Page 27 of Not So Goode

“Real ballbreaker, is she?”

“Yep. The breaker of many, many balls. Sweet, and nice, and funny, and smart, and so freaking beautiful it’s annoying, but she’s a major ballbreaker. So just mind your words.”

She slumped back again; water precariously balanced on her knee, only loosely gripped in one hand.

“Do you have a phone?” I asked.

She nodded. Fumbling, she brought her cross-body bag around, laboriously unzipped it, clumsily hunted for a phone. Found it, took four attempts to unlock it with her face. Handed it to me.

“Too hard. I’m seeing, like two and half of everything. You call.”

I hissed. I really had to get to work. But, I’d assumed responsibility for this chick, so…

I brought up her contacts, typed in Lexie, dialed. It rang until it went to voicemail, so I hung up and called back, again and again.

Finally, on the third try, it clicked, and I heard the concert from the crowd, and faint voice yelling. “What? Where the fuck did you go? I turned around and you were gone, you dumbass!”

“My name is Crow,” I said. “Your sister got into some trouble, so I have her backstage. Meet me stage right—your right—between the two big semitrailers. I’ll be in black jeans and a leather vest.”

“Is she okay?”

“Yes, she’s none the worse for wear, just very, very, very drunk.”

“Shit. Okay, thank you. See you in a second.”

“Yep.”

“Wait, how will you know me?”

I laughed. “Your sister gave me a very detailed description.”

“I bet.”

“She used words she said you wouldn’t appreciate hearing.”

“Slutty gypsy?”

“Yup.”

She laughed, not offended. “Well, it’s accurate enough, even if gypsy is a derogatory and politically incorrect term.”

And with that, she hung up, no goodbye. Okay, then.

I found a nearby stagehand from our road crew. “Hey, keep an eye on her,” I said, pointing at Charlie. “Don’t let her leave.”

The guy, young, bearded, stocky, just nodded. “Don’t think she can, but okay.” He glanced at his watch. “You know he goes on in forty-five?”

“Yeah, I fuckin’ know. He’ll be ready.”

Another nod, and then I jogged for the barricade. As I approached, I saw a girl who could only be Charlie’s sister.

Shorter than Charlie by an inch or two, with curves for days. Black hair cut pixie short, buzzed on the sides to just above her ears, the longer top portion was twisted into a series of tiny knots on the top of her head in a wide mohawk-like row of little mini buns. Ears pierced from top of the shell all the way down to the lobes in plethora of gold and silver rings, studs at the top of the shell, dream catchers dangling from her lobes. I was still a ways away, but it looked like her eyes were dark as opposed to Charlie’s blues, with dramatic smoky eye makeup. And yeah, slutty gypsy was the best description for her style: she was wearing a skirt made of patches and swatches of brightly colored fabric and squares of leather and corduroy, with tassels and feathers and strips of cloth dangling and fluttering—the hem swirled around her heels, but it was slit on one side all the way up her mid-thigh, so when she shifted, her leg up to her hip was visible, offering a tantalizing almost-glimpse of everything under the skirt, making you wonder what, if anything, she was wearing under it. Sandals wove in thick straps up around her calves to her knee. Her top was a scrap of gauzy red lace in the vague approximation of a half-shirt, leaving her belly bare, exposing a belly button ring and making it daringly, glaringly obvious that she wore not a scrap of anything under the shirt; and that, as Charlie had said, she had some seriously impressive melons, which were all but on display. Obscured just enough to tantalize, but only just barely.

I took one long look, and then put my libido in firm check—to be polite, for one thing, but also because as fine as this girl was, my mind was already captured by the long curvy legs and bangin’ hips and ass of the drunk chick on the couch.

I kept my eyes on hers as I shook her hand. “Crow. You must be Lexie.”

“Yes. Nice to meet you, Mr. Crow.”