Blazed (33 page)

And I say, “Stabbing his balls and busting his neck woulda been the reasonable thing to do, man. And fucking up that bitch grill of his.”

“I said stop it, Jaime. This isn't any of your business.”

“Bullshit it ain't.”

“You should've gotten his side of the story, Kristen.”

“What fucking story?” Kristen goes. “I saw it.”

And Leslie goes, “Thank god you didn't punch him.”

“You don't think you rushed to judgment?” my father goes.

I can't take this anymore.

And I say, “Your daughter just got her heart ripped out by some sleazy, sweaty, phony and all you're worried about is your cocaine connection?”

“Thank you,” Kristen says.

“That's not true,” my father says. “It's just strange to me. He doesn't seem like the type.”

“I saw him doing it! He is the type! Fuck!”

And I say, “The type. Dude is a drug dealer. He makes money off of other people's misery. And apparently he causes it too. Stop thinking about your nostrils, man, and start thinking about your fucking family, dude. Christ. For once in your life think about your family and not yourself. Just for once!”

The way my father's face changes right in front of me, how it goes from plain to demon in a split second, it scares me a little. A lot, actually. This must have been what my mother was afraid of. The change in this man and how quickly it comes.

Stepping toward me, he grabs my shoulders and yells, “You're way out of line! You're fucking heartless, Jaime!”

“Fuck you,” I shout right back, ripping myself loose from him. “That's your kid. Even if there was another side, it's still your fucking kid. She needs your support, man. Not your questions.”

“I said stay out of it!”

“Okay, okay, okay,” Leslie shouts, standing back up. “Everyone just calm down.”

“No,” I say. “This is bullshit. She's fucking heartbroken. That is the story. Period. Put your family first!”

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” my father screams, and then punches the wall, putting a hole twice the size of his fist through it. “You stay out of this!” he screams so loud my ears start ringing. “Get out of my fucking house, you punk!”

“Justin,” Leslie says, and grabs him. “Stop it.”

“Get out of my face, Jaime,” he yells again.

Stepping backward, startled, nervous, I look at Kristen, who's looking at me, and she's just broken and done right now.

“Out of my face!” he screams again. “Out!”

“Fine,” I say. “Fuck this anyway, and fuck you. You
should start fucking Tyler,” I tell him. “Lick that coke right off his dick.”

“Jaime,” Leslie snaps.

“Fuck you too, Leslie. I'm out,” I rip, then flip around as fast as I can and bail from this stupid fucking house.

“YO, HOMIE. I NEED YOUR
help with something tonight after we're done laying down these tracks.”

“Sure,” says Eddie. He's wearing a white Growlers T-shirt, a pair of cutoff black jean shorts, and a black beanie, with a black bandanna tied around his neck. “What is it?”

“That Tyler fuck,” I say, after taking a swing from the PBR he handed me when I got to his neighbor's garage.

“The worst dude ever.”

“Yeah, him,” I say. “He fucked Kristen over bad, so I'm hitting back hard since no one else is going to. My father certainly ain't. Fucking troll was trying to blame her.”

“What a pie grinder,” Eddie says.

“Right.”

“Well, I'm totally down, man. You think it might help with her?”

“I don't know, dude. I really don't.”

Eddie shrugs, then says, “It doesn't matter, actually. You need my help, I'm there. We gotta stick together, ya know. Can't count on anyone else if you can't count on your friends and your band.”

“So true.”

“How we gonna hurt him?”

“We're going straight for his balls, man. We're gonna cut 'em off.”

Eddie makes a face. “Huh?”

“That blubber cheek's got a brand-new BMW. I did some Facebook stalking and found out where he lives. The car is done. Cars are my specialty.”

Eddies grins. “Sure,” he goes. Then, “You're a weird dude.”

“I know.”

“It's cool, though. Everyone's a weirdo.”

“That's what they say, but I'm not so sure anymore. I'm not.”

