Road Rash (5 page)

“No, Doc. In this case, a cigar is just a cigar. We’re here to kill that bad taste with some good music. That’s all.” I knew who was playing tonight but I’d learned my lesson—there was no way I was going to tell anyone else about the offer from Glenn Taylor.

And from the moment we walked in, it was apparent that Bad Habit wasn’t going to make a liar out of me—they were rocking. The dance floor was already pretty full, and the people sitting around were getting into it, too. There was a raised section behind the dance floor, so we grabbed a table up there and I went and got us cokes.

“Sorry, they were fresh out of little umbrellas,” I said as I sat down. “But I managed to talk them out of a couple of lime wedges, to give you that south-of-the-border feeling.”

“Why, thank you.”

As she took a drink, I had to ask. “So, what does
this
taste like? Cabo, too?”

She took another sip, deep in concentration. “No … it tastes like Bora-Bora, in Tahiti. In one of those huts raised on stilts out over the water. Sitting on the little deck at sunset, catching our dinner with a fishing line. And three more weeks of nothing to do.” She looked up at me from her drink and slowly smiled.

“Whoa … I think you’re a future Hemingway, li’l sis. I don’t have a clue about Tahiti, but I like the way you paint a picture.”

Just then the band launched into a pile-driver groove of wildly distorted guitar and pounding drums. People started pouring onto the dance floor as Bad Habit went into their own twisted update of “Are You Gonna Go My Way?”

Kimber gave me the look. I know the look, trust me. And as nice as it feels to be asked, it’s better to show a little sack and step up.

I stood up. “C’mon, let’s dance.”

She gave me a big smile, practically yelling to be heard over the music. “Sounds great!”

Dancing with Kimber was sorta weird but also a good time, if that makes any sense. The floor was packed and the band was totally slammin’ and we danced our asses off. GT took a couple of extended solos, and unlike Justin, he absolutely rocked. And he wasn’t just shredding at top speed. That guy could play with feeling, stretching out a note until it howled like some demented coyote.

By the end of the song Kimber had a big sweaty smile on her face. “That was fun!” she said. “Let’s stay for the next one.…”

So we did, and it was another good dance tune. And then they brought it way down, and I recognized the slow opening chords of “Landlocked Blues,” by Bright Eyes. Kimber was still giving me the look, but I played dumb
—that
would have been too totally weird. “Uh, I’m thirsty,” I said, nodding toward our table. “Let’s go get a drink.”

And actually, I was glad for the break. It gave me a chance to sit back and really listen to the band. Which was why I was there … right? They sounded more pro than we—I mean the Sock Monkeys—ever did. There was no getting around that. And I might have thought their equipment had something to do with it, but we’d just witnessed a graphic demonstration that gear does not make the band.

Okay, they did have five players—including a girl on keyboards who really filled out their sound. And their lead singer also played rhythm guitar on some songs.

But there was more to it than just numbers
or
gear.

Their lead singer had a really good voice and
huge
stage presence to go along with it. When he was singing, everyone was watching him … including the rest of the band. And while the bassist wasn’t flashy, he was totally on the money. Their drummer, Nate, on the other hand,
was
flashy. Maybe even too much. He was all over his Mapex sunburst kit, even on the simpler songs. But apparently he hadn’t been drinking that night, because even though he played some pretty technical stuff, he nailed it all. And the girl not only played keys, but she sang some, too, adding another dimension to their vocal mix.

But to me it was Glenn Taylor’s playing that really put them over the top. It seemed like he’d been born with that beat-up
black Strat in his hands. And the fat tone he got out of his amp—a Marshall Vintage Modern 2×12 combo—beat the pants off anything Justin could wring from his refrigerator-sized full stack.

God, what I wouldn’t give to be in a band that had it together like
that
. But from the way they sounded tonight, I didn’t see them making changes anytime soon.…

Suddenly Kimber leaned over and said in my ear, “Zach, you can adapt to new situations quickly, right?”

She sounded nervous, almost a little panicked. And what self-respecting guy’s gonna say no to that one? I nodded. “I like to think so.”

“I need a favor, and it’s sort of an emergency.” She was looking across the room as she spoke. “I need some serious, visible PDA. Right damn now.”

