Page 12 of Not So Goode

“How about I write something, and you can tell ’em it was me?”

He grinned. “I need new material anyway.”

I reached across to the couch across from me, where my guitar lay. Snagged it. Strummed. Felt something bubbling up, and let it out.

I stopped, glanced at Myles. “Get out of here, man. Can’t feel it with you watchin’.”

“Think you can have it done in time for the festival? It’d be fun to debut a new song there.”

I nodded. “Probably, yeah.”

“Sweet.” He smacked the doorway again. “Well, you have fun.”

I just snorted. “I’m stayin’ my ass on the bus. You’re the one going out partying.”

“Lame-ass.”

“Party boy.”

He left, then, cackling, whistling. I noticed he had a Sharpie in his back pocket, as always, which meant he was heading for the front gates where hangers-on tended to gather, hoping he’d make an appearance for photos and autographs—he usually did show up, most nights, and his fans knew it, which is why there was always a crowd gathered, waiting.

He’d sign autographs and take photos, hug and shake hands until they were all gone, and then he’d finally head off for wherever the after-party was, and he’d find a friend and a bottle.

I didn’t envy him—but I was happy for him.

I had what I needed, and it was enough.

Most nights, at least.

There were times when the loneliness got the better of me, and I’d follow Myles off to the party, and assuage the loneliness with a pretty, willing, friendly face for the night. That would tide me over for a while, but it never lasted long.

In the end, you see, it was always how it had always been—just me. Old Crow, off by himself, stoic as the mountains.

I snorted at my own melodrama, but put it into lyrics and let it be.

I fell asleep at some point, with the guitar on my chest and the notepad on the floor. When I woke up, the bus was rumbling, and I heard Myles back in his room, making noises I didn’t want to think too much about.

I went back to sleep knowing, when we stopped for coffee in a few hours, she’d be gone and we’d be back on the road for Chicago.

3

Charlie

“Charlie.”

I was lost. Stuck in sludgy darkness, dreamtime tar wrapping me up in syrupy-slow lucidity. I knew I was dreaming, but I was drowning in the dream. It was a dream of nothing—just me, in the dark. Wandering. Someone behind me, trying to pull me backward—someone ahead of me, needing me. It was recurring, maddening, meaningless.

“Charlie.”

The darkness was shaking me. What do you want? I couldn’t speak, couldn’t form thoughts—it was a whisper of a thought, a breath of an idea, but the dream-sludge had my mouth fused.

“Charlotte. Charlotte Grace.”

Insistent shaking.

What? What do you want from me?

“Charlie!”