Grandma pats me on the back. “Go with your mom, Tristan. I have to take care of Molly.”
“I can help you,” I insist, but Grandma’s already in the hallway on her way to her bedroom where she keeps Molly’s playpen that Elaine hauls around everywhere.
Elaine rolls her eyes as she opens the front door for the blonde and me. “Hurry up,” she says.
“I need to get a jacket.”
“You don’t need a jacket. The ice cream parlor is indoors. Just get in the damn car.”
A whoosh of cold December air blasts me in the face as I step toward the front door. As I make my way out the door, my eyes repeatedly flit over to Grandma’s purple sweater, which is draped over the arm of the sofa. I consider swiping it up and wrapping it over my shoulders, but purple is for girls. I’ll look stupid and Elaine will make fun of me.
It’s freezing inside the car. I could tell by the emblem on the hood that this is a Cadillac. The inside of the car smells like smoke and perfume and the gray leather in the backseat is cold as ice against the backs of my arms. I try to lean forward a little so it doesn’t touch my skin, but I begin to get carsick from the way Elaine drives, so I just lean back and close my eyes.
A few minutes later, the car stops and I open my eyes when the engine stops rumbling. The blonde girl is looking over her shoulder at me from the front seat as Elaine touches up her make-up in the rearview mirror.
“What’s his name again?” the blonde asks.
“Tristan. I named him after—” Elaine stops herself before she can finish this sentence. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s go get a fucking ice cream so I can take him home. I have shit to do.”
The entire time we’re standing in line, Elaine is tapping her foot against the white tiled floor. When we make it to the front of the line, she doesn’t even ask me what I want, she just orders a scoop of vanilla on a sugar cone. I hate vanilla.
I take my ice cream cone from the man behind the counter and he can see the disappointment in my face. “Is this not the flavor you want, kiddo?”
“Yes, it is,” Elaine replies quickly as she grabs my shoulders to turn me away from the counter. “Come on, come on. Let’s go sit down. I don’t got all day.”
I take a few licks of the ice cream cone once we’re seated in our plastic chairs at a small, round table. But then I think of a solution.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I say as I stand from my chair.
“You can’t go to the bathroom alone,” Elaine says as she pulls her cell phone out of her purse. “Just hold it till you get home.”
The vanilla ice cream is starting to melt. I have to throw it away without her seeing. “I can go by myself. I’m nine years old.”
“Charlene, take him to the bathroom,” she says as she begins dialing a number on her cell phone. “I’ll be outside.”
Charlene stands up, not bothering to bring her bowl of orange sherbet with her. “Come on, kid.”
She grabs my shoulder to lead me forward and I wriggle out of her grasp. “I can go to the bathroom by myself.”
The corner of her red lips curls up and my heart thumps against my chest as we near the bathroom. She reaches for the doorknob and opens the door for me. It’s a private bathroom. No stalls, just a single toilet and a sink. It smells like cherry air freshener and it’s almost as cold in here as it was in the Cadillac.
The lock clicks and she crosses her arms as she waits for me. “We ain’t got all day.”
The toilet is on the same wall as the door. If I take a piss, she’ll see me from the side. All I wanted to do was throw away this damn ice cream, which is now dripping down my hand and wrist. She huffs as she takes the ice cream from my hand and tosses it into the garbage can next to the sink.
“What a mess. Come here so I can wash your hands.”
She pulls me toward the sink and turns on the water. It’s cold so she turns on the hot water and waits until it warms up before she sticks my hands under the water. Her chest is pressed against my shoulders as she gently scrubs my hands with the slick soap. She begins massaging my fingers and I pull my hand away.
“Stop,” I mutter, trying to back away, but she’s pressed against me, locking me in place.
“Your mom will kill me if you take your sticky fingers in the car. Just relax, Tristan.”
I swallow hard and try not to breathe too loudly as I let her rub my hands with the slippery soap. I close my eyes, trying not to let what I think is happening inside my pants actually happen. Not now. Please not now.
“Does that feel good?” she whispers and I shake my head fiercely. “It’s okay if it feels good.”
She wraps her fingers around my thumb and moves her fist slowly up and down. I want to scream for her to stop, but there are people sitting in tables outside the door. What will Elaine do if I make a scene? I’m not at home where Grandma will keep me safe.
“Do you have to use the potty?” the blonde asks as she reaches for the button on my jeans.
“No,” I say firmly as I push her hand away. I can’t let her feel that thing growing in my pants. “Stop. Please stop. I just want to go home. Please.”
“Tristan, your mommy said you have to do this or she won’t take you home.” She reaches for my button again, but this time she waits until I finally move my hand away. “That’s a good boy. You’ll like this. I promise.”
Chapter Three
“Get up.” The redhead in my bed – I think her name is Beth – rolls over and reaches for me. I slide out of bed and yank the comforter off in one swift motion. “I said, Get up. You have to leave. I have plans.”
“What the fuck?” she squeals as she reaches for the sheet to cover up her naked body. I grab the sheet first and yank it off the bed. “You’re an asshole!”
I chuckle. “Like you didn’t already know that.”
She scrambles out of bed and quickly gets dressed. “One of these days your dick is gonna fall off or somebody’s gonna break your black heart. I’m just sorry I won’t be there to see it.”
“Yeah, I’m really sorry for your loss.”
I follow her downstairs, smiling as she continues to lob insults at me. I open the front door for her to leave and she looks as if she’s going to spit in my face. It wouldn’t be the first time a girl has done that. But she doesn’t spit; she just stares at me for a moment before she delivers her final blow. “You were talking in your sleep,” she says with a grin.
I suppress the urge to stop her as she steps over the threshold and sets off down the gravel path to the roundabout where her Toyota is parked next to my Lightning. Despite the fact that she just pissed me off, I still stare at her ass until she’s inside her car, but I don’t bother watching her car drive away.
So she heard me talking in my sleep? Big fucking deal. I’ve heard that same line from other chicks a dozen times. Not a single one of those girls sold her story. Chris Knight’s bassist isn’t a juicy enough target for the tabloids, even though I’ve given them plenty of material over the years. And what’s the worst thing she could have heard?
My stomach churns with the thought of the worst thing I could have said.
The shame morphs into anger and I punch the inside of the door. “Fuck!” The pain shoots through my knuckles and the burn of broken skin is instantaneous.
I am not broken.
I close my eyes and repeat this mantra in my head a few times before I make my way into the kitchen. My cell phone buzzes on the granite countertop and I glance at the screen before I pick it up.
“What?”
“Xander said we have to be at Reverb in an hour.”
Chris’s voice has an edge to it, like he’s in pain but he’s trying not to let it show. Typical Chris, putting Claire’s and the band’s needs before his own. Chris broke his leg a couple of months ago – a grotesque compound fracture – and since they cut off the cast a couple of weeks ago, the guy hasn’t stopped running around like a crazy person. He’s desperately trying to find a studio in the Triangle where we can record the new album. He even got the producer to agree to let us make this second album totally acoustic. All so he won’t have to go to Los Angeles to record and leave Claire behind for the second time.