Stay Until We Break (3 page)

“Nothing happened.”

“Please, do you think I’m stupid? I can see your happy trail from here.”

“My what?” I look down and realize that not only did I walk out here without my shirt—my pants are unzipped and my shorts are hanging out. I turn around and pull myself together, but as I’m buttoning up, I drop the tin to the floor, and the lid pops open and a baggie of weed and several packs of rolling papers fall out. I bend down to pick it all up and fumble with the lid. God I hate weed. I hate being this high. I hate the way Sunny is watching me. I hate the way my hands feel like they belong to someone else right now, someone who is brand-new to having hands. “What the hell is a happy trail?” I ask, looking down at my navel.

“Jesus, you’re wasted.”

“Are you giving me shit?”

“Yes,” she says. “Definitely.”

“Is that necessary?”

She scowls, and I can’t deal with her right now so I get up and start to walk back down the hall to Diane’s room.

“Cole, wait.” I turn around, and for some reason, I wonder if she’s going to ask me to stay out here with her instead. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I definitely will if she asks me. I’ll unroll my sleeping bag right next to hers and pass out like a baby and be relieved to be done with this whole night. But she doesn’t ask me.

“Go into my backpack and get the yellow bag,” she says. “There are Trojans in there. Take a couple.”

“What?”

“Condoms,” she says. “Herpes is forever—use protection.”

“What the hell did you bring condoms for?” I ask, which is a stupid question, but it dawns on me that Sunny has packed rubbers and who exactly was she planning to fuck on this tour? Complete strangers?

“I brought them for you,” she says.

“Shut up, you did not bring condoms for me.”

“Well, for you and Joey,” she says. “I doubt I’ll need them but I figured you would, and hopefully Joey will or we’ll be hearing about it the whole trip. I brought a first aid kit and sunscreen, too. I tried to think of everything.”

My God, she’s like the world’s most awkward den mother.

“I don’t need any condoms,” I say. “I’m good.”

“Fine,” she says. “Don’t get herpes.”

Then she sighs and pulls the sleeping bag back over her head, and I walk right back into Diane’s room.

When I get there, both girls are fully naked and Diane has her head between Marilyn’s legs and Marilyn is moaning softly and I wonder if this whole night is some twisted, frustrated wet dream because holy fucking shit. I’m tempted to wake Joey, just to make sure it’s real. I don’t, because to do that I’d have to go back out and deal with Sonia again and no thanks.

I’m glad they didn’t feel the need to wait for me to get back.

I lay back on the bed next to them with the weed and start rolling up joints, surprised at how good I still am at it. Like riding a bike. Diane never bothers to look up. I’m not sure she’s noticed I’m back. But Marilyn reaches for me and asks between breathless gasps if I like watching them, and hell yeah, of course I do. This is my favorite porn right here, live action. I love how these girls are together, how natural and unashamed they are. It’s not like anything I’ve ever seen up close and it’s hot as hell. I grab the lighter off the night table and light a joint and put it to Marilyn’s lips. She inhales and we exhale together as I watch her face and she starts to come, and oh hell yeah I’m hard. Very. I put my hand over my dick, thinking this is it, the moment my war story begins. But as Marilyn starts moaning louder and louder, instead of taking my dick out and getting the Trojan I keep in my wallet, I choke. Because all I keep thinking is Sunny is out there in the other room overhearing this, thinking I’m catching herpes.

Goddamn it.

I smoke the rest of the joint by myself and now I’m so baked, I don’t even remember putting it out. I don’t know where the roach is. I don’t remember the candle getting blown out. I don’t remember my pants coming off, or this blanket over me, or when exactly these two girls nestled in to either side of me.

But it’s warm in here, so I stay.

Sonia

“Coco,” Joey crows as we’re riding in Steady Beth, on our way to the diner for brunch. “Your wet dream finally comes true! Two hot women in one bed—we need an entry in the band scrapbook for this.”

“There’s nothing scrapbook-worthy about it,” Cole says.

“What, no photos?” Joey says. “That’s a shame. Hopefully next time.”

“Actually, nothing happened,” Cole says, and we all burst out laughing at him, he’s so ridiculous, though my laugh is more of a scoff.

