Page 43 of Not So Goode
I laughed. “First time in a tour bus?”
A dumbfounded nod. “This is a freakingbus?”
I tried to look at it with new eyes—tricky, since I’d helped him design it. The front lounge wouldn’t be out of place as the living room of an upscale Manhattan condo—and for similar size and style, you’d be paying seven figures, easy. Clean, sleek, black and white and chrome, modern lines, with a pair of overstuffed scarlet leather couches facing each other. Right now, being parked, we had the slides on each side popped out, creating extra space between the couches. A full kitchen with a pair of diner-style booths featuring seating for eight to ten, and plenty of storage above and below everything. A pair of 60-inch flat screens on either side instead of windows, each connected to a server system containing a boggling number of movies; the whole bus was wired with theater quality surround sound. Four bunks, oversized and fitted with charger-wired nooks for phones and tablets and laptops, dim lights for reading, five sides baffled for sound protection, with sound-deadening curtains across the opening.
Myles’s master suite was, of course, over the top. King-size bed, his own flat screen and sound system, full bathroom. The ceiling overhead was a giant window made of electronically dimmable glass, so he could watch the sky at night and have sunlight during the day.
The whole bus was wired with satellite-fed 4G Wi-Fi, and Myles’s suite could be turned into a mobile recording studio—the bed folded up and out of the way, another wall hid a mixing board, with amps and mics built into the walls, stowable as needed.
The bus had been paid for through his sponsoring partners, Fender and Harmon, the latter of which provided most of our sound equipment as well; Myles had pimped it out with his earnings from that first gangbusters album and the subsequent arena-busting eighteen-month world tour.
I knew all that, but now, with Charlie’s eyes bugging out, I saw it for what it was—a ridiculously lavish mobile luxury estate. Especially considering it was home to just people—Myles, Jupiter, Zan, Brand, and me.
She turned around to take in everything. “This is crazy. I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
I laughed. “Yeah, but it’s home to us.”
“This is nicer than my condo back in Boston. By, like, alot.”
“He’s sponsored by some big companies, and that comes with pretty nice perks. Like this bus.” I helped her to a couch. “So. Let’s get something to eat. Something quick, or something elaborate?”
She slumped back, holding her head in both hands. “I’ll take whatever will make the world stop spinning.”
“Greasy, or healthy?”
She eyed me sideways. “I usually eat pretty healthy, but right now? Fatten me up, buttercup.”
I laughed. “I got you.” I pulled a skillet from a cabinet, set it on the induction stovetop, pulled out fixings and turned on the heat.
She watched. “Mmmm—my spider-sense tells me you’re making grilled cheese.”
I grinned. “Kind of. I do it my own way, though.”
My grilled cheese recipe included cream cheese on the inside, ghee coating the pan, liberal amounts of sliced cheese in four varieties, a sprinkle of parmesan, and a thick layer of deli-sliced turkey. I made one for each of us—I was hungry as hell myself. As they cooked, I pulled out blue corn chips and homemade guac.
She dug into the chips and guac, eyes widening as she tasted it. “This is the best guacamole I’ve ever had.”
I performed an elaborate bow. “At your service, m’lady.”
She frowned. “You made it?”
I nodded. “My grandfather, River Dog, lived most of the year way down in Mexico and the rest of it in various parts of the Southwest. I lived with them after my folks passed. He’s the one who taught me to cook, and that old man could cook the best Tex-Mex on the damn planet.”
“River Dog, huh?”
I nodded. “My grandfather is the sole reason I’m alive right now and not in jail. He was a great, great man, and I miss his leather old ass every damn day.”
She was watchful, thoughtful. “Tell me about him?”
“River Dog. It was the only name anyone called him including Mammy—my grandma—Mom and Dad, the guys from the club, my uncle. It suited him, too. Not sure where the name came from, honestly.” I flipped the sandwiches, letting my memory wander. “He was one of those old guys who was just ageless. To me, he looked about the same my whole life. About my height, but thin in that lean, leathery way, you know? Not sure I ever saw him wear a shirt, and his skin showed it. Barefoot, always. He could walk barefoot across scorching sand, blacktop, over gravel. Him and Mammy, up until my parents died when I was ten, eleven lived nomadic. Following the old ways. And I don’t mean to sound all mystical or shit, but they were just…people out of time. They wandered for decades, just lovin’ each other, following the wind. They’d go down into Mexico, hang out on the beaches of the Yucatán. Wander up into Texas, Baja, SoCal, into the Four Corners region. They had a truck and an old Airstream, and that was all they ever owned.”
She shook her head, grinning. “Really? You’re not making this up to sound cool?”
“Every word of it is the truth. I worshipped River Dog and Mammy. Every spring, Mom and Dad would pack me up and we’d head out to look for River Dog and Mammy, and it always felt like an adventure, trying to find ‘em. Usually around spring they’d be down in Mexico on the beaches only locals knew about, far away from the tourists. We’d spend days and days in the saddle, just riding.”
“Horses?”
I laughed. “Naw, bikes. Motorcycles. I rode in a sidecar with Dad.” I sighed. “He had a 1946 Indian Chief. I lived for those trips with them, and then I’d spend the summers with River Dog and Mammy. Riding horses, swimming, not doing shit-all but just relaxing and eating and playing with local kids.”