Someone to Watch Over Me Page 13

  Pulling out onto the first stretch of my one-hour drive home, I flipped through the stations on the radio and stopped on Under Par by none other than Hautboy. I felt obligated to listen to their songs whenever I came across one playing. Shameful but true, I knew most of the words, but I hadn’t given much thought to the meaning. I guess it was sort of a personal ambition of mine to interpret them to the best of my ability.

  In the cup holder, my phone began to vibrate, rattling the change beneath it. I answered the call from the controls on steering wheel. “What does the line, ‘Hot rubber chicken reeking of menthol,’ mean? Or, ‘Driving in a body bag kicking on the cruise control’?”

  “Are you listening to my shit?” I could hear the smile in Tate’s voice. His humility amused me. Like it was a surprise anyone listened to his music. He was a fucking star.

  “Actually, I was singing along with it:

  “Hot rubber chicken reeking of menthol

  “Driving in a body bag kicking on the cruise control

  “Hoarding the Idol staving off the nightmares

  “Feeding that fucking sweet tooth declaring all out warfare

  “Gas chamber’s got no vacancies.

  “We’re joyriding in another postal code

  “Chase your tail in circles then go straight at the fork in the road

  “Losers are crazy to complain but life is fucking arcane

  “Beat another drum dude you’re riding on the gravy train

  “Kittyyyyy she in plur knee sheeeeeeeee

  “Pull your pants up and walk tall, this is fucking rock n’ roll

  “Kittyyyyy she in plur knee sheeeeeeeee

  “Pull your pants up and walk tall, this is fucking rock n’ roll…”

  On the other end of the line, Tate laughed while I butchered the last few lines of his chorus. “That’s Quitter chienne pleurnicher. It’s French.”

  “For what?”

  “Quit whining bitch.”

  “And the hot rubber chicken?”

  “It’s a hot water bottle shaped like a rubber chicken.”

  “You have a hot water bottle shaped like a chicken?”

  “On the bus. The song is about a show we did in some East Bumfuck town during our first tour. Jake got the flu and was all hacking on the sofa with his fucking menthol vapor rub and rubber chicken, spreading his disease all over the bus—which we dubbed the body bag, because we were dropping like flies. Shane got it the worst. Man, we could barely keep him off the bottle long enough to shake it off. ”

  “Idol vodka.” That made sense.

  “That’s it. He had bottles of it stashed all over the bus. I mean, they were everywhere. In the galley. The sofa bed. The glove box. The closets. He was drinking himself into an early grave. So when he got the flu, we went through the bus and tossed ‘em all. Except the one that he had squirreled away in the gas chamber. We missed that one somehow.”

  “The gas chamber…?”

  “The head, babe. He locked himself inside, and got trashed. We drove in circles around some corn fields trying to find a fucking hospital so that we could get him some help.”

  “Guess he didn’t stay dry for long.”

  “No, it didn’t stick, but that’s Shane. He doesn’t do anything in moderation.” He sounded genuinely disappointed over Shane’s addiction. I felt sad for him. It couldn’t be easy to watch someone close to you, someone with that kind of talent just throw it all away.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It is what it is. Anyhow, I just called to see how your day went.”

  “Fast, actually. I got nothing done. I was too busy informing everybody of what you ate, what you slept in, or rather, what you didn’t sleep in…what you looked like when you woke up in the morning…what you were wearing today…whether you were good in bed…what we were doing this weekend…what you’re doing the rest of your life…”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I told them I’d bring in some of your toilet paper so they could plate it in gold and auction it on eBay.”

  Tate’s deep chuckle reverberated through the phone. “Call out tonight. Spend the night with me.”

  “Tate…” In my rearview, I kept an eye on the jerk off in the van riding my ass. I wasn’t driving slowly. I was already doing ten over the speed limit.

  Prick.

