“What time is it? It feels late.”
Her smile widened. “You’re getting warm.”
Then it clicked. She worked way downtown, and she usually left early to get ahead of the traffic and get some work done before the phone started ringing. She was never home when the sun was up this high. “You’re supposed to be at work.”
“I’m terribly sick,” she said. The smile didn’t leave her face, and now a wicked gleam in her eye joined it.
Danny picked his head up and blinked. “You don’t look sick.”
“Terribly sick,” she repeated. She coughed a few weak, bogus coughs into her hand.
The sun was much too bright, he realized. Too bright for her to be here, sure, but also too bright for him to be here. “What time is it?”
“A little after ten.”
“Oh, shit. I gotta go.” He started to get up, but she barred his way with her arm.
“You’re not going anywhere. You’re terribly sick, too.”
“Oh? Does my boss know?”
“Yes indeed. He says to rest up.”
Danny laughed, finally understanding. “Oh, I don’t know if I’ll be doing much of that,” he said, and he reached for her.
***
He made breakfast afterward, French toast and eggs. He’d proposed eating in bed, but Gina had wrinkled her nose. “It smells like sex in here.”
He couldn’t argue with that, and while the scent was pleasant enough, or if not exactly pleasant then pleasantly evocative, he could see why she thought it didn’t mix well with breakfast. She came out to the dining room in a robe. He plucked at it, trying to get her to take it off, but she wasn’t having any of that. “Later,” she promised, laughing. “I’m trying to eat here.”
Danny sat down at the table with her with a dopey smile on his face. He’d slept well, breakfast was served, and the sex had been fantastic. The release had been more than welcome, but the sense of togetherness, of actually spending some time with his wife for a change, was even more so, and if, for just one moment toward the end, he’d imagined Case’s athletic body instead of Gina’s curvier figure, he would push that as far down in his subconscious as he could manage and not think of it again.
He was busily not thinking of it again when Gina asked, “How was the show?”
He concentrated on cutting his French toast. “Pretty good,” he said neutrally. “Probably our best yet. If we’re not careful, we’re going to sound like a real band pretty soon. John really put his back into it this time.”
“He’s getting over his stage fright?”
Danny was touched by the question. He so often felt that she merely tolerated his nattering about the band that he was grateful that she remembered. “Yeah. He really is.” He popped a forkful of French toast into his mouth. “I’m proud of him.”
“Good for him,” Gina said. She’d met John on a few different occasions and had told Danny he seemed like a bright kid, though it was tragic the way he was wasting his potential. Danny got out of those conversations as fast as he was able, before he said anything to disparage his own nice, stable, well-paid, boring-ass employment in the cubicle farm. He half-agreed with Gina, and half-admired his brother for having the balls to check out of the whole tiresome system, but the one time he’d supported John’s position he’d gotten a surprisingly excoriating lecture from Gina on social and familial responsibility. John’s decision to squander his potential was apparently a big nasty loogie in the face of the entire social structure that supported his way of life, and he was refusing to hold up his end of the bargain by contributing in any meaningful way. Danny had listened, eyes round as bottle caps, while Gina unloaded on John and ungrateful deadbeats like him. Danny had backpedaled so fast it felt like he’d strained something, trying to get as far from that conversation as possible. There seemed to be an implicit judgment there on his own priorities—that they were only just in line, and he’d better not let them slip. He had avoided any conversations in the same vein ever since. It was enough that Gina seemed to like John okay, despite the fact that she thought he was one step above a tapeworm, and Danny had left it at that.
With that recollection firmly in mind, he decided a change of subject was in order.
“How come you decided to play hooky today?” he asked.
“You know. All work and no play.”
Danny smiled. “I thought all work and no play makes you partner by the time you’re twenty-eight.”
That drew a laugh from her. “It does, but it also makes you very, very tired sometimes.”
Danny looked at his wife in the sun through the kitchen windows. She did look tired—one good night’s sleep wasn’t enough to undo months of straining under the yoke—but she looked happy, too, and he felt a surge of emotion.
“I love you,” he said softly.
She reached over the table and took his hand. “I love you.”
Her hand was small and white against his own big, clunky hand, fingers narrow and straight where his were thick and squared-off. It was an odd-looking match, but it seemed just right to him.
“This was a good idea,” Danny said.
***
“Hey there, rock star! How ya doing?”
Case shook her head, but she grinned. “I don’t know how you can be so goddamn cheerful at this hour, Erin.”
“It’s ten-thirty!”
“It is, and you should be hungover and hating life right now.” Case pulled her apron off the peg and started tying it around her waist.
“Oh, I never get hungover,” Erin said. Case didn’t see how that was possible, but since nobody could be hungover and that loud at the same time, she supposed Erin was telling the truth. “I didn’t black out, either,” Erin added accusingly, “but I sure didn’t see you leave. What’s up with that?”
“That’s, um, a long story.” Huh, Case thought. A month ago I’d have told her “none of your fucking business” and left it at that. Must be getting soft in my old age.
Erin raised an eyebrow. “Does it have something to do with your so-very-cute drummer?”
Damn. That social radar or whatever it was that Erin had was a serious danger to others. “I’ll tell you about it later, okay?”