“Well, did you at least see them naked?” Joey asks.

Cole hesitates, and in that pause is all the information I need. I’m holding on to my notebook and about to tear it in half with the effort it’s taking to act cool about this.

“Come on, it’s none of our business,” Travis says.

“Everything is our business in the van,” Joey says. “So out with the details, Cole. Did they both suck your dick at the same time? Please say yes.”

“That’s not even anatomically possible,” Cole points out. “And you’re a pig.”

“But you’re not denying it,” he says.

“Yes, I am denying it,” he says. “Flat out.”

But now I don’t believe him. My mind is racing,
why, why, why
did I let Cole kiss me when I know what a player he is? I should have guessed he would have ditched me the minute something better came along—I’ve been down this road before. I agreed to the tour to help manage the band. To take care of the finances, the logistics. I didn’t sign on to be Cole’s safety hookup in case he can’t find anyone better—even two anyones at the same time. And I’m setting him straight on that score, the first chance I get.

I watch his face in the rearview mirror, but I can’t see his eyes behind the dark sunglasses he’s wearing. I let out a long sigh and then regret it immediately when Cole whips his head around and takes his sunglasses off. His eyes are still red from his long, rough night. Poor baby.

“What?” he asks.

“What?” I answer.

“What?” Emmy says, confused. “What’s wrong?”

He keeps looking right at me, though, and now Emmy and Joey are both looking at me, too.

“Nothing,” I say, because I am sure as shit not having this conversation now.

“No secrets in Soft,” Emmy says. “Out with it.”

“There’s nothing.” I try to act nonchalant, which is not easy with Cole looking like he’s expecting me to start an argument.

“Then why are you giving Cole the Sunshine face?” Joey asks.

“What the hell is that?”

“‘Sunshine’ is when you look like you want to punch someone in the nuts,” Joey says. “Usually when they make short-girl jokes.”

“And I never make short-girl jokes,” Cole says.

“I’m not giving anyone any face,” I argue. “You guys really have a name for that face?”

“Cole came up with it,” Emmy says.

“I just started calling you Sunshine,” Cole says. “I never said it was for the face.”

“The
face
?”

“Sunshine is a good name for the nut-punching face,” Joey says. “You have to admit.”

“I need coffee,” I say. “And you’re all getting the face now.”

Travis parks and I’m so ready to get out of this van. We all tumble out of Steady Beth, a crew of slept-on, unwashed hair and wrinkled clothes staggering in our caffeine-deprived state across the parking lot.

“Wait until we get home,” Joey says. “Cole’s tour stories are going to be legend.”

“What happens on the road stays on the road, remember?” Travis says. “That’s the deal. If we can’t go a little wild out here, then where can we?”

“What, you don’t believe me, either, Trap?” Cole says, hands on his hips, totally indignant. “You really think I got with those two girls last night?”

“I believe you,” Travis says. “I’m just, you know, making a point here.”

“So am I,” Joey says. “If nothing really happened last night, don’t even tell me. I won’t be able to stand the disappointment.”

Cole drops behind and walks next to me, but I can’t look at him. I’m taking those slow breaths through my nose my old music teacher taught me to take when I used to get anxiety, but I’m not anxious now. I’m just trying really hard to look like I don’t care. As we’re about to walk through the door he sticks his arm out and stops me.

“What?” I ask, trying to sound oblivious.

“Nothing happened last night,” he says. “I swear.”

I give him a long, blank stare.

“I’m serious,” he goes on. “I didn’t touch them.”

“Whatever, Cole,” I say. “It’s none of my business.”

“Come on, Sunshine, it’s going to be a long three weeks if this is how it’s going to be.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re stewing about something,” he says. “That’s obvious.”

“I’m just thinking about booking a couple of shows for these empty nights we still have,” I say. “Managing a tour is more work than it looks.”

“Oh, okay then,” he says, and I think he actually believes me. But then he says, “Look, I got baked and fell asleep. I didn’t touch either one of them.” And he sounds so sincere that I’m starting to believe him. Which is bad.

“Why not?” I shouldn’t ask, but I can’t help it.