“No, man. You're wrong. Everyone's a fucking weirdo, everyone's a little bit crazy and a little insane. It's just that some people are better at hiding it than others. They're in denial. But it's true. We're all insane. And there's nothing wrong with it. This one's for the freaks, homie. Tonight is for the freaks.”

WE RECORD FOR, LIKE, THREE
hours. It's Good. The songs are actually great, considering we've only played three times together. Eddie's neighbor had a couple of nice mics for us to use, he had some percussion shit that I laid down separately afterward, and he had a fridge full of beer and some weed for us.

It was perfect.

During the last take of “Swindle Big/Or Die Trying,” the final song we record, that dude Brandon was making out with shows up in a brand-new red Lexus.

His name is Doug and he's twenty-two, and he tells us that if we want, on Saturday night, him and his friend Milo are doing their pop-up store at seven in this parking lot in Potrero Hill and we can play a quick set.

“Really?” I go. “That can happen?”

“Yeah, man. Toward the end around eight. You guys will be good for at least thirty minutes. We do it every time we bring out the store, and it's always been about thirty minutes before the fuzz gets there.”

“Can you do it?” Eddie asks me.

“Yeah, I can. I don't leave till Sunday morning.”

“We're in, dude.”

“Awesome,” says Doug. Then him and Brandon kiss and Doug goes, “Come on, Mr. Big, we've got some catching up to do. I missed you this morning.”

“Let's go,” says Brandon.

As they're walking out of the garage, Eddie goes, “You top or bottom, Mr. Big?”

Brandon shrugs and Doug goes, “Don't know. We'll find out soon, though.”

They jump into Doug's Lexus and Eddie goes, “Good for Brandon.”

“Sure.”

“Let's go beat up that Beamer now, homie.”

THE SHIT WE BRING WITH
us: My switchblade, three cans of spray paint, a pound of sugar, two bags of beef jerky, and six PBRs.

Eddie gives me one of the bikes he just fixed up to ride. We're heading to Tyler's loft in SoMa.

“What if he ain't there?” Eddie goes.

“We wait it out, dude. That's what the fucking snacks are for.”

“You're good,” he says.

“Again, cars are my specialty.”

M83's “Midnight City” blasts while we ride. It's a nice ride too. Pedaling through the Mission on a fucking mission with probably the coolest kid I've ever met.

It takes us prolly twenty minutes to get there. His crib is in this alley called Sumner Street. It's really small and narrow but sure enough, there's his Beamer parked on the sidewalk against the building to leave room for other cars to get by.

“Dude,” says Eddie. “It's right in the open, man. Like, everyone who lives in this alley can see us.”

“That's why we gotta be quick, man.”

“I don't know,” Eddie goes.

“You don't have to do this,” I say. “I'd understand if you didn't. Hell, I'm just stoked you came with me. But I'm making that car ugly. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. It's fucking getting what he deserves.”

“Fuck,” says Eddie. Then he slides out a pint of Jim Beam and takes a huge swig.

“Just stay back,” I say. “Be the lookout.”

“No, fuck that,” Eddie rips. “I'm in. How we doing this?”

“Let's stash our bikes here, next to this fence. I figure we're gonna have about one minute. You tag the fucking car and I'll handle the rest.”

“Sounds good.”

“Even if anyone sees us, they won't do anything. We'll be long gone before the cops come. It's gonna be fine.”

“It has to be, right? Cos cars are your specialty.”

“Fuck you.” I laugh.

“Let's get this booger pussy.”

We fist bump and me and Eddie, we fucking do this shit.

And yeah, we fucking do it right. We do it really fucking well.

KRISTEN OPENS HER BEDROOM DOOR
after I knock. I'm holding two Coronas. She's wearing just tiny pink shorts and a black cashmere crewneck sweatshirt that says
Murder City Devils
on the front, and she's listening to the Beach House album
Bloom
.

“Here,” I say, handing her a beer.

Her eyes are red and puffy. “Thanks. Come in,” she says.

There's eight empty bottles of Corona next to her nightstand and a mirror with lines of blast lying across it.