I was deciding between asking more questions and making a crack when I realized she really meant it. So I scooted my seat around the table until I was sitting next to her and draped my arm over the back of her chair. “Okay,” I said. “I’m your boyfriend for hire. What’s going on?”

“I’m trying to avoid … uh, too late. Here he comes.”

“Who?”

“Kevin Flanders. He thinks he’s something.”

Actually, there were three guys walking toward our table, but I had a pretty good idea which one she was referring to. The tall one in the middle had that smug thing going on that reminded me of Toby. Like he’d spent a little too much time trying to look like he hadn’t spent any time.

“Hey, Kimmie, what’s up?” he said loudly, to be heard over the music.

I looked at her and mouthed
Kimmie?
while trying not to laugh. She rolled her eyes.

“Uh, not much,” she said.

“You here to listen to the band?” he asked. She nodded, then looked over at me with raised eyebrows.

So far, he hadn’t even acknowledged my presence. As her rent-a-boyfriend, I was seriously insulted. And she’d ordered a plateful of PDA, not a side of sit-next-to-me. Okay …

So I pulled Kimber close, then scooped her up and hoisted her onto my lap. I put my nose in her hair, like I was going to nuzzle her. And
damn
, she smelled good.

“Don’t say another word to him,” I said quietly into her ear. “Don’t look at him, don’t talk to him, nothing. Okay?” She nodded. “Good. Now smile like you’re having the time of your life, and talk to me. Doesn’t matter what you say, just be cheerful about it. Trust me, he’ll leave.”

So she giggled like a drunk bimbo and said, “How long are we going to do this?”

“As long as it takes. But no worries—you’re paying me by the hour.”

“Oh my God, I think I’d rather go hang with Kevin.”

“You got it, sister.” I made like I was going to put her back down, and suddenly she clung to me like a kitten in a tall tree. That got me laughing for real.

“Smart-ass,” she said.

“Hey, you asked for it …” But I held her even closer.

Kevin said something, but for a million bucks I couldn’t tell you what it was.

“You know,” I went on, brushing her hair out of her eyes, “I know this sounds weird, but … your hair smells great.”

“Really?” Her eyes were shining.

I nodded. “Not part of the act—it won’t even show up on your bill.”

Kevin was still making noises, but finally, he spat out, “Whatever!” and left, his little posse in tow.

Kimber looked at me. “Wow—that worked perfectly. You were great.”

“Thanks. So were you.”

And then we just looked at each other without moving for like ten whole seconds. Whoa … major weirdness. I gradually became aware that someone, somewhere, was playing a hyper-kinetic rendition of “Sugar, We’re Goin’ Down Swinging.”

“C’mon,” I finally said. “They’re playing our song.…”

I hated to admit it, but Toby was right. I must have been delusional to think that Bad Habit would really want me. Hell, after hearing how they sounded with Nate, I never even talked to GT at Land of Lights. Which meant that when Monday morning rolled around, I was still
el muchacho solo
. I spent my time between classes listening to “No One to Depend On.” Funny how that works, huh? People listen to the blues when they’re bummed, which only makes it worse, which sorta makes it better.…

Kimber was away at the state finals of Destination Imagination. Which was actually kind of a relief—Friday night had been … different.

Anyway, I was not exactly Mr. Happy that day, which might almost explain what happened at lunch. Not making any excuses, okay? Just looking for some answers.

The morning was relatively normal. When I walked into my Spanish class, Mr. Arrez said,
“Hola
, Zachary.
¿Qué onda? ¿Cómo estás?”

I shook my head and gave him a line from my song of the day.
“No tengo a nadie …”

“That I can depend on …,”
he sang, finishing it for me.

“Something like that,” I admitted.

“I know how that can be. It’ll get better sooner or later, amigo. But in the
meantime
 …” He held up a paper and spoke loudly to the whole class, like he was the ringleader at a circus. “Ladies and gentlemen! Is everybody ready? For … the great … the amazing … the one and only …
conjugation quiz
!”

At least he tried to make his class fun, as opposed to Mr. Langley’s social studies class. I think Langley was secretly doing a psychology experiment, trying to see if it was possible to literally bore someone to death. So far we hadn’t had any outright fatalities, but a few of us had been rendered comatose.

Math was also a bummer. Ms. Littleton had gone to the DI finals, too, and we had a sub who’d evidently learned how to teach at the Langley School of Death. The first two minutes were actually amusing—until I realized that it wasn’t an act—and then the next forty-eight minutes were torture. I found myself looking for Kimber twice to pull a face.

