Stay Until We Break (Hub City Romance, A)

by Mercy Brown

  Cole takes a breath and his eyes dart to the stage and then back to me again. I look over to see Anton staring at us and I have to look away as I feel my face heat up. See, I’ve been the butt of jokes between guys before and I can feel a setup from a mile away.

  “Is this some sort of game to you?” I accuse him.

  “Is what a game?” he says.

  “Why did you kiss me?”

  “Hey—you very clearly kissed me that time,” he says. “Not that I didn’t enjoy it.”

  “But you . . . you . . . started it. I think.”

  “Yeah, well I’d sure like to finish it,” he says. “But I can’t when you’re so damned shitcanned.”

  “I’m not shitcanned! I’m just buzzed!”

  “I’m not having a repeat of this morning’s sunburn, thanks.” He sighs, clearly exasperated, and takes his bass out of my lap, nodding to the empty seat next to us. “Do you mind?”

  I slide over. Then he gets up with his bass and leaves to go put it back in the case. I watch him walk off, my stomach in knots. Okay, I admit I am sort of drunk and it’s not the best time to go reading into a bunch of shit with him. It’s Cole—not Hank Hanley. I’m twenty-one, not sixteen and back at PDS, having the shit teased out of me by all the jocks.

  I follow Cole back to the gear alcove. When he turns around and sees me there, I say, “Okay, fine. I started it. That kissing thing back there? Totally me.”

  He cracks a smile and I decide that I should maybe try that whole kissing thing again, just to, you know, underscore my point. I take a step to him and put my arms around his neck, feel his arms wrap around my waist, and decide, okay. Kiss him, Sunny. Just do it. Do it while your blood alcohol content is still high enough. Kiss him.

  So I do—or try to—but he pulls back and untangles my arms from around his neck. Then he takes both my hands in his and gives me a funny look.

  “I think we need to have a little chat,” he says, squeezing my hand.

  My heart fills with dread. Here’s where he tells me he’s really not interested in me like that, you know, and how we need to just stay friends and not do this because it’s too complicated.

  “Look, I’m really sorry,” I start. “You don’t have to say it. I get it.”

  “Get what?”

  Cole stands right in front of me now, his thumbs hooked in the belt loops of his jeans. I’m not sure if I wish I were more sober or more drunk by this point. Then he puts his arms around me, and in one very unexpected move he lifts me up onto the speaker cabinet. He leans down, trails his lips along my ear again, and I immediately start to breathe heavy, my head all foggy now with how close we are.

  “I just think we need some ground rules here, before we drive each other and everyone else insane on this trip,” he whispers, trailing his finger down my arm. I lean my head against his shoulder, and before I realize what I’m even doing, my hands are in his hair and I’m running my nose along his neck, inhaling him.

  “I hate rules,” I whisper into his ear. I kiss him right behind it and feel him shudder. “I’m more of an anarchist.”

  “Fuck, Sunny,” he says, gripping me. “You’re making this so hard.”

  “Come on, let’s talk in the van,” I say.

  “No,” he says. “No, we are not going out to the van.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” he says. “If we go out to the van I won’t be able to keep my hands off you. Especially not in this dress.”

  “But I want your hands on me,” I say. “Come on, you know that.”

  “Look, if you want this, you have to find a way to let me know when you’re not wasted, okay? So I can be sure.”

  “I’m not wasted,” I insist. “I’m just a little buzzed.”

  “Yeah? Can you drive?”

  I can’t even look him in the eye as I decide whether to lie or not.

  “Just because I’m wasted doesn’t mean I don’t know what I want.”

  “Those are my terms,” he says.

  “Since when does a hookup come with terms? Isn’t that why they’re called hookups and not relationships?”

  He takes a deep breath and looks away, down the hallway. His jaw flexes as he clenches his teeth and steps back.

  “I know how that sounded, but that’s not what I mean,” I say. “You don’t understand . . .”

  “Oh, I do understand,” he says. “Trust me. Better than you probably realize.”

  “But . . .”

