Chapter 62
Sixty-Two
As surprising as it is, Remy and Karin are now embroiled in a cloyingly sweet relationship.
Hanging out with them equates to suffering on a whole new level.
I’m not going to complain about it to him, especially this minute, when we’re cruising through the Montclair hills.
Jeff Beck’s guitar wails through the speakers as I hug the corners through Snake Road’s best serpentines, smirking when Remy braces a little harder in the right front seat.
But fucking hell. It’s going to take some mental fortitude to spend time in their proximity.
Those corny endearments they utter to one another? “Honeybuns” and “sugarkins” and “snugglebutt.” It’s so un-Remy-like. And how they suck face and dry hump like I’m not even in the room? Not cool. And Remy doesn’t want to go anywhere without her, which is a drag with a capital D.
And once upon a time he called me pussy whipped.
My boy is screwed.
I’ll give him credit, though. He worked hard at getting Karin to reciprocate his affections and now that she’s all in, he’s not blowing it. I think the idiot’s falling in love.
Good for him.
But bad for me.
That probably makes me a dick, but I miss my friend. I’m also not a big Karin fan. And all this sappy shit just reminds me how jaded I am about matters of the heart.
Snugglebutt? Jesus. Kill me now.
Eric Clapton’s “Cocaine” erupts from the speakers, apropos timing considering we’re en route to score some blow.
After a minute, I turn it down. “Did you know he meant this as an anti-drug song?”
“No shit? Not really getting that.”
I shrug, because the words are kind of ambiguous.
And to the partying masses, it seems like an anthem, not a warning.
How many people listen to the lyrics anyway?
Or ponder them? It’s almost as ridiculous as when teachers forced us to read archaic literature then decipher the author’s theme.
All that shit is open to interpretation.
If there even was an intended theme. It’s too late to call up Ernest Hemingway and ask him. How convenient.
I’m about to turn the music back up when Remy instructs me to take the next left.
This is his latest connection, a cat I’ve never met named Jerry. A little voice murmurs we need to tread carefully. Not exactly my devil-may-care friend’s modus operandi.
Drugs mean guns could be involved, although no dealer has brandished one yet. We’re still using on a small scale, not enough for people to get crazy. Still. I’m always going to err on the side of caution.
Remy directs me the rest of the way, and I size up the house after parking. Nothing jumps out as shady, and I’m tracking every detail as we proceed up the walk and knock on the door.
Jerry answers, and he doesn’t appear to be more than a few years older than us, dressed casually in jeans and T-shirt, plus barefoot.
Seems all right. He invites us in and tells us to hang out while he leaves the room without introducing us to the odd couple he left behind.
A preppy guy (clean cut, mint green Izod shirt, and the requisite Sperry Topsiders) sits on the couch rolling a joint.
Next to him is a good-looking chick in denim hip huggers, her gargantuan breasts impossibly suspended in a tube top.
When she gets up and bends over a chair to rifle through her purse, a floral tattoo winds across her lower back and her ass crack winks at us.
It’s work not to stare at everything she’s got going on.
Jerry returns, but before Remy hands over the dough, he asks if we can sample it first. The guy flashes a vaguely annoyed look but lines us up.
The coke snorts clean without a detectable cutter.
Dealers water down cocaine with fillers to make more bank but this is totally decent, burning a path straight up my sinuses.
“Thanks, man,” Remy says, handing over the cash and clapping Jerry on the shoulder.
We split and the rush hits fast, making us both eager to haul ass back to his girlfriend’s house, where a bunch of us are hanging tonight.
“Seems like you’re pretty stuck on your girl,” I say.
He gives me a sideways glance. “I am, yeah.”
“That mean you’re going to play this one straight?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Not cheat on her, asshole.”
He shrugs. “That’s the plan.”
“If you do and she finds out, she’s the kind of chick who would slash your tires or put sugar in your gas tank, if you catch my drift.”
“You implying she’s bat shit crazy?”
I grin. “Exactly that.”
“I’m aware, buddy, but I dig her, crazy or not. And she’s got a body that won’t quit.”
“Maybe you’ve finally met your match.”
He snorts. “Maybe, brother. Let’s hope I don’t wind up shanked in my sleep.”
“Just don’t give her a reason. Keep your dick in your pants, or hers, pussykins.”
One side of his mouth kicks up before he slugs me in the arm. “Shut the fuck up, pretty boy.”
My chuckle echoes over the music.