by Roxie Noir
Climbing a ladder with a glass of wine in one hand and a fucked-up back isn’t easy and it’s sure as shit not smart, but it’s only about ten feet before the metal stairs start and I take those all the way up. From the top platform, the roof is waist-high and sloped, so I set my wine glass on it very carefully and hoist myself up.
And nearly fall off. Fucking Christ that hurts, and I almost slip off and tumble back to the fire escape. At the last second, I kick and scoot myself forward, t-shirt catching on the roof tiles, facedown, back screaming in pain.
Jesus, that was dumb. I lie there for a long moment, forcing myself to breathe deep, willing the pain away until it finally subsides. Slowly, I manage to crawl onto the roof until I’m seated, feet planted, elbows on knees. My back still hurts but it’s not as bad now.
And hey: I didn’t spill my wine. Small victories, right?
I sit there. I stare at the woods beyond the lodge and think about every single time I’ve been mean to Eddie when he probably didn’t deserve it. I wonder if this is my fault. If I didn’t make him feel enough like part of us. If I brought up Liam once too often, if I should have gone out of my way to be nicer to Eddie.
I watch the shadows get longer while I sip my wine. After a while I try not to think even though it feels like everything is cracking apart.
Chapter Thirteen
Trent
I stay outside for longer than I mean to, but you know what? It fucking helps. I’ve always found nature relaxing. Even in Low Valley, as a kid, I loved exploring the shitty desert dirt lots that were around my parents’ single-wide, the dirt cracked by the sun, the mountains looming off in the distance.
When I was six or so, my mom somehow got us a set of nature-themed encyclopedias. I have no idea where she got them or how she managed to use money for something useful before my dad spent it on beer, but I loved those things. I used to take them into the room I shared with Eli, my little brother, and pour over them until the ink started fading from the pages, since they weren’t particularly high-quality.
I remember the first time I saw a big tree. It’s probably a weird thing to remember, but I was ten and we were visiting my mom’s sister who lived in some shitty town in the foothills of the Sierras, a couple hours north of Low Valley, and I just remember that the trees there were gigantic, towering all the way to the sky.
Of course, my mom and my aunt got into a huge fight about something, probably my dad, and we never went back. I always hoped we would, though.
I don’t have a map or anything, and when I come out of the woods, I’m not at the trailhead where I entered. For a moment I pause, hoping that I’m at least back at the right lodge — I was pretty pissed when I left, and I wasn’t really paying attention to where I was going.
There’s someone on the roof. I walk closer.
It’s someone who looks a lot like Darcy, and she’s got a glass of wine in her hand, so I walk up to the building.
“Are you supposed to be up there?” I call, crossing my arms over my chest.
She flips me off.
“Are you supposed to be drinking up there?”
She tries to flip me off with her other hand as well, but she’s got a wine glass in that one and it doesn’t work very well.
I almost don’t go up. I think of Eddie telling Gavin and Nigel and her that everyone knows I want to fuck her, and I think prove him wrong, just go back to your own room. Watch shitty TV. Start calling all the drummers you know.
But then I look back at her, middle fingers down, shoulders slumped forward, elbows on knees, and I think: who fucking cares what Eddie says?
A minute later I hop onto the roof from the fire escape and sit next to Darcy, leaning back on my hands. She swirls the wine around her glass, then takes a sip.
“Edward Penishands,” she says after a moment, her voice thoughtful and distant.
“It was clearly a man with two dildos strapped to his fists,” I say, looking out at the woods. “It looked like he was crotch-punching the actress.”
Darcy snort-laughs.
“I’m sure someone’s into that,” she says.
“I dunno who,” I say. “I was sixteen when we stole it from the back room of the video store, and I couldn’t even jerk off to it then.”
Darcy doesn’t look at me, just takes another sip of her wine. I think she turns faintly pink, the color flushing over her cheeks, past the purple and yellow of her eye.
“There wasn’t even one redeeming scene?” she asks, looking at me. “You watched a whole porno as a teenager with zero jerkoffs?”
“There was one,” I admit grudgingly. “At the end, he gets cured of his dick-hand problem, and the big climax is him banging the girl with his normal dick. That wasn’t too bad.”
She’s slightly pinker, looking out over the forest, and I wonder if she’s thinking about the movie or if she’s thinking about me.
“Did he have to get an erection to do anything with his hands?” she asks, looking over at me.
The movie, I guess.
“I don’t remember,” I tell her. “I wasn’t particularly focused on the world-building aspects of the movie.”
“Sounds like a real handicap,” she muses. “Ever touched something that’s been in the oven with your regular hand? Now imagine it’s dick instead.”
“I’d rather not.”
“And you’d need to be constantly aroused to get anything done,” she says, then tilts her head back and drains the last of her wine glass. “Otherwise, your hands are just... floppy, pointless noodles.”
“Pointless. Thanks,” I deadpan, and Darcy laughs.
“Did he pee from his hands?” she says.
“You’re really asking for a deep dive into a porno I watch once ten years ago,” I say. “I probably couldn’t have told you the plot points right after I finished watching.”