I had to get out of there for lunch. I had to
move
. So I walked down the street to the 7-Eleven. I figured I’d get a sandwich and eat on the way back.

I never even made it inside the store.

Kevin Flanders was hanging out front with a couple of his friends, probably the same guys who were with him at Land of Lights the other night. He was leaning against what I guessed was his car—one of those little SUV-wagon-type deals … and
brand-new, too. As a drummer I could appreciate the cargo space inside that boxlike thing, but what I really want to know is, where does a high school senior get the bucks for something like that?

Anyway, other than shooting a glance at his car, I ignored him. But of course, being the kind of guy he apparently is, he couldn’t ignore me.

“Hey, look—it’s Kimmie’s little cuddle pal,” he said loudly as I approached. What a jerk. I kept on going. “Hey, did you get any?” he said as I passed by him.

I stopped. “Shut up, dude.”

“Or what?”

Good question. What did I care about this asshole? I shook my head in disgust and started back toward the store.

He took a step forward. “Hey, I’m just checking if it’s worth my time before I hit that shit.”

Something switched inside. It’s hard to describe, but if it’s ever happened to you, you know exactly what I’m talking about. Everything slows down, and your focus becomes real tight. Almost like tunnel vision.

I leaned in and spoke quietly. I didn’t want the whole world to hear, because I didn’t want it to look like I was calling him out. Just the opposite—I was warning him off. “Shut the hell up,” I hissed, “or I swear to God I’ll rip your freakin’ head off. Got it?”

He swallowed and looked around. Maybe I’d been too loud after all, or maybe his buds were a little too close. Or maybe it was just the wonderfulness of his personality. Who knows?

“Yeah,
right
,” he said loudly as he shoved me in the chest.
“Heck, if she’d give a lap dance to a loser like you, just think what she’d do for
me
. She’d probably suck my—”

I hit him. Hard.

You know how, on some songs, there’s a big dramatic drum fill building into a climactic part of the tune? And inevitably it resolves with a huge cymbal crash on the downbeat? Where you stomp on the kick drum and you just
slam
into that crash cymbal for all you’re worth?

This was like that—it was all about intent. I wasn’t trying to hit his face. My goal was to drive my fist through his head and out the back of his skull.

And apparently it worked, because one minute he’s standing there in all his immense jerkitude, and then
wham
, he’s on the ground with his hands to his face and blood everywhere. I looked over at his friends. I guess I must have been seriously mad-dogging it, because man, they didn’t
budge
.

So I turned without a word and walked back toward the school. It was probably a good move to leave before a crowd gathered, but I can’t really take credit for it. I was in a daze—I’d never done anything like that before. What the hell had come over me?

As I made my way back to the campus, I slowly became aware of three things. One: My hand hurt. A lot. Two: I never got my sandwich and I was going to be hungry sooner or later, but right then I couldn’t stand the thought of food. And three: For some strange reason, I had a big-ass grin on my face.

I spent the rest of the day waiting to be called to the principal’s office, but it never happened. Maybe Kevin just went home … or maybe because it happened off campus, the school couldn’t really do anything about it? Whatever. When I made it to the end of sixth period unscathed, I was just relieved to get the hell out of there. I guess I was also pretty naïve to think that no one else would mention it.

I ran into Kyle in the hall on my way out. “Hey, man,” he said. “I hear Kevin Flanders was mouthing off and you decked him.”

“Uh, yeah … pretty much.”

“Wow. What’d he say that pissed you off so much?”

Hmm … What I really wanted to say was
The jerk was dissing Kimber, so I came down on him like John freakin’ Bonham on “Rock and Roll.”
But that would have meant explaining why I had his little sister on my lap, and I didn’t really want to get into it. So with a straight face I said, “He was putting down the Sock Monkeys. I guess he hadn’t gotten the word that I was no longer in the band, but I didn’t really care—it gave me a good excuse to hit his punk-ass face. And you know what? It felt great.” I looked directly at him. “He reminds me of Toby.” As soon as I said it, I realized it was true. And maybe the sincerity of that last line made him buy the whole story. I could see the wheels spinning in his brain, but I wasn’t going to help him out. I turned and walked away.