“Because I didn’t want to.” The way he’s looking at me is dangerous on so many levels. I know this look—he wants to make me feel special, like I have anything to do with it, but I’m not buying it. Because this is Cole and he’s got that very annoying ability to look at you like you are the only person on the planet, the only one he ever wants to look at. I’ve longed for him to look at me like this for months, but true story, I’ve seen him give this same exact look to other girls and then turn his back and move on to the next one like he’s working a chain of paper dolls.

And I’m no paper doll.

“What’s wrong,” I say, petting his arm as sarcastically as possible. “They weren’t your type?”

“Of course not. I mean, why would two sexy girls with their own apartment ever be my type?” he says with a laugh, and now I can’t hide my scowl. “Come on, Sunny. If I’d known it was going to bug you, I would have slept out in the living room with you and Joey. When you ditched me outside at the Nyabinghi, I figured you didn’t care who I hooked up with. Pretty much like any other weekend.”

“Wait, you think I ditched you?”

“You
did
ditch me,” he says. “Remember?”

“I didn’t ditch you,” I say, so confused he thinks this. How could he even think this? “I was going to come back outside.”

“You don’t have to say that.” He wraps his arm around my shoulder like a good pal. “It’s cool. I understand.”

He opens the door for me, and in the face of my confusion, I feel my anger beginning to drain away.

“I’m not just saying that, I really was going to come back out to the van,” I insist, and then realize I sound a little too insistent, so I attempt to sound a lot cooler about the whole thing than I feel. “You’re not the only one who needs to get off around here.”

“Oh, is that right?” he says, with raised eyebrows and a crooked smile that makes me blush. Then he leans down to whisper in my ear, “I can help you out with that, you know. All you have to do is ask.”

Damn his breath on my ear. Damn him smelling so good in broad daylight, it’s practically indecent. Damn the empty space in my brain where my scathing retorts normally live. Right here is where I should put my foot down and tell him I’m not going to be his plan B, his safety fuck, his last resort. Here’s where I tell him he’s welcome to get all the herpes from all the girls he meets, I really do not care. But it’s all I can do to keep my mouth from hanging open as he ushers me into the vinyl booth next to Emmylou.

I still say nothing, but as he sits across from me with that wiseass smirk of his, I am doing everything I can to get my Sunshine face back on.

“You’re doing it again,” Joey says, pointing at me. “Get this girl some coffee before she kills someone.”

***

Saturday, August 12, 1995

Stache’s, Columbus, OH

With the Tongue and Pain of Pestilence

Soft Tour—Day 3

Stache’s in Columbus is the venue we play tonight, a show we manage to hook up because Travis found this guy Gregor on a hardcore Internet message board, which freaks everyone out because we have no idea who these people are. Gregor is a drummer for this sort of metal/punk crossover called the Tongue and they like to trade shows with bands from around the country. Hopefully they’re not serial killers. I have to admit, despite my trepidation, Marilyn and Diane were not serial killers. Serial humpers, maybe. But that’s not the same thing at all.

On our way into town, we stop at the rest area off of Route 70 to eat peanut butter sandwiches, and Cole sits right next to me. Why, I don’t know, but it annoys me because I don’t want to let on how pissed off I am that it’s only day three of the tour and he’s already hooked up with two women he doesn’t even fucking know. I thought Cole was a whore in New Brunswick—Jesus Christ, I had no idea what a porn star he would be out here on the road.

When Emmy and Travis and Joey throw the Frisbee around the lawn, he stays behind and starts a conversation about how amazing Lollapalooza was back in July. At least we’re in agreement now, because there’s no doubting that seeing Sonic Youth on the main stage at the Camden Waterfront was one of the highlights of our summer.

“You guys will be playing Lollapalooza in a few years,” I say. “Watch.”

“It’s a long haul from New Brunswick to Lollapalooza.”

“You can’t think like that, Cole,” I insist. “You’ve got to believe you can make it. Otherwise, what’s the point of being out here?”

“I don’t need to get to Lollapalooza to be glad I’m out here,” he says. “And I can’t think about where it’s all headed or I won’t enjoy the moment.”

“It’s a good thing you’re not the manager, then.”

“If I was the manager, you wouldn’t be here,” he says. “And then Emmy would have no one to borrow Dr Pepper lip gloss from. What a shame that would be.”