  Emmylou passes by and pauses to give us a sidelong glance. She must see something in Cole’s look because she walks toward us.

  “I’m heading up front to catch Crown’s set,” Cole says when she gets near. “They sound great tonight.”

  “Yeah, they sound like they’re touring, all right. Totally solid.”

  “Cool.” He nods and leaves without saying anything more.

  Emmylou raises her eyebrows and I shrink inside. I know she wants the whole story, but I can’t. I’m in no shape to tell it.

  “What was that all about?” she asks. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’m fine.”

  “Is he?”

  “Yeah, it was nothing,” I say and force myself to smile. “Let’s get another pitcher while they’re still pouring.”

  ***

  Emmy and I drink all the rest of the night, because we’re out on the road and I guess this is what bands do on the road when the pitchers are free. By now Joey is pretty tanked, too, and so are all of Crown the Robin. After the club closes and the gear is all loaded into the vans, Emmy, Joey, and I sit in the back of Steady Beth waiting for Travis and Cole to get paid so we can go crash at Thrash Lane’s apartment. By this point I really am shitcanned. Truly. Falling down on the job. Too drunk to even notice, let alone care. Emmy’s lying across the backseat, her head in my lap and her feet in Joey’s.

  “What’s his problem?” I mutter. “What is his Goddamn problem. What is his problem.”

  “Who, Joey?” Emmy says. “Now you’ve got a beef with the beefcake?”

  “No,” I answer. “The Puritan. That guy who stands on your left every night on stage?”

  “Oh, you two,” Emmy says. She tries to shake her finger at me but it’s all wide swiping and she hits me in the nose. “You need to just fuck already. Get it over with before you kill each other.”

  “Ah, always the romantic, Emmy,” Joey says.

  “I’m so serious,” she drawls in a drunken slur. “I don’t know why you didn’t pull the trigger last night, girl.”

  “I tried!” I say. “But now he says I have to be sober if I want to hook up with him, and being sober on the road is for pussies.”

  “Hey, pussies are tough,” she says. “You should’ve seen the thrashing mine took last night.”

  “Nope,” I say. “No thank you.”

  “And now I’m thinking of tough, leathery twats like overcooked steak at Denny’s,” Joey says. “I think you just turned me gay for real, Emmy.”

  “So? You were at least halfway there already,” she says. “Whether it’s Cole or Henry Rollins who seals the deal, that’s the only question now.”

  “I don’t think we’re likely to meet Henry Rollins on this tour, and it’s already well established that Cole is into Trap, not me.”

  “Really?” I say. “Wait, really? Cole is actually into Travis? You mean sexually?”

  “I think I just got turned on,” Emmylou says. “Is that wrong?”

  “Not if they’ll let us watch,” I say.

  “Travis won’t,” she says. “But Cole? With enough whiskey, definitely. That boy is like a walking porno. He’ll fuck anything and/or anyone.”

  “Well, now I’m just offended,” I say.

  “Sunny, you’re not just anyone,” Joey says. “Not to Cole.”

&nb
sp; “Not to any of us. You’re one of us now.” Emmy’s eyes close as her mouth stretches in a wide, silly smile. She reaches up and puts her arms around my neck and pulls me down until I’m stooped over so far our noses are touching. “You belong to us,” she says and gives me a wicked grin.

  “Yeah, well McCormack needs to lighten up,” I say. “We’re not going to be young forever. Now’s our time to be irresponsible assholes.”

  “Oh, Cole’s never been young, Sunny,” Emmy says with a yawn. “That guy was middle-aged by high school. I don’t even think he knows how to be young.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” I say, “Hooking up with different girls every weekend and playing in a band seems like a good start if you ask me.”

  “That’s just young on the outside,” she says. Emmy looks at me, I’d say thoughtfully but she’s too drunk to be thinking much. “He’s had a rough life.”

  “Emmylou, shut it,” Joey says. “If he wants her to know that shit he’ll tell her himself. And I’m sure he doesn’t.”

  “Hey, she’s one of us now,” Emmy says as her head falls back into my lap. “Of course he wants her to know, he just doesn’t know how to tell her. I mean, how do you work that into everyday conversation?”