  “The local station wants the band to come in for an impromptu interview. I’d like you to come. We can hit the city afterwards. There’s supposed to be a good band at some place called Union Transfer. It’s an old—”

  “Train station. I’ve wanted to check it out. I heard it’s great.” God, he had me. I wanted to go. It wasn’t just the venue. I wanted to check out the radio station, too. I felt like such a fangirl, swooning over the hosts I listened to every day. How lame was I?

  “See? Come with me. Call out.”

  “SHIT!” I exclaimed, struggling to maintain control of my car. The idiot in the van wasn’t going to let that happen. He wasn’t trying to pass me; he was trying to run me off the freaking road. Metal grated metal as he sideswiped the Fusion, tearing the mirror from the door and pushing me farther onto the shoulder of the road, if there was a shoulder. Someone’s mailbox bounced off the front bumper and rocketed into a row of bushes. “Jesus Christ!”

  “Cooper?”

  “This fucking asshole’s gonna kill me!” I slammed on my brakes to avoid the telephone pole ahead. My brakes locked up, the left half smoking up the pavement, the right tearing up the overgrown patch of grass bordering a stretch of pastureland. I skidded to a stop a few feet shy. The air reeked of burnt rubber and cherry air freshener. “He just ran me off the road!”

  “Are you alright?”

  The van stopped up ahead. His reverse lights illuminated. “Fuck. He’s backing up.” I couldn’t suppress the tension from creeping into my voice. Pressing the button on the armrest, I engaged the locks. Call me skeptical, but I didn’t think he was coming back to offer assistance.

  “Stay calm. What kind of car is it?”

  “A van.”

  “What’s the make?”

  “I don’t know! The kind strangers push you into after they duck tape your freakin’ mouth and wrists!”

  “What color is the van, Coop?”

  “White. Dented up. Old.”

  “License plate.”

  “Oh God…ZFS…I can’t read the rest. It’s covered in mud.” Shifting into reverse, I stepped on the gas, backing away.

  In the background, I could hear Tate talking to someone else, but my focus was on the van now barreling in my direction. Tate’s voice came back over the speakers.

  “Where are you, Coop, what road?”

  “Ohgodohgodohgodohgod.” Flooring it, the Focus jumped and bounced over the grass. I cut the wheel and veered back onto the asphalt. The wheel jerked in my hands. I fought to straighten the car back out, which was harder than you’d expect when under pressure. The rear bumper of the van clipped my left quarter panel, and I turned abruptly sideways.

  “COOPER, GODDAMN IT, ANSWER ME! WHAT FUCKIN’ ROAD?”

  “ONE FIFTY TWO! I’m on one fifty two, just past County Line!” As the van coasted forward, I shifted into drive. His reverse lights came on again. I pressed the pedal to the floor and gunned it, smashing through the split rail fence and into the field. The airbag went off, exploding with chemicals and encumbering my view. Unfortunately, it also disconnected me from Tate’s call.

  Choking over the fumes from the airbag, I crushed the fabric down, blindly shoving it away from my face. My phone, which had fallen from the change dish and onto the floor, began to ring, blaring out the chorus to These Boots Are Made for Walking. Tate had set it Monday morning when he used my phone. I was seriously going to have to put a lock on the thing.

  Beside me, the window blew out, showering glass over my face and body. I barely had a chance to react when a hand gripped my neck, crushing my windpipe. My fingers were inferior to the strength of my attacker. I d
ug my nails into his hand, scoring his flesh, but it did little to impede his hold. Spots formed in my vision. Desperately, I pressed my thumb between the bones of his wrist until the nerves and tendons began to pop and grind against one another.

  I don’t know if my attempt at manipulating the pressure point in his wrist or the sirens wailing in the distance had stayed his assault, but he released his grip, swearing under his breath.

  This was secondary in importance to the breath I was pulling into my lungs as I fought unconsciousness. I gasped and coughed, swallowing greedy mouthfuls of air, while the black spots faded from my vision and my head swam with the fresh burst of oxygen.

  When I turned to look for my attacker, he was gone.