That smile of his really unnerves me.

The low ceilings and no-bullshit vibe at Stache’s remind us of being home at the Court, except for the crowd, who are so metal that by comparison we stick out like drag queens at a country club. That thought makes me smile, though, since I’ve spent way too many brunches and weddings at the club with my parents, who would literally shit if they could see where I was tonight. When Stache’s begins to fill with hair and leather bras and motorcycle boots, Emmy calls a Soft huddle at the foot of the stage.

“Guys,” she says, “do you really think this crowd will be into our cover of ‘Pink Frost’? I don’t think that’s going to be a good opener here.”

“Does that mean . . .” Cole says.

“That’s right,” Emmy says.

“‘Metal Madness,’” Travis says. “That’s our best shot.”

“Fuck yes,” Joey says.

“Metal Madness” is a Soft medley of Sabbath, Slayer, Metallica, Megadeth, and a little bit of Nudeswirl’s “Buffalo” thrown in for good measure, in homage to New Brunswick grunge. It’s an amazing number, though one they usually do on the endings of sets, mostly so Emmy and Travis can show off some of their guitar chops. It also absolutely rocks.

They take the stage, and by the way Emmy is tuning and retuning her guitar again and again I can tell she’s nervous. Nervous Emmy in front of a mic is not a good thing. Bad things come out of Nervous Emmy’s mouth when there’s a mic in front of it. I head to the bar and use half our drink tickets to get her a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks, but before I can get back to the stage, she’s already talking and it’s too late.

“Hello, Columbus,” she says. “We’re Stars on the Floor, from New Brunswick, the Hub City!”

Blank stares from the crowd. I guess they see Emmy with her big old hollow-body guitar and Jon Spencer Blues Explosion T-shirt, and maybe they think they’re about to hear a Shania Twain wannabe.

“I got my start in music by blowing all of Skid Row in a 7-Eleven parking lot when I was in high school,” Emmy says, and Travis’s face goes so pale I think I can see his skull. “It was right before the coke epidemic hit Flemington. Times were tough.”

I decide my best option now is to just drink the Jack myself. Travis and Cole look like they’re about to drag Emmy from the stage and run like linebackers out to the van. But she’s got the crowd’s attention now, and there are a few laughs. Joey starts tapping the high hat and Travis starts ripping into some feedback on his Les Paul to signal her to stop talking and play.

“This first song is dedicated to my trucker mother and is called ‘Ozzy Was a Crack Whore.’”

Now Emmy stomps on her Big Muff, rips a pickslide down the guitar neck, and starts playing the riff for “Into the Void” with Joey smashing the kit so hard behind her I can feel it in my chest. Travis and Cole jump in and they thicken that sound up to the point where the entire club shakes. Before they get to the chorus they switch to “Raining Blood” and by the time they play through to the chorus of “For Whom the Bell Tolls,” Emmy is on her knees, swinging her hair, and everyone in the club is pressed up to the stage, singing right along with them, throwing Soft the devil’s horns.

And
that
is why they’ll make it to Lollapalooza.

I watch Cole as he plays, like I do every time he’s up on stage. It’s my favorite pastime. When he’s too absorbed in the music to notice me ogling, I just stare openly at every part of him that’s not hidden by his guitar. Then I imagine the parts I can’t see in as much glorious detail as I can. I love the way his tongue darts out of his mouth when he concentrates, the way his eyes roll back in his head when he’s feeling it. I’ve imagined his fingers doing all manner of wrong and delightful things to me. But I mostly love to watch his arms flex when he’s playing, especially that bicep with that simple, braided rope inked around it. You almost wouldn’t notice because it’s high enough that his T-shirt covers part of it. But on the underside, the part that’s normally hidden (except when he plays his bass—you know, I pay attention to things like that), the rope is tattered and frayed down to a single, golden thread. I’ve never seen a tattoo quite like it.

I’m so enthralled studying Cole’s ink, I don’t realize I’ve finished this very strong drink until I’m swilling the last sip. The singer from the first band, Pain of Pestilence, a short (but not shorter than me) guy with chin-length dyed black hair and matching goatee and a
Rock 4 Life
tattoo on his abdomen (I know this because he sang the set with his shirt off), hands me another.