Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 117415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Maybe I messed Austin up in the hotel room. Drove him crazy. I’m sure he went all the way back home, abandoning the rest of the shows because of me. I went in too deep, too fast, and laid it on so thick, he could barely breathe by the time I was through.
How selfish of me. To expect him to become everything that’s missing in my life. To expect him to save me from myself.
I think he wrote the wrong message in that hotel note. I don’t deserve more. I need more. As in: a damned therapist. And a few more banana plushies to squeeze at night.
It’s hitting me now, the delayed tears, just like in the back of the Horseshoe, except it isn’t betrayal I’m feeling. It’s shame.
He doesn’t owe me anything. Least of all an explanation.
I should never have driven the first mile out of Spruce.
I don’t deserve a shirt.
The next second, one is being slapped against my chest. “Yeah I know, it’s two sizes too big, but that’s how you wear them,” says Miranda with authority, “and it’s gonna look so hot on you.”
To be fair, the shirt is pretty cool, even if it’s completely off-brand for me. Fiery eyes and snake tongues slithering out of skulls is going to struggle finding a spot in my closet. “Miranda … these are so overpriced. Please, let me pay for—”
“Nope. It’s my treat. Happy Birthday-Christmas-Valentine’s. I would put it on now so you can be dry. Also ‘cause it’s hot. Like I said. Chase should be on any second. I had a perfect spot near the side. We can go in and, like, hate-listen to him together.”
I’m not sure I’m even capable of hate-listening at this point. “I really appreciate this, uh, shirt. But …” Now I’m about to feel even worse than I already do. “I think I need to, um … go.”
“To take a shit?” she asks helpfully.
“To leave.” I meet her eyes. “I’m sorry. I can’t stay.”
For a moment, I see genuine concern in her eyes. With all the cussing and rage she always exhibits, it’s actually stunning to see something sweeter in her eyes. “Are you okay?” she gently asks.
I nod quickly, ready to let out my automatic answer of yes.
And while nodding, I blurt: “No.”
“Oh, TJ …” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “Talk to me. Was it a guy? Did he break your heart? I’ll kill him if you want.”
She says that so sweetly. And her face registers as unsettlingly sincere. Remind me to add her to a list of people never to fuck with.
“Sorry,” she goes on, “I just sort of assumed you’re gay. I have a gay brother. I’m getting gay brother vibes from you.”
I’m not even sure how to respond to that. “I just need to go.”
“I’m gonna fuck up whoever it is, okay? Like, fuck them up so bad, there’ll be nothing else left to fuck up when I’m done.” Again, she says this sweetly. “I’ve got your back, little bro.”
Whistling and howling erupts from the concert hall. Miranda and I turn to it. People around us rush back in, some abandoning the long-ass merchandise line, not wanting to miss the show.
She frowns at me. “If you gotta go, you gotta go. I sure hope I get to see you again. Maybe at the next show? You’re a good guy.”
Too many people tell me that without knowing me.
I sure don’t feel like the good guy tonight.
There’s someone who should be here instead of me, to see the singer he loves and worships. Someone I likely scared away. And every second I stand here still wearing his hat, I feel worse.
She takes my hand one last time, whispers, “I’ll mess him up, whoever it is, just say the word,” then smiles, nods, and lets go as she heads off to see the main act, leaving me in the lobby.
To the sound of the exploding crowd, I walk past the vendors, who are now staring at each other, like they finally broke through their wall of sexual tension—good for them—and head for the exit, clinging the Soul Biter shirt to my chest.
I stop. Through the glass doors: rain. Pouring, relentless rain. Flashes of lightning. The scene sure gives this “House of Thunder” venue a fitting atmosphere. All of that scary storming becomes the visual backdrop as the music kicks in from the concert hall—the steady, invigorating drums, a deep note ringing out from the bass guitar that joins the rhythm of the drums, and then chords on an electric keyboard playing their way in. Finally, the rich, bright notes from skillful fingers on a guitar come to life. The music is so full and engaging, even from out here in the lobby, that I barely register the joyous screams from the crowd.