Bad Penny

by Staci Hart

  He went to get us our fourth drink during the set change. And by the time he got back, the lights were dimming, and the crowd screamed and clapped as Rodney walked out from backstage.

  It was then that I realized something very important — far too late for it to matter.

  I’d had a lot of bad ideas in my life, but agreeing to meet Bodie at Lucky’s that night was hands down the worst.

  My breath was still, my eyes blinking as Rodney fucking Parker — my albatross and cross to bear — took the microphone in a leather jacket and skinny jeans, looking like a goddamn motherfucking god.

  He wasn’t a boy anymore. He was a man with a guitar and a voice and that hair and those hands. I was like a bug in a spiderweb with my eyes locked onto Rodney as I struggled to break free. For two years, I’d been obsessed with him even though he hurt me, and there he was, in the flesh, a grown man, resurrected. My past stood there before me, and my future stood next to me whole I stood in the middle, completely frozen from the unanticipated shock of it all.

  If I’d been able to form a cognizant thought, I would have grabbed Bodie’s hand and run out of that stuffy, steamy, loud room like it was on fire. But since my brain had ceased primary functions, I found myself stuck to the spot with my mouth open and my drink warming in my hand.

  It was bad. So, so bad.

  I found my wits somewhere near the end of the set, stiff drink in my hand and stiff Bodie next to me. I snuck a glance at him and found him somehow looking even more pissed than he had when I walked up an hour late.

  Disaster. Complete fucking disaster.

  I slammed my drink, teetering a little under the burn as the no-longer-chilled tequila made its way through my esophagus, and then there was only one thing to do — get the fuck out of there as quickly as possible.

  I grabbed Bodie’s hand and lifted my chin, tilting my head to indicate I wanted to talk to him, and he lowered his face so I could reach his ear.

  “Let’s go,” I said hastily and with a little bit of a slur.

  He nodded, everything about him softening with relief, but before we could even take a step, Rodney was on the mic, and I heard my name.

  “Penny! Hey, guys,” Rodney said, his voice rumbling at a trillion decibels from forty-eight-million speakers. “Check it out. See that girl there with the blue hair and the hips that could knock a motherfucker out?”

  He pointed straight at me, and everyone turned around to gawk, except Bodie. Bodie stared at Rodney like he wanted to separate his head from his body.

  “Come on up here, Pen.”

  I shook my head.

  “Come on! Help me out, guys. Pen-ny. Pen-ny. Pen-ny.”

  The entire fucking joint was chanting my name, and the next thing I knew, I was being pulled toward the stage by strangers, looking back over my shoulder at Bodie, begging for him to save me, begging for him to forgive whatever was about to happen.

  I was lifted up and put on the stage, and before I could even protest, I was in Rodney’s arms, pressed up against his chest as I angled away, scanning the crowd for Bodie, but I couldn’t see shit. I didn’t even know how Rodney had picked me out.

  Stupid fucking hair. Dead giveaway.

  “So, you might know Penny from her TV show, Tonic.”

  The crowd cheered.

  “Well, wouldn’t you know it? Penny used to be my girlfriend a long, long time ago, but I was a stupid little prick back then.” His tone was self-deprecating, and I didn’t buy it at all. “I wrote some of your favorite songs for her because, let me tell you something — you don’t forget a girl like Penny.”

  He turned to me, all smiles as he let me go and stepped back, slinging his guitar from back to front, calling the song to the guys, and the drummer kicked off the beat.

  And I stood there on the fucking stage with a hundred lights on me, a screaming crowd — minus one pissed off Bodie — singing along as Rodney serenaded me with their biggest hit. The song was a drug-and-addiction metaphor for love, all about this muse who had ruined him, left him hanging to dry, spent and tired and needing more.

  I felt like he’d gotten his wires crossed about what had gone down between us.

  I was shocked and stunned, locked to the spot to the side of the stage by the expectations of several hundred people. I couldn’t walk off without causing a scene, and there were all those faces and eyes and lights — so many lights, blinding and sharp — pinning me down as a zillion thoughts zinged through my head.