  ♫♪♫♪

  “I’m fine,” I croaked for the hundredth time. “I think I just need to lie down for five minutes.” My head was pounding like a snare drum despite the drugs the hospital provided. I held it together through the questions the police had fired at me, through the exam at the hospital, through the paparazzi that waylaid us when we left, through the curiosity of my arrival at Jess’s house, and my parents’ unexpected visit shortly after. I had long since come down from the rush of adrenaline and my body was crashing in a serious way. I was about to paint the porcelain with a Technicolor yawn.

  “Levy can stay with me,” Jess said, God bless her. “What do you say we bake some cookies, guys?” Gabi and Levy gave a crow of assent and bolted into the kitchen.

  “Go chill, Coop,” Carter chimed in. “I’ll bring you some pizza when it comes.”

  “Thanks, Carter, you’re all right.”

  “Just don’t knee me in the balls when you answer the door.”

  Shaking my head, I let Tate lead me to the guestroom we were using. I passed around him and headed for the bathroom adjoining our room with the one next door, kicking my shoes off along the way. The shakes set in as I knelt before the toilet and practically draped myself over the seat. Thank God Jess kept a clean house, because this wasn’t going to be quick.

  The tears came first. I’m ashamed to say I wasn’t quiet. I had a complete purging of tension. Somewhere toward the end of my breakdown, my stomach expelled the scant lunch I ate at work. With that harsh release, I exhausted myself and sank languidly onto the floor.

  I took a few minutes to collect myself before I rose and started the shower. While I waited for the water to heat, I brushed my teeth and removed the makeup from my eyes. Tate had called Em from the hospital and had her pack my things, enough for a few days. When we stopped past my place to pick up Levy, she had a tote of clothes and toiletries ready.

  I didn’t want to stay at Jess’s place. I hated to impose, but I didn’t want to stay at my place either. I felt exposed there, as if the world knew where I lived. Besides, it was in my nature to run. I’d done it for two years. At least Jess’s house was unfamiliar to me. It gave me a sense of safe harbor, so when Tate suggested it, I hadn’t argued, even if the belief was false.

  Honestly, I wasn’t even sure if Grant was to blame. My peripheral vision was poor on my left side thanks to the aforementioned asshole. Nonetheless, while I hadn’t seen anything, I had heard the assailant’s voice, and it hadn’t sounded like Grant. It had been almost three years since I had last talked to him, but I remembered the sound of his voice. Furthermore, Grant would’ve disclosed much more than that one small expletive. He was effusive when angry, quick to place blame or rationalize his actions. He never let the opportunity pass to degrade someone.

  Nothing led me to believe I knew my attacker.

  For the time being, the police were filing the incident as a road rage, though they considered Grant a person of interest because of his alleged threats. In time, only the genetic evidence they were able to collect from under my nails would prove him innocent or guilty. We had nothing else to go by. I couldn’t provide a description or a positive ID.

  The assailant had fled on foot and abandoned the van at the scene of the crime. When the responding officer ran the plates, no surprise, they came up hot. The officer tried to console me with speculation on the assailant’s motives. According to the officer, my attacker was most likely a criminal of some sort. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  My shower was inconsiderately long and hot, and I would have to apologize to Jess for using all the hot water. By the time I had finished, my skin was pink, my fingertips were pruned and I felt somewhat human again. Adjusting my towel, I headed into the bedroom to dress.

  Tate was waiting for me when I came out. He was sitting on the bed, elbows resting on his knees. Upon my emergence, he stood and crossed the space between us. “Feel better?”

  “Much.” His arms came immediately around me, encircling my body, arms and all. I rested my head just below his shoulder, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath my cheek.

  He had done the same at the hospital, though it was a frantic, panic-stricken embrace. You know—the kind that says, ‘I need to see you with my own eyes before I believe you’re still alive.’ This was more of an appreciative, consuming, adoring embrace. The kind you give to your parents or loved ones when, well, you loved them.

  “I love you, Coop.”

  A smile spread across my face, but I kept my head down, hiding it.

