19. Lips That Touch Wine
IAN
I’d seen Archer seriously drunk a dozen times over the years, and I knew what was coming next.
“Ken,” I called as I got up from the banquette. “If you hate the lingering smell of poop on the bus, you’re really going to want to pull over. Because what’s about to come out of Archer ain’t coming from that end.”
Ken was muttering about how long he’d been driving musicians by the time I got Archer to the front of the bus, green and miserable.
“Hold it, hold it,” Ken was chanting. “Got a pullout coming up . . . hold it, keep it inside, boy, hold it, okay, pulling over . . . aaaand . . . go!”
Archer was out the door without my help, doubling over the Jersey wall on the side of the highway and heaving up an entire distillery in a steaming mess on the concrete. Ken cheered, and Mal handed out a bottle of water.
“You ready for this?” I asked Archer.
He shook his head. “Fuck off. Oh, god.” The second wave hit him.
Only two more to go.
Mal and I sat on the wall a few dozen feet away while Nicky lingered in the open bus door, Charlotte on her leash and already sniffing the tires. “Do you need anything, Archer?”
He flapped a hand at her without straightening, and she correctly interpreted that. She detoured around him and came to sit with us in the sunshine.
A terrible, personal, private thing happened as she walked toward us.
I realized I had it bad for Nicky.
It wasn’t that she was cute, although she was. Archer had been right when he’d tried to write a song about Nicky’s tits. That blonde hair would feel good in my hand. I touched the amp fuse hanging from the cord around my neck. She didn’t realize that I’d carefully cracked the fuse and slipped in a strand of her hair, so white and fine that it was hard to see in the glass tube.
Why had I done that? Was it because she came up with the idea for the necklace? For forcing me to cut my hair and appear in public, scar on full view? Because she came up with the death/archangel/judgment idea?
Or had I done it because she lit me up?
Shit.
I liked her determination. Her kindness. I really liked her sense of humor, and the way she slept against me, trusting and warm and soft and . . .
Fuck.
While Archer had been draining the Montgomery VIP suite of all its whiskey, I’d gotten the eye from more than one lovely young thing. If I’d cared to, I could have explored the possibilities with any one of them.
Hell, we were now in rarified rock-star circles. I might have been able to pull more than one of them at the same time.
And I didn’t. Because while I felt the magnetism of a hot, wet, tight . . . embrace, I didn’t want that with a stranger.
I wanted it with Nicky.
This entire realization flashed upon me in the time it took for her to walk from the bus to where we were waiting. She sat next to Mal, which was good. Because it wasn’t me she wanted.
And Archer wanted her too. Of course he did. She was amazing. And he was Archer.
They’d be perfect together.
So. As if life wasn’t already complicated enough, I was now crushing on my best friend’s girl. Great song. Outstanding.
Archer was now sitting on the Jersey wall, head down. He reached out blindly, assuming water would be forthcoming.
Because he’d done the same for me. More than once.
Because we’d had each other’s backs since kindergarten.
He took the bottle from my hand. “Slow,” I said. “That’s coming back up. You’ve got one more to go.”
“I know,” he said. “I just can’t take the taste anymore.”
“Does he always barf in fours?” Nicky had followed me.
“Nah.” Mal was there too. “Only when he’s been drinking whiskey.”
“Oh, god,” Archer groaned. “Don’t say that word. Sorry, honey.”
He had the grace and strength to move a few feet away from her before he leaned over the wall and heaved again.
“There,” I said. “He’ll feel better now.”
Mal nodded. Archer gasped for air for a moment and regrouped. He did a rinse-and-spit with the water and then took a cautious sip. When it stayed down, he turned back to us. “Man. Why do you guys let me do that?”
I sniggered, and Mal huffed a laugh. He pulled out a pair of sunglasses and plopped them on Archer’s nose, who sighed at the relief. “Yeah,” Mal said. “This was our fault. You need some grease. Hey, Ken? We need a great trucker’s breakfast.”
Archer looked simultaneously disgusted and interested. He bent carefully and rubbed Charlotte’s head. She wagged at him lovingly. “This is your fault, you big prima donna,” he said. He made a courtly after you gesture to Nicky, and she and the dog climbed aboard before we followed.
