. “I ain’t touched wood since I got locked up.”
“Because you still think you ain’t worth enough to put down roots.” He rubbed his stubbled jaw, fingernails skritching. “Shoulda never patched you in, like I did with Myles. You got talent beyond being some enforcer in an outlaw MC. Worst mistake I ever made.”
“Bullshit, Tran. I was born into it.”
“Don’t mean it’s all you are. Music is in your blood. Na’ura had talent, but she wanted what Coyote had—freedom. Doing what he wanted. Living dangerous. She grew up sheltered, protected, guarded, and she resented it. But she coulda been something, just like you could.” He jabbed a finger into my chest, eyes boring into me. “Do us both a favor, Crow.”
“What’s that?”
“Take off the cut. Fold it up. Put it in a box, and forget it. That’s past. Quit hangin’ on to it. You have my permission, Crow. You’re not just out good, you’re out for good. I’ll always answer your call, no matter what, no matter when. But if you don’t quit clinging to this goddamn fool n
otion that you don’t get to have more than this—?” He gestured at the tour around us, the bus, the semi full of equipment, the bustle. “You’ll never be anything but this. If it was all you were capable of, I’d get it. But you know that ain’t true, and shit, I know Myles knows it, I’ve talked to him about it. He don’t need you. He keeps you on because you’re his brother. But he’d be happy to see the back of you, if it meant you were doing something worthy of the talents you got.”
I felt him, then—Myles. Turned, saw him leaning against a semitruck tire a few feet away, listening. Lexie was leaning against him, hand on his chest, dressed in ripped tight jeans and a white sports bra and nothing else, not even shoes.
He left Lexie, and came over to me and grabbed my shoulders. He shook me. “Crow. Listen to him.”
I shook my head. “She left me. It ain’t meant to be. This is my life.”
Myles shoved me, hard. “You know damn well she was just scared. You let her go because you’re just as scared. You found something you want, and the minute she wavered, you caved. You talk a big talk about being a fighter, solving shit with your fists. And you know, there’s not a soul on this planet I’d rather have at my side in a fight, or with a guitar, on the road. But you’re a fuckin’ coward and a pussy, Crow.” He was pissed—pissed. “You been wasting away doing this shit for years, man. This ain’t your dream, it’s mine.”
Hurt blazed through me. “Fuck you, Myles.”
He grabbed me, and refused to let go. “You are my brother. I’d be stuck doing dive bars without you. I don’t know what I’ll do you without you.” He lifted his chin, and I saw that look in his eye, the one that said he was fixing to tackle a tiger. “You’re fired, Crow.”
I reeled back on my heels. “What?”
He glanced at Alyn, the kid I’d been training to be a backup tech. “You’re my new tech. Crow is moving on. Got it?”
Alyn’s eyes widened. “Um. Yeah. Yes. Yes, sir!”
“You can do it, yeah?”
He nodded eagerly. “Yes, sir! I know all the songs. I know how to take care of all the guitars. I can tune by ear in the dark, one handed.”
I felt Tran grab me by the shoulders as I lunged at Myles. “The fuck are you on about? That kid ain’t ready.”
“You trained him. You told me just last month you thought he could take over once in a while.”
“Yeah, once in a while! Not full time!”
“Trial by fire. US tour’s over in a few days anyway. He’ll have time to brush up before the overseas leg starts.”
I knew what he was doing, but it still gutted me to pieces. “You can’t fire me, Myles.”
He stepped into me, snagged me by the neck, butted his forehead against mine. “I can, and I am. Only way you’ll figure out what the fuck to do with yourself.” He held me, and refused to let go. “Make me a guitar. Write me songs, record on them your phone and send ‘em over. Go get your girl.”
“She’s not my girl.”
“She wants to be. She should be.” He shook me. “Your girl. Your woman. Not your old lady. That ain’t you no more, brother. Go be someone, goddammit.”
I hadn’t cried since Mom and Dad died, and only then alone in bed, stifling it into a pillow. Now, I felt the tears sting. “Fuck.”
He laughed. “Got you, finally.” He shook me again, released me. Shoved me. “Go, motherfucker. I mean it. I know you still got River Dog’s truck and Airstream, all his luthier tools. Go get it, and drive up to Alaska. Put it all out there for Charlie, all of it. All of you. She may say no. She may break your heart worse’n it is now. But you’ll regret it your whole fuckin’ life if you don’t at least try.”
“Me and him, the people you’re closest to in the whole fuckin’ world,” Tran said, “we’re both sayin’ the same damn thing. Think we’re both wrong?”
I pivoted away, hands in my hair, staring at the sky, orange-red with that wide Texas sunset. “No. You’re not both wrong.” I trembled, knowing what I had to do, knowing it was right, and scared as fuck of it.
“If she says no…” I started.
“She won’t,” Lexie cut in. “Trust me.”
“How do you know?” I rasped.
She showed me her phone.
The last text from Charlie: I miss him so much.
“It was the life she wasn’t sure about, Crow, not you.”
“I ain’t ever known nothing but the road,” I said. “I don’t know nothin’ else.”
“Just love her,” Lexie said. “You can figure out the rest.”
