Page 88 of Not So Goode

“That part was pretty awesome,” Charlie agreed.

“What came after was pretty awesome too,” I murmured, low enough only she could hear me.

She blushed. “Stop,” she hissed.

I laughed. “Not what you were sayin’ then, baby.”

She stiffened, and I knew then that I’d lost her. “Crow—”

I remembered Tran’s words. “Charlie, what was I supposed to do? That wasn’t a situation I could walk away from. They had my bike surrounded.”

“He’sdead, Crow.”

“Better him than me,” I snapped. “And it was him or me. You were there, darlin’. You know that.”

“I just don’t know if I can do that life, Crow. I’m okay being a little on the wild side.” She was facing me, suddenly forgetting our audience or her embarrassment, gesturing angrily. “Sex in a public bathroom? Sure. It was the most fun I’ve ever had, and the best sex I’ve ever had, by several orders of magnitude. I’d do it again. In fact, I kind of want to. But brawls and knife fights? Watching you get beaten up by almost a dozen men? Watching you…justdestroythem like they’re little children? Some of those men will never walk without a limp again, will never be the same. One of them has permanent brain damage, I guarantee you. And Yak isdead. Good riddance to bad rubbish, sure. He was bad man, and he would have killed you and raped me. Again, I get that. I do. But that’s way far beyond being a little on the wild side.”

“Charlie—”

“And you have a record? Manslaughter? When were you going to tell me that?” She paused. “Did you go to jail?”

I sighed. Paced away. Stuffed my fists in my jeans pockets. Braced a shoulder against the side of the bus, leaning against it. I felt her behind me. Waiting.

“Two years at Florence. Maximum security prison in Arizona.” I rubbed my scalp, felt the bottom drop out of my stomach. “Manslaughter.”

“So this is the second time.”

I nodded. “The first time…” I sighed. “Don’t really wanna tell that story. Not sure I can.”

Myles spoke up, “Charlie, listen to me, please. Crow is more than my best friend. He’s more my family than anyone blood ever could be. Don’t make him tell that story. It was…bad. And not his fault.”

She was silent a while. “Myles—you tell it then.”

I looked at her.

“Sure,” I growled. “What the fuck ever. But on the bus, not out here.”

Myles groaned. “Shit, I don’t wanna relive that either.” He met her eyes. “Not gonna change anything, Charlie. He’s still the man you know.”

“One who’s killed two people.”

Oh, sweetheart. If only you knew. The one-percent tattoo on my arm isn’t about the manslaughter charge. That’s a tattoo I had to earn the hard way.

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. Might as well scare her all the way gone.

I stomped up onto the bus, yanked a bottle of Johnnie Blue from the cabinet, and cracked it open. I swigged long and hard, till it burned, and then some more. Plopped down on a couch, popped open my guitar case and gingerly drew out my guitar—the one River Dog and I had made together.

I began plucking strings, fingering a melody, something I’ve had floating around my skull for days, now.

Myles, Lexie, and Charlie followed up onto the bus, and I knew Jupiter was going to park his ass outside the door and stand guard.

I paused in my playing, took another drink. I’d need it to get through this.

Charlie didn’t sit by me—she sat next to Lexie, facing me, eyes sad and scared and confused. Watching me play.

“Did River Dog make that guitar?” she asked.

I nodded. “Me and him. The last thing we did together before he died.” I traced the grains in the wood. “This is Brazilian Rosewood. Super rare, super exotic. Him and Mammy traveled to Brazil and bartered services for enough wood to make one guitar.”