“Well, we’ve got three weeks and nothing to do,” she says, and there’s a long pause. “Except find a new drummer, I guess.”
That’s why she’s up here. I had a feeling. We don’t say anything for a long moment, because I’m not any better at this feelings shit than she is.
“Remember when Liam left?” she finally says, her voice quiet and distant.
“You mean when we kicked him out?”
Darcy blows air out of one side of her mouth, and a strand of dark hair flies up.
“Yeah,” she says, her voice quiet and distant. “I really thought Dirtshine was done.”
“I thought it was done the night we found them,” I say.
“Then too,” she agrees.
We sit there in silence for another moment as the sun lowers in the sky, and I try not to think about it again.
It’s fucking seared in my memory forever, the second-worst night of my life: Darcy and I in the hall outside their hotel room, the four of us supposed to be on stage an hour and a half before, Liam and Gavin not answering the door.
Darcy and I pacing back and forth, arguing about where the fuck they could possibly be if they weren’t in Liam’s room. I was so fucking pissed at Gavin and Liam. For pulling this shit yet again and for being a couple of goddamn useless junkies who I had to babysit for the whole fucking tour.
And then, a memory in slow motion: a groan from inside the room, loud enough that even out in the hallway, we both heard it and stopped cold.
A bad, painful, familiar-as-fuck groan, and Darcy and I looking at each other, wide-eyed, her face white with sudden fear.
I don’t remember deciding to kick the door in. I only remember my foot connecting with the solid wood, and I remember that it took a couple blows before the lock cracked the frame and the door flew open.
There were three of them. Gavin, Liam, and Allen, one of the roadies who’d been hanging out with them. Gavin and Liam still breathing but unconscious.
Darcy checked Allen’s pulse. She had to find out he didn’t have one. I still wish it had been me.
I remember standing in the hotel hallway, peopl
e swarming around, Darcy and I holding hands as tears slid down her face. Even though I felt like I’d been fucking gutted myself, I remember that I hated, fucking hated seeing Darcy like that.
I slept in her room that night, in the giant king bed. We didn’t even touch, but neither of us wanted to be alone. I don’t think either of us really slept, neither of us said anything, either, and even though it’s been a year and a half, I still think about that night all the time. About how fucking awful it was and, despite everything, how in the morning I didn’t want to leave.
How I just wanted to stay there, with her in that silence, a little longer.
“This isn’t that,” I finally say.
“I know,” she says. “But I thought... I don’t know. I thought we were better now. It finally felt like Eddie was really one of us, you know?”
I think of Eddie’s voice saying dismissive bitch again, and my throat tightens in anger.
“Apparently, he didn’t feel that way,” I say.
“I wish I’d known,” she goes on. “I would have been nicer or something to that dipshit.”
“It wasn’t you,” I tell her. “But I did like ‘it’s fuck you o’clock.’”
Darcy laughs and leans her face against her hand.
“I can’t believe I said that.”
“I can believe it. Have you met you?”
“It felt really clever at the time.”
“I wish I could remember the rest of that insult.”
“I think ‘ass clown’ was in there.”
Darcy moves her wine glass to her other hand, stretches, and shifts so she’s sitting cross-legged on the roof. I try not to watch the way her lithe body moves under her shirt, and I try not to think about how she’s not wearing a bra.
“Twatwaffle? Did I use that one? It’s pretty good,” she says.
“I don’t think you did.”
“Damn.”
We sit there for another long moment, the afternoon calm and peaceful, both of us lost in thought. I think again of Eddie shouting at everyone that I want to fuck Darcy, and I’m quietly thankful that we’re just ignoring it.
“You think this glass would break if I threw it onto the grass?” Darcy asks.
“We’re two stories up.”
“But grass is soft.”
“It’s not that soft.”
“We used to throw things into snowbanks and they wouldn’t break,” she says, peering over the edge.
She’s arguing with me just to argue with me.
“This isn’t snowbanks and beer steins,” I say. “This is the ground and a wine glass.”
“Beer steins? That’s racist,” Darcy teases, and I laugh.
“You were in Wisconsin,” I point out.
“That’s why it’s racist.”
“Well, throw it if you’re gonna,” I say. “Otherwise, it’s bandage time.”
Darcy sighs and makes a face, but she lets me help her off the roof. I hold the wine glass as we go down the fire escape, and drop it off in the lobby on the way to my room.
This time she just walks to the table and gets her shirt off, over her head, while I pull on gloves, then tries to undo the ace bandage herself, both hands behind her back.
I grab her wrists, gently pulling them away.
“Quit it,” I say.
“I’m just trying to help.”
“Well, fucking stop,” I say.
That gets a laugh, and in a moment, I’ve got the hooks undone on the bandage and I’m unwrapping it around her. She’s naked, nearly naked, inches away from me, and I don’t give two shits if her back is covered in blisters, I want her.
I want her lips against mine. I want to kiss her neck and feel her heartbeat. I want to pinch her pink nipples and watch her arch her back with pleasure as she grabs onto me.