I stared at Myles. I’d been with him for years, now. Day in, day out. Life on the road, from nobody cover artist to worldwide phenomenon. “Myles…”
He gripped my shoulders, spun me around, and shoved me toward my bike. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ll miss you, I love your dumb ass, you’ll miss me, you love my dumb ass. I get it. Just go, already.”
I didn’t need shit on that bus, except my guitar case. I zipped my guitar into the backpack-style case, slung it over my shoulder, and yanked my helmet on.
I kicked my bike to life, pointed it toward the storage facility which was, in a perhaps not so strange twist of fate, only a few miles from the concert venue. El Paso—on the border with Mexico—was only a short distance away, and was where River Dog lived a good portion of his life, where he’d learned the art of guitar making, where he’d taught it to me.
I hadn’t been to this facility in years—I pay a guy to come out twice a month and check on things, keep the tools clean, start the truck, maintain the RV. There’s security, it’s temperature controlled—the stock of wood River Dog piled up is expensive, and rare—more so, now, in these days when forests are vanishing and wood supply is low, so keeping the wood preserved is vital.
Fortunately, Myles pays me a mint, plus I’m credited as a songwriter on most of his stuff, so I get royalties from all that. Meaning, I’m set, financially, for life. I spend nearly nothing, living on the bus as I do, and I put all my income into a fund which one of Myles’s money management dudes takes care of—investing in smart, safe, reliable avenues. Diversification of assets, he says. What it all means, I don’t fuckin’ know. He tries to explain it to me once a year, and I tell him I don’t really give a shit, as long as I got money when I need it, and he ain’t skimming. If I catch him skimming, I told him, he’ll wish I’d just make him vanish. I know some old Apache warrior torture techniques, and if I find him stealing, I’ll use ‘em, I told him. So, after he cleaned up his pee-stained pants, he set about making damn sure to take real good care of my money.
I guess I got real estate in New York of some kind, stock in companies which have never done shit but turn a tidy profit, and some other investments. I really don’t give a shit. Money is useful for getting shit done, for keeping me fed, for putting booze in my belly when I wanna forget. It ain’t ever been a motivator for me. Myles neither, really. He likes the trappings of fame, the fans, the attention, but really, he’s in it for the music. It’s in his blood.
Now, sitting outside the storage unit, bike off, feet on the ground, helmet tipped back on my head, I’m wondering what the fuck I’m doing.
This is scary.
I wasn’t scared back in my enforcer days. I had zero fear of anyone, of dying, of pain. It didn’t matter to me. I could walk into a den of angry bikers and take ‘em all on, and not feel a damn thing.
Now? The prospect of climbing behind the wheel of that old truck and heading north to tell a woman I barely know that I fell in love with her, and want to be with her? Terrified. Shaking in my damn boots.
I ain’t no goddamn coward. But, fuck you for this, Myles.
I swing off my Indian, dig my keys out of my saddlebags, and unlock the unit. Roll up the door. Flick on the lights. And there it is—River Dog and Mammy’s set up.
1955 Dodge Power Wagon in fire-engine red, bought at an auction in Mexico City for a steal, restored, modified, and maintained by handy ol’ River Dog himself. The mods were aging, now,
since he’d done the job back in the eighties, but the old man knew how to take care of things, so it ran like a top. Plenty of low-end power, comfy plump leather bench, four on the floor transmission running a burly crate V-8, and the stock AM/FM radio because River Dog preferred windows down and radio off, just the silence and old Mammy’s voice chattering on as she liked to do.
Behind it, a vintage Airstream—classic streamlined silver body, gleaming windows, updated interior. A few years ago, I’d had an idea I’d like to follow the tour in this setup, so I’d had the interior stripped and refitted with current stuff, still keeping the vintage look but more useable and comfortable.
He kept his lutherie tools in several locked toolboxes and storage bins inside the trailer, with a custom airtight storage cubby under the couch for keeping the rarest wood—the rest was kept under a tarp in the bed of his truck. I went with the same setup, but I’d planned on hauling my bike with me in the truck, so I’d partitioned off the sides of the bed with built-in covered bins, an expensive but tidy solution.
I stood, staring, trying to summon the courage to really do this.
It was real, now. Myles had fired me. I mean, he’d support me no matter what, I knew, but this was just his way of forcing me out of the nest, so to speak.
Hands shaking, nerves firing, I lowered the bed of the truck and slid out the ramp, hauled the bike up and into the bed, tied it down to the custom tie-down points I’d had installed. I had a tarp rolled up in the cab in case of bad weather, and maintenance tools and spare parts in a toolbox in the bed, because you don’t own a vintage bike and not expect to have to fix it now and then.
The bike stowed, I peeked into the trailer—diner-style checkered table with red leather booth benches, chrome trim everywhere, stainless steel fridge, matching induction stovetop range and microwave. Vinyl flooring made to look and feel like dark cherry hardwood—all but indestructible and easy to clean. Red leather couch, butcher-block countertops to match the floors, white cabinets, and a deep, porcelain farmhouse sink. The look was somewhere between fifties cottage and an old country farmhouse.
One bed, a king size, fitted into the rear, under a huge window. Storage underneath for clothes, bookshelves overhead. A bathroom big enough for me to stand up in, and room enough that I didn’t knock elbows against the wall washing my hands or taking a shower.
Not So Goode Page 23
