Suckers (25 page)

“Get something from the vending machine.” Those things were out there somewhere. And maybe they’d ignore Ray right now—they’d ignored
him
—or maybe they wouldn’t. It wasn’t a chance he wanted to take.

“You want to head back tonight? A couple cups of coffee along the way and I’ll be good to drive. I don’t think I could sleep anytime soon after that anyway,” Ray said.

Dan shook his head, gripped by the image of those things chasing the car all the way home, dark wings swooping through the night. “Let’s hole up till daylight.”

“It’s a plan then. I’ll grab some chips and Cokes from the vending machine.”

Dan’s stomach growled.
Starving
. He stretched his legs out and tugged the blankets closer as Ray got to his feet. Man, but he’d lucked out—because who the fuck else would have put up with all this shit and still been around to get him junk food from the vending machine? While Ray left the room, he hauled himself to his knees, taking the blankets with him. He just wanted to get on the bed, away from the fucking smell of the carpet. He got as far as kneeling at the edge before he had to rest. His muscles ached like he’d spent a long day pushing boulders.

Ray returned as quickly as he’d promised, with Snickers bars and Doritos bags clutched to his chest. Dan dragged himself onto the bed. His legs were heavy—his
shoulders
were heavy. As Ray scooped a candy bar off the floor—
Snickers Really Satisfies You—
a wave of impatience barreled through Dan. Fuck but he was starving.

“Here.” Ray unwrapped the bar for him, then tore open a bag of chips.

Dan ripped a chunk off, teeth sinking into thick nougat and caramel.

A soft drink hissed as Ray opened it. He sat by Dan, making the mattress dip.

“See anything out there?” Dan pushed the empty wrapper off the side of the bed.

“Not a thing, thank God. Have the chips. I got them for you. And a couple more candy bars too.” He stretched a leg out to dig in his pocket for them.

“What about you?”

“I ate dinner already. I’m good with this.” He held up the Coke.

“Thanks.”

“Do you think it’s over?” Ray said when Dan had emptied the chip bag.

Jesus. They’d flown right out the window. All of them, right out in the world. His appetite slipped away. “I think they’ll get someone else, and it’ll happen all over again, only there’s more of them flying around now.”

Ray was quiet.

Dan didn’t feel like eating another candy bar. He folded the wrapper over the one he’d started.

Ray said, “I meant for you.”

He pulled himself up so he was slouched against the headboard. “I hope so.” He straightened his legs. He hated this fucking shitty room. “If it’s not, I don’t know what I’m gonna do. Check in to that hospital in Virginia, I guess?”

Ray put an arm around him, pulling his shoulders sideways till he leaned against his side. Dan let his head settle. He was so fucking tired. His stomach gurgled like it needed more food, but he couldn’t face eating now.

“You want to head back home as soon as it’s light?” Ray said.

“Fuck
yes
. What time is it?”

“Early enough for you to get some rest before then.”

He closed his eyes. He looked forward to being dead to the world for eight or nine hours solid. He hoped his body could follow through on that promise.

† † †

When he woke, he was alone on the bed.

“Ray?”

Water pattered on the other side of the wall.

A half-eaten candy bar lay on the floor, and now it looked really fucking good. He finished it off and washed it down it with warm Coke.

Ray came out of the bathroom, toweling his hair. “How do you feel?” was the first thing he said.

“Tired. Sore. Hungry. A little sick—I think I ate too much sugar. I feel like we’ve gone back to touring in a van and staying in hotel rooms with not enough beds.”

“Just like the good old days,” Ray said.

Daylight splashed through the window. He thought of those things flying out it last night.

“I feel like myself.” He rolled over, laying his face on his arm. “It’s not as good as how I felt after drinking blood, but it’s not as shitty as I felt when I hadn’t drunk any, and it’s kind of good to feel like myself again.”

Ray stood by the bed, watching, jeans hanging off his hips, water droplets on his shoulders. “Good. I’m looking forward to being a musician again. This phlebotomy shit is for the birds.”

Dan smiled. “When do you want to start working on the album?”

Ray dragged in a breath, lines digging into his face.

“If I’m really okay, when can we start working on it?” Dan said. “I’m going nuts with all this getting nothing done”—like their next album. Or anything fucking else in his life.

He had to take a leak. And a shower. And get the fuck
out
of this place, back to normal life.

“Well, whenever you’re ready,” Ray said, “I’m ready. But let’s give it a few days at least to make sure you’re ready? I want to fire another letter off in the meantime, about these fucking things coming out of you. For all the good that’ll do.”

Dan pushed up. He didn’t want to think about those fucking things anymore. Just wanted to get the fuck on with his life. “Call Sound Block when we get back and see how soon we can get rehearsal space. We can at least move our shit in.”

“You got it.”

On his feet, he felt free for the first time since they’d entered that fucking alley. The bathroom was still steamy from Ray’s shower. Once he was standing under a stream of hot water himself, his brain started to work, asking questions he didn’t want to deal with—like, what had he just let loose on the world?

Dan’s sleep was infested with fat black bodies whipping through in the night, but when he woke up, he had no headache, no buzzing. His body was his own—worn out, a little battered, but his own.