  I legitimately want to die.

  Where did Bodie go?

  God, there are so many people staring at me right now.

  I should get an award for being so fucking dumb.

  Fuck, it’s so loud. This is ridiculous.

  I should walk. But what if he stops the song? Then everyone is going to boo.

  Do I even care?

  Yes, yes, I care if three hundred people boo me.

  Bodie’s watching. He’s got to be so pissed. I would be a raging psycho.

  Why didn’t we leave? We should have left.

  What the fuck do I do with my hands?

  I should have fucking called this off. Stupid, Penny. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Am I supposed to smile? Dance? Sing along? I don’t even know the damn words.

  Seriously, death would be a welcome release. Any second now, I’ll get struck by lightning and be put out of my misery.

  And so on for approximately four minutes, while I stood there like a fucking idiot, wishing I could run like hell.

  The song ended, mercifully, and Rodney made his way over, reaching for me for what I thought would be a kiss on the cheek.

  Wrong again. So, so wrong.

  His lips hit mine, soft and familiar, sending a rush of memories back to me, and I immediately turned my head, smiling awkwardly as I attempted to push him away. Discomfort covered me like a bucket of slime, and I pushed harder.

  He finally stopped, but before he let me go, he nuzzled into my ear. “Come see me backstage after the show.” His hand snaked down to my ass, and he squeezed it. “Fuck, you look good.”

  I pushed away from him hard, furious on the inside, laughing uncomfortably on the outside, with my cheeks flaming and all those people staring at me. When I turned, a security guy waited behind me with a hand extended to guide me down the stairs, and as I made my way down, I searched for Bodie in the crowd.

  All I caught was a glimpse of the back of his head and the set of his shoulders as he wound his way through the crowd toward the door.

  “Fuck, shit, fuck,” I hissed, a little wobbly from the tequila as I hurried as best as I could after him through the throng of people to the deafening sound of the band’s final song.

  I burst through the door and onto the sidewalk to find Bodie storming away.

  “Bodie, wait!” I called after him.

  He didn’t stop.

  My heart broke, and I trotted to catch up, laying a hand on his arm.

  “Bodie, please,” I said.

  He whirled around so fast, I almost fell backward.

  His eyes were hard, his jaw set and lips a thin line. I barely recognized him. “What?” he shot.

  And the accusation in that single syllable cut through me.

  “I … I—” I stammered with my mouth open like a trout, completely stunned by the shift in him, though not at all surprised. I deserved every bit of his anger and braced myself.

  “Jesus, Penny. What the fuck am I supposed to do with you?”

  I blinked, angling away from him a little. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  He took a controlled breath, his eyes boring into me like icy blue drills. “I’ve done everything I know to do to try to make you happy, and the second things got real, you dropped me like a bad fucking habit. You didn’t speak to me for days — days, after everything — and when you did call, you called to tell me he called you.” He jabbed a single finger at the venue. “And then? Then we came here together—”

  “Hang on, tha
t was your idea! I didn’t even want—” I tried to say over him, but he was a steamroller.

  “—And the whole fucking time you were staring at him like he was God’s fucking gift. He treated you like garbage, Penny. Fucking trash. And then you went up on that stage and you fucking kissed him and I just can’t with you, Penny. I can’t.”

  I fumed and stuck my own skinny finger in his broad chest. “I didn’t kiss him, you asshole. He kissed me, and I tried to get away from him!”

  He laughed, a sound as dry and hot as the desert. “Please. You laughed and smiled and stood there instead of walking away.”

  My heart stopped and started again with a painful kick. “What the hell was I supposed to do? Make a huge scene on the stage? Bodie, for fuck’s sake, I came here with you.”

  “You haven’t spoken to me in days!” he raged, the muscles in his neck taut and red. “You left me hanging, blew me off, and I’m supposed to feel good about you kissing that prick in front of three hundred people? I mean, what the actual fuck, Pen?”

  “Hey, Penny,” Rodney said from behind me.

  I looked back in horror to find him jogging up with a smile on his face.