He brushed his teeth and made himself more presentable, and then he allowed Nicky to be his kindly nursemaid. They were both so pleased with the roles that I didn’t have the heart to resent them. Ken found us a diner where Archer’s healing was greatly advanced when some family’s teen daughter recognized him from the video of “The Salesman.” That was better than a vitamin-C injection. He perked right up.
But he enjoyed being sick so much that when we got back on the bus, he let Nicky talk him into resting in the back lounge. “You’ve got to be onstage tonight. You need to get over that hangover right now.”
He caught her hand as she was arranging pillows. “You’re so sweet. Thank you, Nicky.”
She blushed, the color blooming over her face like a rose, and he smiled in satisfaction. “I’m going to work on getting some more journalists interested. Call me if you need me.” She included me before she left: “You try to sleep too. You play better when you’re rested.”
“Yes, Mom,” I said dutifully to see her smile.
Then Archer and I were in full lounge mode, pretending we were going to nap. Nicky settled into the kitchen area’s banquette, and I could hear the rumble of Mal’s voice as he teased her. She was engaged enough for me to risk grabbing my guitar. A few scales would help.
“She’s a dream, isn’t she?” Archer didn’t want an answer. He was like a man about to tuck into a Thanksgiving meal who takes the time to anticipate the bounty before him. “I think we’re going to have a good time.”
“I’m sure,” I said.
“I can’t think why I was wasting my time with that Martina.”
“Because she kissed you,” I said.
“Oh yeah. That’s right. She’s really limber. Those dancers, man. She never even wanted a bed.”
“Broom closets?” I didn’t really want to know. But I did. Of course.
“Greenroom locker room,” he said. “And she blew me once when I was walking Charlotte. Who goosed her in the ass while Martina was on her knees. I laughed so hard, I almost came out of her mouth.”
I was laughing, too, even though his story meant he was not worthy of Nicky. Still . . . “Rock-star lifestyle, right?”
I reached out to bump the fist I knew was reaching toward me without looking. We’d been together a long time.
“Rock-star lifestyle. Gotta enjoy it while you can.”
“You’re a whore, Arch.”
“Then I should definitely be charging more,” he said happily.
I loved Archer. That predated this fixation on Nicky. “But always rubbers, right?”
“Without exception,” he said firmly. “No lay is worth the risk.” His father had bought boxes of condoms for all three of us when we turned fourteen, and that’s what he’d told us. Archer’s father was sort of boring in the greater scheme of things, but I loved him as my second dad.
“Absolutely right.” I played some more, wondering if he’d realize that Nicky was more than a hot fling to have on tour.
“What’s that?” Archer said. “It’s good. That one of yours?”
“Huh?” What had I been playing? Wasn’t it scales? No, I’d slipped into the song I’d been writing the other night. “I’m working on it.”
“Yeah? Let’s hear it.”
This was how we’d written songs for our entire lives. I couldn’t withhold it now, just because it felt so private.
I played it and sang the words I was working on. Archer helped me work out the rhymes, and when we got stuck on a rhythm, he started hollering.
“Brother Malachi!” he shouted to Mal (whose full name was Malcolm). “Band meeting, back lounge! Get your ass in here!”
When Mal came back, he threw himself down on the sofa. “You know she’s setting up our third interview for this afternoon? She’s already gotten us a little press suite of our own. How about that?” He nudged Archer. “Maybe there will be a bartender.”
“Fuck off, you asshole. Listen to this.”
We worked on it until we were satisfied. “Let’s try it out tonight,” Archer said. “I’d swap this for ‘Fight Chant.’”
“Keep ‘Fight Chant,’” Mal said. “Put this right in the middle and skip ‘Listened to My Heart.’”
“That’s our slow dance,” I protested. “That’s how the guys are going to get to grope the girls.”
Archer shook his head. “Not as good as this. It’s slow and sweet. There can be plenty of boy-and-girl groping to this one. I agree with Mal. This instead of ‘Listened to My Heart.’ I wrote the clunker, so I can say it’s worth cutting.”
“That’s a great song,” I protested.
“Thanks. We do this instead, right?”
Somehow, it was settled.
Neither of them knew I’d written it for an audience of one. They bought the fiction. We’d see how it went over.