Ray called to say Sound Block had space for them. They just had to get their equipment out of his mom’s barn, and for that they needed Ray’s brother’s truck. While they waited for Buddy to have a chance to lend it to them, they hung out, playing—not necessarily writing, just playing. And not talking about what happened—not with words at least. It was there, though, in the way they caught each other’s eye, in the way one or the other looked away—to light a cigarette, to tune a string, to twist the cap off a bottle that
didn’t
contain blood.

Ray looked better. His face had some flesh back. His skin had color again. He’d gone back to shaving, taking a few years off with the swipe of a blade.

Hanging out made Dan think of high school, of summer vacations, when they did nothing
but
hang out, fretting strings until their fingers were peeling, deeper skin hardened underneath. Those thoughts found their way to his last trip to the Dunkin’ Donuts on the corner, and the classmate who’d recognized him. What a freak he must have seemed, running out of the store like that. Or an asshole.

She deserved something nice coming her way.

The day Ray could get the truck, Dan walked down to the doughnut shop at about the same time he’d shown up before. The place was as slow as last time. He leaned on the counter, waiting as the same woman he’d talked to before finished putting coffee in the Bunn.

When she saw him, her face flashed into a smile. “Hey!”

“Hey yourself. How’s things?”

“Not bad.” She closed the lid on the coffee machine. “What can I get you?”

“Large, regular. And…I really want to apologize about the last time I was in.”

She waved him off with the towel she was using to wipe her hands. “Don’t worry about it. Hey, I looked up Ray Ford online. You know, just to see. And
you
”—she leveled a finger at him—“left out some info.”

“Yeah, I…really wasn’t in the frame of mind to get into it. But maybe this will make up for it?” He drew their first CD from his pocket—
Regrets Are for the Dead
—signed by all three of them, a giveaway that hadn’t managed to get given away.

“For serious?” She picked it up, beaming, then looked at him. “I looked up some of your stuff on YouTube. You guys are good. How did I not know about you?”

He shrugged a little bashfully.

“I’m so freakin’ out of the loop on everything. Now I’d be even more afraid to talk to Ray.”

“Uh, well, I hope not.”

“What?
What?
What did you do?”

He glanced toward the windows. “He should be here any minute. He’s picking me up.”

“Oh no! And I look like this? With this stupid visor on? All I did this morning was pull my hair back in an elastic!”

“Shh. You look fine. Really.”

“Oh God. He doesn’t remember me, does he?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t mention you. I figured that would take the pressure off. What’s your name?”

“Patricia. Patty Donnelly it would have been then. It’s Griggs now, but only because I’ve been too lazy to change my I.D. and bank accounts all again.”

“Nice to meet you, Patricia.” He offered his hand. When she took it in her warm fingers, he heard nothing but silence inside his skull. His smile broadened. He almost laughed.

She looked over his shoulder, to the plate glass. “Oh no,” she said. “Oh no. It would have been hard enough if he weren’t famous and all.”

Dan laughed. “I don’t know about famous. He’ll be thrilled you’ve heard of us.” He thought of Esmy’s shop, and the Dead Weather confusion.

The door swept open. Ray strolled in.

“Hey,” Dan said. “You want a coffee or something?”

Patricia fidgeted with the displays at the cash register, almost knocking one over. He wanted to laugh again.

“I could use a coffee.”

“Sure. Hey, do you remember Patricia? Patty. She went to Central with us.”

“Hi,” she said, her cheeks as red as the insides of a raspberry doughnut. She clutched her towel like she was ready to crawl under the counter.

“How’ve you been?” Ray said.

“Good! Well, you know, except I’m working here, and I’m twenty-eight and divorced with two kids and all, but other than that.”

“Gotta make a living, right? Gimme a large black.”

“Coming right up!”

Dan, leaning against the counter, watched Ray—completely oblivious to Patricia’s startled, bird-like movements. She yelped and said, “Shoot,” as she knocked a half-full coffee over with the edge of the carafe, and Dan pressed his lips together.

“What are you grinning at?” Ray asked.

He lifted his eyebrows and shook his head.

“Here you go. Sorry about the delay.” She set both their coffees down as Dan slipped his wallet out of his pocket. “Oh, no,” she said. “On the house.”

“You gave me a whole bag of coffee on the house already.” He held the card out. “You keep giving stuff away, they’re not going to be able to afford to keep you in a job. Go on, ring it up.”

Ray sipped off his coffee.

“Come on,” Dan said. “I don’t want people to start thinking I’m that guy who thinks so much of himself he expects people to give him shit.”

“Charge him so we can get out of here. Otherwise we’re never going to get this next record going.”

“You’re working on a new record?” She punched their drinks in the register.

“Yep.”

“That’s wicked cool. I don’t even have any idea how that works. I mean, I guess you go into a studio and all.”

“Eventually,” Ray said.

“We’re in the writing phase now,” Dan said.

“This is, what, your eighth?”

“Counting the live one, yeah,” Ray said.

“Well, good luck on it,” she said. “Or am I supposed to say ‘break a leg’?”

“You know, I have no idea,” Ray said. “You take care of yourself.” He gave her a wink before he turned for the doors. Dan stuffed his wallet back in his pocket and grabbed his own coffee. He gave her a wink and smile of his own.