Page 55 of Bone Dust

“Have fun.”

“Yeah, you too—and Ian? You don’t have to be perfect. Just be yourself.”

I drive to Savannah’s with the windows down. It’s a gorgeous night. The last stretch of the sun has painted the sky with a mix of pink, orange, and blue. The breeze is easy and swirls through the open windows, nudged by my driving speed. Small talk will be okay If I can get her talking about herself. Music and songwriting are lanes we both travel. If she flips the table to talk about me, I can always talk about Dash.

The minute I think of him, a smile appears. I’ve got Dash’s favorite Gary Clark, Jr. music playing through the speakers. In a million years, he would never have pictured me on a normal date. I think he’d be proud of me. He’d be happy for me being clean and sober, of that much, I’m sure.

“I worry about what you’re doing to yourself, Ian. You’re not the first to piss away money on junk. I don’t want you to wind up in the twenty-seven club.”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you, though? There’s four of us. We’re really picking up momentum. We could ride this gig for the next thirty years. Hell, look at Jagger. I’m no psychic, but if you keep wrecking yourself like this, you might not make your twenty-eighth birthday.”

He was right. I almost didn’t make it. But here I am, straight and going out with a beautiful woman.

I press the phone button on the steering wheel. “Call Dash Barrows.”

The mechanical voice repeats my command. “Calling Dash Barrows.”

It instantly goes to voice mail. “This is Dash. You know what to do.”

Do I?

A lump in my throat emerges and I swallow. It happens every time I hear his voice. Skylar never shut down his account and, I’m certain, there are times she feels the same need I do. I wait for the—beep.

“I’m going on a date.” The words rush out with a snicker. “Well, it’s not supposed to be a date, but it’s a fucking date. A real one, Dash. And I don’t mean just me banging some random chick. This is a good woman … I like her. I think you’d like her, too. She’s the chick who wrote ‘Heal Me’ and won your contest. I’m not sure if you orchestrated this from where you are but, if you did, stop me if you see me doing anything stupid. Make me choke on a roll or something but, for god’s sake, stop me.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Savannah

Iopen the shower door and a rush of steam escapes, fogging up the mirrors. The instant temperature change from hot to cold makes goosebumps appear and the chill puckers my nipples. I wrap a towel around me, the plush material feels soft against my sensitive skin.

I’d left the bathroom door open so I can see Gigi through the crack. She’s been watching Bluey in my bed since I stepped into the bathroom. I can see her through the drifting fog escaping through the widened space. Nearly disappearing in the middle of my King-sized bed, she’s adorned with old costume jewelry I’ve given her. Resplendent in the many-colored rhinestones, the light catches the jewels. Gigi sparkles and finishes off her regal appearance by wearing the tiara Candace gave to me on my twenty-fifth birthday.

I have mixed feelings about dinner tonight with Ian. He remembers nothing of our night together. For him, that time is caught up in the overdose and the events that followed. It’s one of several reasons I’ve unlocked my heart.

I turn back to the task at hand, massaging moisturizer into my legs, arms, and the rest of my body. The cream feels good on my skin, while the pressure loosens tight muscles.

I turn to the mirror and grab my makeup bag from beneath the sink, satisfied by the sound the contents make as they clack inside the leather bag. A swipe at the condensation clears the mirror and I study my reflection. I haven’t dated since I learned about Gigi. She was just a little bean in a picture, but the connection was strong. Her existence was a caress in my chaos, and she’s lifted my heart like it was helium-filled with her mewing cries and full-belly giggles. Everything I do is for her. This dinner is the first adult thing I’ve done for myself.

“Hi, Momma.” My little munchkin skips into the bathroom and comes to stand beside me. With her pointer finger, she traces and studies the faint silvery evidence that’s proof on my skin of her growing inside me. “Do dems hurt, Momma?”

“Nope. They don’t hurt at all.”

“I think dems pretty,” she whispers as she places a sweet kiss on a spot.

Though fleeting, a thought arises, and I wonder how Ian would react to the sight. No doubt he’s seen countless women naked, all pumped up and perky with various plastic procedures.

“Where’s you goin’ Momma?”

“Out with Ian.”

“Oh, I like hims, Momma.”

“You do? Why, baby? What do you like about him?”

Her expression morphs, reminding me of an old-time Kewpie doll my mom used to have. Her eyes go big and blue like the sky on a fresh spring morning. She braces her head with an “L” formed by her thumb and index finger as she ponders the question.

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