  “I thought you were coming backstage?”

  One second, Bodie was standing there with his fists clenched, looking like a coil about to spring, and the next, his arm was pulled back, and he coldcocked Rodney in the face.

  I watched the whole thing happen in slow motion, accompanied by a series of noises — the smack of knuckles against flesh, my gasp, Rodney yelling Son of a bitch!, and Bodie’s heavy breathing as he shook out his hand.

  Rodney crumpled to the ground, and out of sheer, shocked instinct, I reached for him to help him sit up as he held his bleeding nose.

  “What the fuck, man?” Rodney yelled but narrowed his eyes as he really got a good look at Bodie. “Wait … Diddle?”

  But Bodie just shook his head and looked at me with eyes as cold and sharp as a switchblade. “You two deserve each other,” he said. And then he turned and walked away.

  Tears burned my eyes, my throat in a vise, my gaze on Bodie as he stormed down the sidewalk, taking all my hopes and wishes with him.

  Ruined. I was ruined. My heart was ruined. And it had been ruined long before I let him in.

  Rodney tried to make sense of what was going on, inspecting me. “You’re dating Diddle?”

  I sniffed, blinking to keep my tears at bay as I pulled Rodney to stand. “It’s complicated.”

  Rodney wiped the blood from his nose and inspected his hand. “Well, he’s gone now. Come on backstage.”

  He smiled around the gore on his face, the effect gruesome and sickening. Or maybe it was the tequila. Or the fact that Bodie had just dropkicked my heart.

  I shook my head. “I just really want to go home.”

  His smile widened as he tried to put his arm around me. “I’ll take you.”

  I turned to avoid his grip. “I can make it on my own. Thanks for the tickets, Rodney.”

  That smile of his fell, slipping into anger. “Hang on. You’re not actually ditching me for Diddle, are you? That fucking loser never had a shot with you, not then and not now. He always had a thing for you. So fucking embarrassing.”

  I clenched my teeth, hot anger boiling in my ribs as the flip switched, illuminating everything I’d avoided, lighting up all the things that had been right in front of me the whole time, if only I hadn’t been too blind to see.

  “Fuck you, asshole,” I fired. “He’s fucking incredible. You’re the loser. How dare you. How dare you call me up on that stage and embarrass me and kiss me without my permission in front of all those people. You son of a bitch — you ruined me, and now you think you can call me up and bring me to a show and fuck me like you used to?”

  He shrugged and ran his tongue over his teeth, his hands slipping into his pockets and his body shifting into a position that was intended to dominate, intimidate. “Listen, Pen. You’re a thing — you’re on TV — and I’m in a band. We’ve got status, and we make sense, more now than ever. Why wouldn’t I try to get back in with you? I mean, look at you. You and me on camera? On tour? I could fuck you like a rock star, just like before.”

  “Fuck you, Rodney,” I said with a shaky breath.

  I turned to go, but he grabbed my arm and said my name. And when I turned, it was with my tiny fist balled up and flying toward his eyeball.

  The pop was the most satisfying sound I’d ever heard in my life.

  Rodney yelled and doubled over, hands over his eye and ruined nose. “What the fuck, Penny? God, you always were such a fucking psycho,” he said to his shoes.

  So I did the only thing I could.

  I put my hands on his shoulders and kneed him as hard as I could in the balls. And then I left that motherfucker next to the gutter where he belonged.

  18

  HAIR OF THE DOG

  Penny

  When I cracked my eyelids the next morning, the very first in my list of regrets was the tequila.

  I felt like I’d been hit by a smelly, greasy garbage truck driven by Macho Man, who happened to be high on cocaine.

  My stomach rolled, and I shifted to lie on my back, hoping to calm the raging bile down as it crept up my esophagus. A long drag of air through my nose helped, and I swallowed, reaching for the glass of water on my nightstand.

  Bad, wrong. Bad, wrong, was the song my heart screamed, my brain expanding and contracting in my skull with every masochistic beat.

  Yeah, tequila was the mistake that demanded all my attention. But Bodie was the regret that had broken me in the first place.