  “I thought I’d lost you today. I was so fuckin’ scared.” Tilting my face up, he blinked when he saw my smile. The tension eased from his face. His lips pulled up at the corners. “I couldn’t let it go unsaid. I love you, Coop.”

  “I love you too.”

  “Damn.”

  My smile widened. Evidently, he hadn’t expected me to reciprocate the sentiment. “Almost dying kind of puts things in perspective.” Stretching up on my toes, I pressed my lips to his, paying special attention to the small hoop circling his lower lip. “I couldn’t let it go unsaid.”

  Lowering his head, he took my mouth in an ardent kiss, while tugging at the knot holding my towel in place. A second later, it fell to the ground at my feet. He moaned lowly in the back of his throat as his hand found my breast. With small, soft circles, he teased it to a stiff peak.

  Putting today’s events out of my mind, I stepped into him, leaning into his hips. I could feel his erection growing between us. Shamelessly, I—

  “Pizza’s here!” With a quick and irrelevant rap on the door, Carter strolled into the room, balancing a pizza box in one hand and wine coolers in the other. “We got pepperoni and—” Looking up, his eyes popped wide. He looked at me, naked, my hand grasping Tate’s cock, and Tate fondling my breast. “Oh fuck me!”

  Tate was quick to shield me with his body. “Rather not, bro,” he quipped. “Coop’s more my type.”

  “Jesus Christ on a crutch! Sorry! Sorry! I’ll just leave it…” Glancing around the room, he searched for a place to put the box. “…here…right here’s good. Perfect.” He dropped the pizza on the floor in the middle of the room. Turning on his heels, he strode back out the door. A second later, the door opened again. Carter reached his arm in and placed the wine coolers on the floor just inside the room. “Thanks for not kicking me in the balls, Coop.”

  “Still early yet, Carter.”

  “Not cool. So not cool.” The door closed with a snick.

  Shaking with silent laughter, I dropped my head against Tate’s chest. “Well if that wasn’t embarrassing.”

  “Sorry, I thought I’d locked that.” Tugging his shirt off, Tate reached up and pulled it over my head. As I threaded my arms through the sleeves, he crossed the room and flipped the lock.

  “He’s never gonna let me live down kicking him in the balls, is he?” Grabbing the pizza from the floor, I climbed onto the bed and opened the box. There was an assortment of toppings. I went for a slice of pepperoni. There was only one slice of bacon, and Tate loved bacon.

  “Probably not.” He twisted the cap from one of the bottles and passed it to me. I took a swing to wash down the bite of pepperoni that I ate. Tate glanced in the box, and then a
t me. “You really do love me, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.” I grinned and took another bite.

  “You could’ve had the bacon,” he said, climbing onto the bed next to me, “I wouldn’t have held it against you.”

  “How else would I demonstrate my love?”

  “Sex, babe, lots of sex.”

  Laughing, I took a bite of Tate’s bacon pizza as he proffered it to me. “You could make a song outta that.”

  “Sex? I think it’s been done already.”

  “I meant proving my love for you with a slice bacon pizza.”

  “It would be original.”

  “Can’t be any worse than hot rubber chickens and menthol.”

  “Do you want to see the inside of the body bag?” Tate warned. “Keep talking trash about my lyrics and you’ll be sleeping out there.”

  “I’m not knocking your lyrics. That song made you a star.”

  “It was a joke.”

  “I know. I got it. I knocked your song; you threatened me with a body bag. I’m not all just looks. I’ve got brains and a good sense of humor too.”

  “I meant the song was a joke. We were all coming down with the flu, and either wasted or fucking delirious. I was letting off some steam.”

  “Sounds to me like ‘I’m a Loser’ or ‘Fake Plastic Trees.’ Some of the best shit comes from fucking around. You get a good riff going with those insane lyrics and you catch people’s interest. Next thing you know they’re all arguing over the true meaning. It’s good shit.”

  “True, but there’s more satisfaction writing shit with meaning.”