“You wasted?”

“Beyond wasted,” she says, lying down on her bed. “Come on, Jaime. Sit down here,” she goes, patting the spot right next to her.

I sit down on the edge of the bed instead.

“Don't be such a baby,” she says. “Come here.”

I take a swig before swinging my legs up and scooting all the way back to the headboard.

“How's it going?”

“It sucks,” she says. “Everything sucks. I'm such a fuckhead.”

“That's not true,” I say.

“Yes, it is,” she says back. “I blew it last night. Not only did I miss the show, I didn't make anything for Dominique to wear.”

“It was okay, though,” I say.

“Not for me,” she says. “Like, I fucked up and slept through the entire day. It would've been so huge for me to have my clothes on her for that show but no, I had to stay up for two and a half days and miss everything. I just suck so bad right now. I'm blowing it, and this has to stop.”

“What's that?”

“This,” she says. “Those lines of coke on that mirror are the last lines I'm ever doing. I'm done with this shit. All of it, for good. Tyler, the coke, maybe even the drinking, my stupid friends. Done with it, Jaime.”

I take a drink and don't say anything.

“Where'd you go after you and Justin got into it?” she asks.

“I met up with Eddie and Brandon. We recorded in Eddie's neighbor's garage.”

“Recorded what?”

“Four tracks. We started up a project this week called Skullburns.”

“Damn,” she says. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“You guys are a bunch of little go-getters. Good job.”

“What else is there to do?”

She smiles finally. “Right,” she says. “Besides date some
fake-ass hipster asshole and do all his drugs, then sleep through the good shit, what else is there to do?”

I start laughing, and her phone goes off. She picks it up and looks at it.

“Are you fucking serious?” she screams, sitting up.

“What's up?”

“Tyler!” she snaps. “That pig cheats on me and then has the audacity to fucking accuse me of fucking his car up.”

“What?” I say, trying to act as shocked as I can.

“What a loser! I've been here all night. Fuck him!”

“What's the text say?”

“ ‘You know anything about this, whore?' And then there's a picture of his car all fucked up.” She starts laughing now and says, “Damn, it is fucked up. But I didn't do it. Ugh! Kudos to whoever did, though. Rad.”

“Can I ask you a question?” I say.

“Sure.”

“Would you ever go back with Tyler?”

“Fuck no. Never. I hate him. I will never talk to him again!”

“That's the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then.”

“Why?”

“Cos I know who did that to his car.”

“You do?” she says.

Pause.

This smile eclipses her entire face.

“Oh my god,” she goes. “I love you!”

Kristen lunges at me and hugs me.

“You are so incredible. I wanna be like you when I grow up.”

“Shut up,” I say.

“But seriously,” she goes. “That's amazing. You did that for me?”

“Of course.”

“Damn,” she says.

“I hated that guy from the second he walked into the restaurant that night.”

“That's right. You have.”

I take a drink. “Big-time.”

When I look back at Kristen, I find her just staring at me and smiling.

“What's up?” I say.

“No one's ever done something that cool for me. No one's ever stuck up for me before.”

“That's what I do for the people I love. I got your back. I always will.”

“Thank you,” she says.

I take another drink.

“Just thank you,” she says again, and then she puts a hand on my face. “You're so cute,” she says.

I don't say anything.

“So cute and sweet and perfect.”

I don't know what to do.

“I should do something nice for you.”

“You don't need—”

But before I can finish saying that thought, Kristen's mouth is on mine. Her tongue down my throat, wrestling with my tongue.

I throw my hands against the sides of her tight body and lean forward and push her on her back.

“Fuck me,” she says. “Please. I've wanted you to fuck me all week.”

I get on top of her now and she pulls off her sweater. Her tits are so nice and round and perfect.

“I want you,” she says as we kiss some more. “Please,” she goes. “Fuck me.”

I can't, though. No way. I shouldn't have even done this. I'm with Dominique.

Pulling my mouth from hers, I say, “No, no, no.”