Something To Dream On (9 page)

I try to drown out the crappiest music ever made by burying my head under a pillow. Sending Jensen a text was a preemptive strike, because with how shitty that new guitarist sounds, it won’t be long until my pissed-up brother staggers in, sits on my chest, and goads me into doing it anyway.

Dammit, Jensen! You left, knowing I needed you. You were the only person who I ever thought gave a crap about me, then you packed up and left in the middle of the night without a word. I woke to a deserted motel room, an empty garage, and a shattered heart. The real mystery is why this surprises me.

My head peeks out just enough to be sure that my bedroom door is locked. The last thing I need is to be expected to make an unwanted visitor happy. Why couldn’t those jerks have left instead of the one person I trusted?

“Ya hear that, Jensen?” I scream. No one will hear me above the racket outside. Even if they did, they wouldn’t care if I were being murdered. “I trusted you, you stupid ass!”

I throw the pillow so hard that it smacks the lamp right off of the nightstand. The bulb breaks, and the room goes dark. “Fucking shit!” Screw it! It’s better this way. If any of those guys do get in here, I don’t want to have to look at him. At least the bottle of tequila didn’t knock over, not that there’s much left to spill.

Tequila … I miss Jensen and our tequila nights.

The rest of the bottle gets downed, and I bury my head back under the pillow while praying for the mercy of passing out.

Where did everything about me go wrong, and why can’t I wise up enough to fix it? Can’t there be a way to right my wrongs like Jensen did? Or am I destined to live the life of a drunk, bitchy, blow-up doll?

CHAPTER THREE

Saturday, April 22

Houses like this still exist around here? I knew this was an old part of town, and that Lizetta said she lived in a farmhouse, but this is nothing like what I expected.

Bertha’s V8 engine and dual exhaust command the attention of two guys
 
in a barn at the end of the driveway of Lizetta’s Victorian-era home. The two-story house has several peaked mini-roofs and a porch that wraps from the front all the way to the side. A huge lot sits behind it where dogs run freely and chickens are penned. Just a few blocks from here, the biker scene is alive and well among antique stores, a decades-old head shop, and a refurbished train station.

A robust guy of about sixty, with tied-back, salt and pepper hair and some serious scruff, comes out to greet me. If he were wearing something more intimidating than coveralls, I’d think that wrench in his hand might have my name on it. Then again, he’s got one of the toothiest smiles I’ve seen. “Now that’s a wicked engine! Nice wheels!”

I like this guy already.
 

Even though it looks perfectly clean, the guy wipes his hand on his leg before extending it. “Nice to meet you, Jensen. I’m Paul, Lizzie’s second dad.” That’s got a great sound to it. It’s so much better than stepdad.

A thinner (some would say gawky), male version of Lizetta comes out and introduces himself as Jimmy, Lizetta’s little brother. He can’t be younger by much.

“Good to meet you.” What is that weird snorting sound? Do I hear a pig? Forget what I am hearing, it’s the taillights on the car in the barn that are screaming at me. “Oh, I have got the check out this fifty-seven beauty.” My combat boots hightail it to the Larkspur Blue jewel. “Where did you get such pristine trim?” For each of its three years, Chevy refined the Bel Air body style, tweaking it into perfection. Though the Bel Airs have their differences, what it really comes down to is how the sharper fins and side trim’s flare make the fifty-seven the sexiest. The two bikes sitting in the corner, a Harley and an ancient Indian, aren’t bad either. That Indian is sixty, if it’s a day.

“My brother owns an electroplating shop up in Red Bluff,” Paul says. “They specialize in auto parts.”

“Man, you sure got the right model. The other two years can’t compare to the tail of the fifty-seven. The grill is better too. The grill on the fifty-six looks like it ate something bad.”

Paul smacks his hand on my shoulder. “You’re all right, kid. If you keep up like this, I’ll let Lizzie keep you.” Then he leans in and whispers his joke. “Remember those words. The part about me letting her is important, but not as important as her thinking she’s doing the dictating. Women like to think they are gracing us with their presence. You know what? They are. Remember that and you’ll be fine.” My shoulder then gets a squeeze to punctuate the life-lesson. I’m uncertain as to if I now feel like I have a dad again or a new best friend. All I know is this is someone I can appreciate. He’s just that warm and welcoming, much like the family I was once a part of.

The Bel Air isn’t the only thing in the barn that draws me toward it. In the corner, next to a sofa that looks like a pack of cats tried to drag a fish out of it, is a drum kit and a couple of Fender amps. What really grabs me are an old Stratocaster and a Gretsch White Falcon, known as “The Dream Guitar”. This one may be a little beat, but its gold trim and pick guard make up for the scratches. Seriously, the baby makes my heart go all a flutter like a twelve-year-old girl at a Beiber concert. “Whose Falcon?”

“Mine,” Jimmy and Paul answer in stereo. “Give her a shot,” comes out of Paul as Jimmy’s “Don’t touch her!” overlays him. “Nah, go for it,” Jimmy says with a chuckle. “Lizetta said you play. You any good?”

Am I any good? Well, I am no Steve Howe, but I hope Eddie Van Halen wouldn’t embarrass me too much. I pick up the Falcon. Paul and Jimmy cross their arms and the pressure is on. I give her a whirl with a complex riff I wrote before I almost burned my brain out.
 

Paul and Jimmy give a synchronized pause, glance to each other, and then shrug. Jimmy chimes in, “Yeah, he’s way better than we are.”
 

“Yeah, we suck.” Paul hangs his head in mock shame. “You playing with anyone now?”