I want to sink myself into her and feel her come, want to hear her moan and shout because I know Darcy and I’ve got a feeling it’ll be pretty fucking loud. I want to hear my name in her mouth and on her lips and I want to kiss her afterward and not let her go.
I unwind the last layer, my body vibrating. I’m hard as fuck and I can tell already that these three weeks are going to drive me completely fucking crazy.
But I also know there’s no way I could be anywhere else.
“This might hurt,” I say, pulling gently at the edges of the tape holding the second bandage on.
“I know,” Darcy says.
I tug it off quickly, clean the burn, put all the stuff on, give her a new bandage. The whole time she stands there, head forward, the rounded vertebrae of her neck evident through her skin, a path for my lips.
I let myself slide one finger up it, like I’m moving her hair, and I could swear it raises goosebumps on her but I’m sure I’m seeing things.
“It looks better,” I finally offer, taping her back up.
“Is it still gross?”
“Yeah, it’s a real horror show back here,” I deadpan. “Worst thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Smartass,” she mutters.
I smooth tape over her side, her hip, and then we re-do the ace bandage over everything and she pulls her shirt back on. Darcy turns and looks at me, her face somehow different than normal. Beautiful and vulnerable, soft in a way I almost never see her.
I swear to God I think she’s going to kiss me, the way she studies my face for long moment, the way her perfect, plush lips just barely move.
I hold my breath, not speaking. I’m rooted to the floor, because right now this vulnerable, wounded girl has me fucking powerless.
“Okay,” Darcy finally says. “You got dinner plans?”
I clear my throat, willing my voice back.
“No,” I say, shoving my hands into my pockets. “You?”
“What do you think about ordering in Chinese and watching a dumb movie?”
“I think it sounds fucking perfect,” I say, and the spell’s broken.
Darcy pulls out her phone, starts searching, walks past me toward the couch. I pick up the TV remote to see if there’s anything good on, and then we’re talking about kung pao and fried rice and reruns.
And I think to myself, I’m not gonna last.
Chapter Fourteen
Darcy
The next day, Gavin and Nigel head back to Los Angeles. I guess Eddie leaves, too, though I don’t really give a shit about where he goes.
We decide that, rather than try to find a real replacement drummer in two weeks, all we need for now is someone to finish out the tour. That’ll be about a million times easier, and I don’t think Gavin wants the responsibility of finding a new drummer, but he can handle finding a temporary drummer.
I think he wishes Trent and I were going with him, but plane travel sounds like a nightmare right now, and Trent’s made it pretty fucking clear that he’s staying with me. He’s really dead set on seeing my gross back as much as possible, and I’ve given up arguing.
The two of us settle into a routine in the next few days, a cute little domestic-as-shit adorable routine. In the morning, whoever wakes up first hangs out in the lobby and drinks coffee until the other one shows up. We go change my bandages. We make breakfast in the tiny kitchenette, usually some variation on scrambled eggs. We play some music, we have a video chat with Trent about the drummer situation, we play some more music.
Once my back feels good enough for car rides, sometimes we go out in the afternoon: to downtown Tallwood, which is quaint as hell and very proud of its past as a major logging town; to Snokamie falls; to a lake that’s not too far away.
Then I hit up the lodge’s happy hour. We make dinner in the little kitchenette, because eating take-out gets old pretty fast. Then we pick a dumb movie and watch together, even though we usually end up talking over it.
He does my bandages again, and I go back to my room to go to bed.
I like it so much goddamn more than I should. Even though Trent and I have been friends for a while and really close for the past year, we’ve never spent
this much time together. It’s never even been close, but I like it, really like it in a way I wish I didn’t.
Because it’s really not healthy for me to want what I can’t have.
“You didn’t have to come,” I say, kicking my feet.
Trent crosses his arms over his chest, leans back in the chair, and keeps on scowling.
“I’m fine,” he says.
I roll my eyes, leaning forward on the exam table, the paper under me crinkling.
“You’re glaring the bejeezus out of every nurse who looks at you sideways,” I say.
“Darce, I’m fucking fine,” he says again.
“You can stay in the waiting room if you want,” I offer. “Or the car. I could have driven here myself.”
“You’re not on the rental agreement, and I’m here so I can change your damn bandages correctly so stop telling me to go be somewhere else, I’m already here and I’m staying,” he says.
I shove my hair out of my face — I finally got it cut, so I look normal now, not like a five-year-old did it in my sleep — and grab a pamphlet off the wall titled DIABETES AND YOU. I tried to talk Trent out of coming, because I know he fucking hates doctors and hospitals and I knew he’d be grumpy this whole time, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
I could kick him out, sure, but that would be pretty pointless, given that he’s right. So I read about high blood sugar problems and the role of obesity in insulin resistance until there’s a knock on the door and it opens, a women with graying hair and a lab coat breezing through.
“Hi, I’m Doctor Kowalski,” she says, holding out one hand. “Darcy?”
We shake hands, and I introduce Trent. He does at least stand and try to be presentable, even though I can tell he’s still in a dark, medical-facility-induced mood.
After a quick look at my vitals, all normal, Dr. Kowalski has me stand and undoes the ties down the back of my cloth gown as I hold the front tightly over my chest.