  The night came back to me, not in flashes but like a creeping fog, spreading over me in tendrils. Bodie, distant and hot and angry, so different from the sunshine I’d found in him before. Rodney calling me onstage. The cold dread I’d felt as I chased Bodie out. The hurt when he’d thrown my heart on the steaming pavement. The satisfying pain from punching Rodney in his stupid fucking eyeball.

  I flexed my aching right hand at the memory, and pain shot across the bones up to my wrist.

  “Fuck,” I croaked, opening my bleary eyes just enough to inspect my swollen phalanges.

  My knuckles were split and swollen, fingers bruised, especially where one of my rings had been. Thankfully I’d taken it off or I probably would have had to cut it off. On top of that, I’d broken a nail over that fucker.

  Worth it.

  Of course, in a few hours, I’d have to use that hand to tattoo people all day. And as I closed my fist, I realized just how bad that was going to suck.

  Still wouldn’t suck as badly as the fact that Bodie and I were through.

  He was right, and he was wrong. I was right, and I was wrong. I should have gone after him. I should have called him or texted him. I should have known better than to go to that show at all, especially with Bodie.

  I shouldn’t have waited so long.

  I should have talked to him about how I felt.

  And now it was probably too late.

  Tears pricked my eyes, and I took a deep, shaky breath again. I’d come home to an empty apartment, drunk and hurt and defeated. A long shower couldn’t wash away my guilt or sadness or loss. It couldn’t erase all the things Bodie had said. It couldn’t wash the dirt off my heart after I picked it up and carried it home. So I dried off, threw on the first thing I could grab from my drawer — panties and an inside-out New Order T-shirt — and slipped into my sheets in the dark.

  And then I cried.

  I cried until my pillow was damp and the burning in my chest had died down to a smolder. I cried until my eyes were swollen and my nose was red. And when I finally caught my breath and the tears ran dry, I slipped into a fitful sleep.

  My muddled dreams ran in circles, waking intermittently to open my eyes to find my room spinning, tequila metabolizing out of my mouth and back into my nose. I hadn’t been smart enough to eat anything or take anything, and I felt that mistake too.

  I reac
hed for my phone to check the time, and a shot of adrenaline sent my tender stomach on a turn when I wondered if he’d called or texted.

  He hadn’t.

  And I was about to be late for work.

  “Shit,” I hissed and sat up too fast, dimming my vision and sending me back into the spins, heart banging its warning as I pressed the heels of my palms into my eye sockets until it passed.

  I expended a healthy amount of caution as I slipped out of bed and shuffled around my room, pulling on jeans and Chucks, taking my shirt off to put it on right side out. At that point, I stumbled back to my bed and sat, wondering if I was still drunk. But no. I was dehydrated and brokenhearted, but I wasn’t drunk. So I drank the glass of water on my nightstand, took four ibuprofen to guarantee success, and got out of bed, praying to the Mexican devil Agave that I would survive the day.

  No makeup happened, and I pulled my hair up into a messy bun to match my messy life, tying a red rolled up bandana around my thumping skull, knotting it at the top. I didn’t even look in the mirror. That was how you know shit was real.

  I put on my biggest, darkest shades and hurried as best I could out the door and into the humid, sticky summer day to head to Tonic. The walk felt forever long, and I felt beyond dead.

  By the time I opened the door and stepped into the air conditioning, I was practically dragging myself. The shop was loud and buzzing, and I didn’t take my sunglasses off as I headed straight for my station with the singular goal to sit the fuck down.

  If the music had been a record, it would have screeched to a halt at my entrance. The entire crew stared at me like I might bite them, and I might have if they’d stopped me from getting into my chair.

  I dropped my bag and climbed into my tattoo chair, sighing as the cold leather touched my overheated skin, and I closed my eyes, leaning the chair back without a single fuck to give about anything but trying not to puke.

  “Rough night?” Ramona said from my elbow.

  I cracked my eyes to see the dark shape of her through my glasses.

  “You could say that.” My voice was gravelly and deeper than usual from all the yelling and crying.