  “Wants me to know what?”

  Right at that moment there’s a huge “WHIZZ! BANG!” from outside the car and we all shriek. Then there’s another. And another.

  “Holy shit, what is this? Gunfire? In downtown Lexington?” I scream, covering my ears with my hands. “Oh my God, is the club being robbed? Are we being shot at?”

  “No, no,” Joey says, sticking his head out the side door. “Those assholes are attacking us with Roman candles!”

  “Who’s attacking?” I ask.

  “Crown!” Joey says, pulling the door shut again just as a bottle rocket goes whizzing by.

  “Are they aware this vehicle has a gas tank?” I ask. “Or are they trying to actually kill us?”

  “Emmylou, start the van!” I hear Travis yelling from outside, but Emmy’s so drunk, she just rolls right onto floor as she tries to get up.

  “Where the fuck are the spare keys?” she mumbles into the carpet. “Where’s my bag? Where’s my face?”

  The doors swing open and Travis and Cole leap into their seats and slam the doors shut again.

  “Holy shit, these guys are more insane than usual,” Travis says.

  “I told ya—bona fide road sickness,” Cole says. “You could see it in their eyes when they showed up today.”

  Travis cranks “T.N.T.” by AC/DC on the stereo and puts the van in reverse, but just before he hits the gas, there’s a loud clomping sound on the roof and a “whoop whoop whoop!” sound like a strangled, drunk bird just landed on us.

  “What the hell was that?” I yell.

  “We’re under attack!” Joey yells. “I told you we should have stopped at that roadside fireworks stand, Trap!”

  “Don’t worry,” Cole says. “Joey, get me a can of Jolt out of the cooler, will ya?”

  Joey pulls the cooler out and takes the can and shakes it as hard as he can. He hands it to Cole, who climbs halfway out the front passenger-side window, rips the top open, and then sprays it at whatever—whoever—is on the roof of Steady Beth. Anton and Elliot run up alongside of us, pelting the side of the van with pretzels, Anton aiming handfuls right at Cole’s head.

  “You sick bastard!” Miles laughs madly from on top of the van. “I’ll see you in hell!”

  “Shit, that’s going to rip the paint right off her!” Travis says as Jolt comes running down the sides of the van.

  “Got a better idea?” Cole shoots back.

  “Yeah, try this.” Trap reaches into his pocket and hands Cole what looks like a two tiny blue bombs. “After Elliot almost killed you, I figured we were entitled to a little reparation.”

  “Smoke bomb!” Joey yells. “This is so epic!”

  “Who’s got a lighter?” Travis asks.

  “I do,” Cole says, reaching into his pocket. He pulls it out, lights one, and throws it onto the sidewalk right at Anton’s feet. Then he lights the other and lobs it on top of the roof. Blue smoke comes billowing off the sidewalk, down from the top of the van, into the windows, and we all gag and cough.

  “Shit!” Travis says, trying to wave the smoke back out of the windows. He steps on the gas and we lurch forward and hear a loud “Yeehaw, bitches!” as I imagine Miles riding us like we’re an enormous skateboard. How he’s still up there on the roof, as drunk as he is, is beyond me. Travis steps on the brakes again and Miles hollers like a banshee before he jumps down onto the sidewalk, coughing his face off. Trap puts the van in reverse, and then peels out as Cole climbs back into his seat. We take off down the street, leaving a trail of blue smoke and Crown the Robin in our wake.

  Chapter Eight

  Sonia

  Leaving the Wrocklage, we think we have the perfect getaway. We laugh and pat ourselves on the back for leaving Crown the Robin in the dust. That is, until we get out to the edge of town and realize we don’t know where we’re going.

  “Sunny,” Travis says, pulling Steady Beth over to the side of the road. “Give Cole the address to Thrash Lane’s place so he can find it on the map. We’ll meet up with everyone there.”

  “Oh,” I say, feeling really dumb. “Was I supposed to get that?”