That phrasing was odd. Maybe I am paranoid from drug damage, but the pang in my gut screams that I’ve been outed. I watch my words, just in case. “No, I’m between bands. I’m trying to live a drama-free life.”

“Jim, why don’t you see what is keeping that sister of yours?”

Why do I feel that was more his exit cue than a suggestion? It makes my lungs freeze up. If Paul knows about me, I may be screwed. I don’t want to lose Lizetta before I even get her. She’s a nice woman who seems respectable. My past may not make me worthy, but Lord knows I am trying to be. I’ve learned my lesson, and I’m ready to prove it.

Paul watches Jimmy dash to the house. Meanwhile, I try not to turn blue from holding my breath.

“You used to play in the clubs around here, didn’t you?”

Shit. Paul’s a biker and we played all the bars, clubs, and rallies from San Jose to Sacramento. That riff may have been familiar and tipped him off. “Yeah.”

He gives me the biker stance, the one with the crossed arms and firmly planted legs. Worse, I get a sideways glance that practically growls not to fuck with him. “You suddenly disappeared from the scene. What made you quit? And I’m not talking about the band.”

Crap! I’m an idiot, but I’m not stupid enough to play dumb. “I woke up in a tub wearing only condiments and remembering nothing.” I leave out the part about the naked guys in bed together. I just can’t consider what that may mean; even though there was no indication that anything had happened. I would have been sore, or crusty, or something, right?

Right, God?

As much as I want this conversation to end, Paul’s scrutinizing eyes scream that he is not going to let me off easily.
 
I lean against the Bel Air and voluntarily spill the rest of my guts while hoping that the more honest I am with him, the more slack he will cut me. Plus, there is an alarm going off in my head. It’s not a warning klaxon; it’s more of a nudge telling me that we have something in common. Someone who doesn’t understand that a person can right his wrongs would have tossed me out already. “You would have thought that the time I was in the back seat when a friend hit a pole and died would have done it, or when I almost ran over a kid on a bike, but no. It came down to it being all about me. It just goes to show all the more how pathetic I was and, by extension, still am.”

Paul holds the tough-guy pose. “How long ago did you stop?”

I look at him dead on. “I hit the ninety-day mark just over two weeks ago, the day before I met Lizetta, so not long at all.”

“Yeah, that’s about what the whites of your eyes say. I take it Lizzie doesn’t know.”

Geez, even now he can see the damage. Of course he can. He doesn’t have to say any more for me to know we are birds of a feather. I’m catching a hint of gravel in his voice, so he’s a former smoker. I’m betting he’s kicked several addictions. If anyone is going to get me, it’s him. “No. I can’t bring myself to admit it to her, but I’m determined to live right, so soon I’ll have to. It’s just nice that she’s getting to know the real me before she learns of the demon that I once was.”

Paul seems to get the full picture. Still, he won’t give me a clue as to whether or not my ass is getting booted out to Bertha for a lonely ride home. “What triggered it?”

Now that is an odd question. A reasonable one, but an odd one. “Stupidity and thinking that was the way musicians live. I was on the verge of getting help when I saw my brother get hit by a car and die. He had just gotten clean. Instead of that being a wake up call, I let it send an excuse that living clean is pointless, because you just die anyway. Part of me wanted to die so I would never have to worry about watching someone suffer again.”

Paul sets his hand on my shoulder. On the rise of my eyes to meet his, I catch rivers of scars on his arms. The track marks are just about faded to nothing, but I sure see them. “Been there. Done that,” he says. “You got a sponsor?”

Here is where I am going to lose the battle. This will sound crazy to him, but I keep my eyes on his anyway. “As stupid as this may sound to some, I’ve found my best success on my own. For some reason, whenever I get around people, even those with the best intentions, I make excuses. When there is no one to face other than me, I’m stronger. There is also the fact that I lost every good friend I had when I became an addict. The ones I made after that wanted me to stay wasted, so I’m going it alone. I don’t want to risk trusting the wrong people and failing.”

“Well, you’re doing a pretty good job at talking to me now.”

My eyes stay locked, and I don’t even blink when I say, “Maybe it’s because you understand that banishing the scum in your life and then getting and staying sober for yourself is one thing. Once you start meeting good people, it’s even more crucial that you don’t fall from grace. Second chances are important, but I’m not so sure that people deserve a third.”

Paul sucks in his lips, and I can sense the pondering. I may have overstepped, because how many chances did he need? His nod is subtle, but it drives home the point before his words do. “If you need help, you call me. You and I, we’re cool, but if you fuck up, even if my little girl is nowhere around when it happens, you will wish I only ripped your balls off. Got it?”

I make certain to not let the eye contact waver. “Loud and clear.”

“Don’t take too long. You make sure she knows before she gets attached, and you certainly don’t make any moves until she’s got the full story. Agreed?”

“Most definitely.” Shit, my voice didn’t crack, did it? It felt like it cracked that time.

He double pats my back. It seems to be his signature thing. From the neck of the Stratocaster, he grabs a pick, writes on it, and then hands it to me. His eyes square in on mine again, and I nod in acknowledgement of being given my ninety-day sobriety chip. As soon as I do, he heads back to the car like the case is closed and we can move on, but I’m not ready. “Hey, Paul. Thank you. I needed someone to know and to not have him treat me like scum. It helps.”

“I get that, too. Any time, kid.”

Lizetta comes out wearing a Sharks jersey, and as much as Paul says we are cool, I also feel she has saved the day because I am so done with my past and don’t want to think about it for another second. The sparkle in Lizetta’s smile reminds me that she is one of the many reasons why I am staying clean. I have missed out on so much.