10. Law
10
Law
A Shot and a Half
I wake to the sound of my overnight guest dropping a glass in the kitchen.
And if the sound of glass shattering on a tile floor isn’t loud enough, the volume on the expletive that follows could wake the dead. There’s no doubt it will wake Greta.
Perfect. Not regretting last night’s decision at all.
My eyes are still struggling to focus as I open my bedroom door and stagger toward the kitchen, hoping I don’t have to put my shoes on and drive this bumbling idiot to the emergency room.
“Mornin’,” Derringer says. “Sorry about the glass.”
“I’m more worried about my neighbor, who I’m sure was still asleep until you yelled at this unholy hour on a Sunday morning.”
His disheveled morning look would make for a great publicity photo. All he’d have to do is spread that white-toothed grin across his face and he’d go viral. Young women would flock to his comments to tell him how pretty he is—and a host of other stuff they really shouldn’t post to the eternal archive of the internet.
I look down at his bare feet to be sure there’s no blood soaking into my grout.
If that sounds uncaring, it’s because I don’t care.
Any potential cuts on Derringer’s feet mean far less to me than the thought of Greta losing sleep.
His toes are all still intact. Charmed as always.
“Don’t move. Let me sweep this shit up.”
“It’s not like I did it on purpose. I needed water.”
“I have no doubt. You probably also need food.”
“That sounds like a terrible idea.”
“You burned through your quota of terrible ideas last night.”
“Oh, come on. It couldn’t have been that bad.”
“If you were already signed, PR would be stirring anti-anxiety meds into their coffee this morning. Do everyone, including yourself, a goddamn favor and stay off stages you haven’t been invited to perform on.”
“I hop up on stage spontaneously all the time. The fans love it.”
“Yeah, well, you can’t spontaneously take your pants off in public.”
“To be fair, I’m pretty sure the fans loved that, too.”
“For your own safety, please get out of my kitchen.” I sweep a path for him. “You came close to having your fans seeing you get arrested.”
“I wouldn’t have been the first musician to get arrested. Besides, any publicity is good publicity, right?”
He laughs as he walks away. The urge to whack him in the back of the head with the broom handle is strong. But I resist because he’s done enough damage to his body on his own in the past eight hours.
“No. It’s not all good. There’s a difference between an intentional stage dive, and drunkenly falling off the stage.”
“Well, I was intentionally drunk, so give me credit for that much at least.”
“Whatever is eating at you and making you so damn self-destructive, you need to get a handle on it now before it’s too late. Take my word for it.”
“Is this the moment where you share a cautionary tale about some singer nobody’s ever heard of, who could’ve had it all if he hadn’t blown his big chance? Spare me.”
“Those stories may be a dime a dozen, but they’re real. And they’re all the same.”
“Yeah, but I’m different. Because I can actually fucking sing.”
“They could all fucking sing! That’s the tragedy. You’re better than most. But you’re not smarter. Having the voice is the bare minimum you need to get half a shot.”
“Well, I’ve got three times the voice of anybody else. So, I guess that gives me a shot and a half.”
“Glad to know you can still do math when you’re hungover.”
“I’m not hungover.”
“You will be in a few hours. And if you puke on my carpet, I’ll rip your golden vocal cords out with my bare hands.”
“Where are my keys?”
“Probably in your pocket. But your truck’s sitting in an impound lot.”
“What? How the fuck did that happen?”
“Go back to sleep, Derringer. I’ll explain it all when you’re sober.”
“Can I get that glass of water now?”
I white-knuckle the broom handle. This kid has no idea how lucky he got last night. “Sit down. I’ll bring it to you. I can’t afford to replace all my glasses every time you get thirsty.”
“If you’d just get me a deal already, you could afford all the glasses you want.”
“Right. You’ve got the whole industry all figured out.”
“I’m just saying . . . whenever you’re ready, me and my golden vocal cords will make you a rich man.”
He’s nearly asleep by the time I bring him his water. I toss half of it in his face.
Wouldn’t want my cash cow to get dehydrated.
He flips me off, downs the rest of the water, and passes out on my couch again.
I’m going to have to take more than beer over to Greta’s for the game later. Maybe some flowers.
And ear plugs, just in case I decide to babysit the golden boy again.
I want to believe I won’t rescue him twice, but even as I watch him with his mouth hanging open, sleeping off last night’s drunken antics on my couch, I know I’d do it again. His dad can (and will) buy his way out of any trouble he gets into, but that won’t save him from himself.
Money can’t buy what Derringer Wells needs most. And it’s damn sure not a recording contract. He needs a swift kick in the ass. On a regular basis.