“Okay, but I’m gonna hold you to that. I know you’re planning to wear me out in training and hope I’ll be too tired to remember, but it’ll never work. You don’t stand a chance.”
“I believe that.”
“Good.” Erin clocked in.
“Hey, thanks again for bringing your friends out. That was cool.”
“No problem. We had a good time. Did you get enough people out to get booked for the weekend?”
“Not even close,” Case said.
“That sucks. Don’t worry, though—the word is out now. You just make sure to tell me when the next one is, and I’ll do the rest.”
***
The restaurant was crowded for lunch and then emptied out in a hurry, and Case’s shift seemed to fly past. She and Erin clocked out a little after three and headed for the gym where they practiced now, ever since the manager at Applebee’s had told them that a few patrons had raised questions, and he didn’t want to see them fighting in the parking lot anymore. As long as they got to the gym early enough, or late enough, there was always a room available. It didn’t always have nice cushy mats on the floor, but any floor at all was guaranteed to be a step up from the hot, dirty asphalt of the parking lot.
Despite Erin’s warning, Case worked her extra hard that night. Maybe she’d forget to follow up her earlier question, and maybe she wouldn’t, but Case had frustrations of her own to work out, and the exercise felt good. Movement and exhaustion had a way of clearing the head, and she could certainly use that.
They collapsed to the floor after about an hour. Case sat leaning back on her arms with her legs outstretched in front of her. Erin lay flat on the floor, eyes wide and staring at the ceiling.
“You tried to kill me,” Erin said breathlessly.
“Parts of me aren’t sure. Check back later.” She exhaled. “But that doesn’t get you off the hook. Your escape act last night and your friendly teddy bear of a drummer. What’s the story?”
Case sighed. This could all have been avoided if she’d had the presence of mind to stop by and make some excuses last night, but she’d been so rattled after her run-in with the wasted guy and the following encounter with Danny that she’d gone straight out to the car and kept going. Probably it really wasn’t any of Erin’s business, but she found herself talking anyway.
“I didn’t mean to ditch everybody,” Case explained. It sounded pathetic even to her. “I just don’t like to hang out with the drummer—Danny—any more than I have to.” She stared straight ahead at the mirror on the other side of the room. It was easier to talk without looking directly at Erin.
“You don’t like it, or you don’t think it’s a good idea?” Erin said. “Because it looked like you liked it just fine. You guys are electric together onstage. Yowza. Chemistry, baby.”
“It’s that obvious?”
“I think the whole room could feel it. You know he can barely keep his eyes off you the whole time you’re playing?”
Case closed her eyes. “No. I didn’t know that.”
“It’s true,” Erin said. Her cheerfulness was really starting to get irritating. “And sometimes you’d give him one of those smoldering looks and you two would lock eyes—so hot.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. ‘Smoldering’?”
“Would I make that up? Besides, you know. You were there.”
“Great,” Case said. “Now I feel like I’ve been performing some kind of sex act onstage. Thanks.”
Case said nothing else. Not only were her hormones dragging her around by the pelvis, but evidently it was obvious to anyone watching. Just fucking fabulous.
“So what’s the problem?” Erin asked. So much for silence. “Is there a band rule that says you can’t jump on the drummer? You guys are consenting adults.”
Case finally turned and looked at Erin, giving her an incredulous stare. “You noticed all this, and you missed the fucking wedding ring?”
Erin gave a short laugh. “Huh. You know, I did. That’s kind of funny when you put it like that.”
“Yeah. A regular riot.”
Erin chewed her lip. “Have you asked him about it? Maybe they’re into kinky stuff.”
“Jesus Christ,” Case said. “Not Danny. No way. Other than getting smashed every once in a while, he’s a choirboy.”
“And you don’t think choirboys are into kinky stuff? I swear, they’re the ones you gotta watch out for.”
“Jesus Christ,” Case said again. It was less satisfying this time. “No. Not Danny. I know everything there is to know about the kind of boys you gotta watch out for, and Danny is not one of them. Believe me.”
Erin was quiet. Case could see her calculating, turning the problem over in her mind.
“I guess you ought to avoid hanging out with Danny any more than you have to,” Erin said after a while.
Case nodded. She took a drink of water and swirled it around her mouth. She was tempted to spit it on the floor, but she got up instead, crossing the room to spit it into the water fountain. She came back and sat again. “A year ago, I think I’d have just taken what I wanted, and damn the consequences. It wouldn’t have been the first time.”
“Maybe you’re less of a stone-cold bitch than you used to be,” Erin said. The smirk on her face took most of the sting off the words.
“Maybe that’s it,” Case conceded.
“Or maybe you really care about Danny.”
Case recoiled. “Jesus, Erin. That’s about as funny as a fork in the eye.”
Erin only shrugged. The two women sat in silence, each with her own thoughts. Outside the room, the normal clanging and banging of equipment went on and on.
“You’re too easy to talk to, you know that?” Case said.
“It’s a gift.”