  “Well, traditionally speaking, the tour manager arranges things like where we all sleep for the night,” Travis says.

  “We’ll figure it out,” Cole says. “Maybe we can find a pay phone and call them.”

  “Do you have their number?” I ask, feeling really, really, really dumb now.

  “No, I don’t have their number,” Travis says. “You didn’t get it from Mark?”

  “I’m drunk, okay?” I say. “I’ve been drunk all night. Do you know how hard it is to manage a tour in this condition?”

  “Well, maybe they’re listed,” Cole says. “Hand me your backpack, Sunny.”

  I reach beneath the bench seat and dig into my backpack for my copy of Book Your Own Fucking Life, the indie tour manager’s bible. Everything from small clubs to small bands to basements are listed in it, so there’s a chance Thrash Lane might be in there. I hand the magazine to Cole and he shines his penlight on it, but no dice.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter. “I’m sorry, guys. Please don’t fire me.”

  “Fire you?” Emmy says. “Ha. You think you could actually escape this cult if you tried?”

  “The fact that she’s more worried about being fired than she is about escape means the brainwashing is nearly complete,” Travis says. “Nice work, team.”

  Cole swings around from the front seat and gives me a wink as he hands back the magazine. “Might as well face it, Sunshine,” he says. “You’ve been kidnapped.”

  This is exactly why these people are my people.

  Travis drives us back to the Wrocklage, hoping they’re all still at the club. But as we pull up, the place is dark and nobody is around.

  “Now what are we going to do?” I ask.

  “Motel 6, baby,” Emmy says. “We’ll have to swing a room tonight.”

  “Yeah, that’ll work,” Cole says. “I saw the billboard for one back off the interstate.”

  “I’m so happy at the prospect of sleeping in an actual bed I might cry,” Joey says.

  “And another shower,” Emmy says. “Oh, Travis, we can do it in the shower tonight!”

  “Jesus Christ, no, not again,” Joey says. “We’d better get two rooms.”

  “No way,” I say. “We’re not Aerosmith, you guys. We can’t afford that.”

  “She’s right,” Travis says. “We need to save what we can for recording this fall. We’ll get one room and split it.”

  “One room will only have two beds,” Joey says. “So . . . f
uck, with the unholy coupling that’s going on around here, I guess I’m getting the floor again?”

  “I’ll take the floor tonight,” Travis says. “Emmy and Sonia can share a bed, and you can Cole can take the other.”

  “No way,” Cole says. “Last time I had to share a bed with Joey he drooled all over me. It was like sharing a bed with Marmaduke. I’ll take the floor, you and Joey take one bed, and Sunny and Emmy can take the other.”

  “Marmaduke?” Joey says. “Did you just fucking call me Marmaduke?”

  We all burst out laughing. Poor Joey.

  Travis and Cole find the Motel 6 off the interstate, just south of Lexington. We pull up and it looks like every other Motel 6 you’ve ever seen off an interstate. Two floors with who knows how many prostitutes, truckers, and drug dealers having at it behind blue doors that line those outside walkways. That’s my assumption, anyway. An episode of COPS. Travis parks the van off to the side of the lobby, and there’s a short debate about who’s going to go in and talk to the front desk manager.

  “What’s the big deal?” I ask.

  “These places don’t love bands,” Cole says. “Plus, they’ll charge us extra if they see there are five of us. Or make us book two rooms.”

  “Cole, you’re our best hope, since Joey is still tanked,” Travis says, I imagine because Cole doesn’t have that shaggy blond indie rocker look that Travis has going on. The way he’s dressed tonight, in his gray Dickies and a plain old pocket T-shirt, he could be coming off the late shift at the garage. “Take Sonia in with you and try to get us a room in the back.”

  “Me?” I ask, surprised.

  “Yeah,” Travis says. “The manager will think Cole’s booking a room so you two can have wild animal sex. It’ll be perfect.”

  “Oh my God,” I say, turning bright pink.

  Cole whips his head around and looks at me and gives me a wink. “How wasted are you?”

  “Depends on what you consider wasted,” I say. “And what you consider how.”