***
John served up another low-fat half-caff mocha blah blah blah what-the-fuck-ever with somewhat less than the usual Starbucks-approved amount of good cheer. The show last night had been great, and he’d even gotten enough sleep for a change, but the comedown was a bitch. For twenty-five minutes onstage, the gears of his own personal universe had meshed for once, and he had been propelled forward into . . . into what? Into something that felt like his real life, he thought. Making music that moved people.
It hadn’t moved many people, sure, but it had been a start. It had rankled at first that he’d pushed himself up to a new level—with the help of the band and Johnny Tango—and nobody had really given a damn. Then Case’s friends had come over (and he was still grappling with the world-altering implications of that unexpected phrase, “Case’s friends”) and told him how much they’d enjoyed the show, and suddenly he’d felt like he hadn’t been wasting his breath after all. They hadn’t been bullshitting, either, or at least he didn’t think so. They’d really had a good time, and though they had been there mostly to see Case, he’d gotten the sense that they’d really appreciated his performance, too.
For a moment or two, all had been right with the world.
And now he was making six-dollar coffees for hurried people with BMWs and no brains again.
Talk about a hangover.
He poured some tea into a plastic cup and set it on the counter, then turned to the guy working the shift with him.
“Drew,” he said, “can you imagine Ian Anderson working the assembly line in a factory?”
Drew was maybe a couple of years older than John, but apparently not enough older. He blinked. “Who?”
There was something to be said for remembering your audience, John thought wryly. He tried again. “Daughtry,” he said. “Can you imagine him pumping gas somewhere for six bucks an hour?”
Drew nodded. “Yeah. Totally. That’s probably where they should have left him.”
John couldn’t help but laugh. “Bad example. How about Fred Durst?”
Drew narrowed his eyes and tipped his head toward the ceiling, thinking hard. “No,” he said finally. “I can only imagine him in prison.”
“Fair enough,” John said, laughing some more. This might have been the only non-coffee conversation he’d ever had with Drew, and the guy was funnier than John had expected. “Come on, work with me here. One more time. What about Madonna?”
“I can imagine her doing lots of things,” Drew said. “And she probably has.”
More laughter. “You’re not making this easy on me.”
“Sorry, man,” Drew said. His grin said he was anything but. “Where are you going with this?”
“Haven’t you ever seen somebody, a musician or an actor or someone like that, and thought Yeah, that’s what this person is supposed to be doing. Like it’s impossible to imagine them doing anything but what they’re doing. Like they were made for it.”
Drew shrugged. “Not really, man. But I know some people who feel that way.”
“Yeah?”
“Hell yeah. Everybody who walks in the door here takes one look at me and thinks, Damn. That man is made for brewin’ up a badass Cinnamon Dolce Latte.”
“You have no culture.”
“Not a shred.” Drew turned to the woman who had just walked up to the register. “Welcome to Starbucks,” he said. “Would you care for a Cinnamon Dolce Latte?”
“Uh, no thanks.”
Drew glanced at John and shrugged.
John shook his head and went in back to make sure they had enough cups. A faint muttering sifted up from the back of his mind, dark, incomprehensible murmurings, but he paid it no attention.
***
Quentin bit back a curse, closed his eyes, and grimaced, covering his thumb with his fingers. With his other hand, he held on to both the top rung of the ladder and the heavy framing hammer he’d mashed his thumb with. Warm blood t
rickled from his fist.
Better a thumb than a finger, he thought, though really any abuse of his fretting hand was a drag.
“Hey! Pay attention up there, for Chrissakes! You all right?”
Quentin opened his eyes. Cesar, the foreman, was looking up at him with concern.
“I’m gonna come down for a minute, okay?”
“Yeah, fine.”
Quentin slid his hammer into the loop on his belt and clambered down the ladder, leaving spots of blood on every other rung.
“Let’s have a look,” Cesar said. Quentin showed him the thumb—the nail was torn half off, and the wound under it welled with dark blood.
“Nice one. Come on. There’s a first-aid kit in my truck.” They walked over, and Cesar dug the white and red box out from behind the seat. He handed Quentin a bottle of peroxide and a roll of gauze.
“Thanks,” Quentin said.
“Where’s your head today, man? Jimmy said he about had to throw a two-by-six at you to get your attention a little while ago, and now this.” Cesar gave him a fatherly frown. “If you’re out of it today, you should go home.”
Quentin shrugged and opened the peroxide. This was going to hurt like a bastard. “No, it’s cool,” he said.
“Stay out too late last night?”
“Yeah. That’s it.” Quentin gritted his teeth together, screwed up his face, and poured the peroxide on his thumb. It hissed and spat and burned like hell. Pink foam spilled onto the earth. “Yeah,” Quentin said again. “Just didn’t get a lot of sleep.”
That was part of it, sure, but it wasn’t the whole story. He’d seen the old rocker, the one that hung around John like a fly buzzing around roadkill, at the show, and hadn’t been able to get him out of his mind since.
About halfway through the set, Quentin had seen him from the stage. The guy hadn’t been looking at the band or watching John at all—instead, he’d been turned half away from the stage and watching the faces of the crowd, his glance moving from one to another every few seconds. Whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find it, and he left at the very end of the set, slipping out the door as the band tore down. Quentin didn’t think John had even seen him.
Voice Page 10