Page 20 of Missed Exit

“Yeah, well, you can’t spontaneously take your pants off in public.”

“To be fair, I’m pretty sure the fans loved that, too.”

“For your own safety, please get out of my kitchen.” I sweep a path for him. “You came close to having yourfansseeing you get arrested.”

“I wouldn’t have been the first musician to get arrested. Besides, any publicity is good publicity, right?”

He laughs as he walks away. The urge to whack him in the back of the head with the broom handle is strong. But I resist because he’s done enough damage to his body on his own in the past eight hours.

“No. It’s not all good. There’s a difference between an intentional stage dive, and drunkenly falling off the stage.”

“Well, I was intentionally drunk, so give me credit for that much at least.”

“Whatever is eating at you and making you so damn self-destructive, you need to get a handle on it now before it’s too late. Take my word for it.”

“Is this the moment where you share a cautionary tale about some singer nobody’s ever heard of, who could’ve had it all if he hadn’t blown his big chance? Spare me.”

“Those stories may be a dime a dozen, but they’re real. And they’re all the same.”

“Yeah, but I’m different. Because I can actually fucking sing.”

“They could all fucking sing! That’s the tragedy. You’re better than most. But you’re not smarter. Having the voice is the bare minimum you need to get half a shot.”

“Well, I’ve got three times the voice of anybody else. So, I guess that gives me a shot and a half.”

“Glad to know you can still do math when you’re hungover.”

“I’m not hungover.”

“You will be in a few hours. And if you puke on my carpet, I’ll rip your golden vocal cords out with my bare hands.”

“Where are my keys?”

“Probably in your pocket. But your truck’s sitting in an impound lot.”

“What? How the fuck did that happen?”

“Go back to sleep, Derringer. I’ll explain it all when you’re sober.”

“Can I get that glass of water now?”

I white-knuckle the broom handle. This kid has no idea how lucky he got last night. “Sit down. I’ll bring it to you. I can’t afford to replace all my glasses every time you get thirsty.”

“If you’d just get me a deal already, you could afford all the glasses you want.”

“Right. You’ve got the whole industry all figured out.”

“I’m just saying . . . whenever you’re ready, me and my golden vocal cords will make you a rich man.”

He’s nearly asleep by the time I bring him his water. I toss half of it in his face.

Wouldn’t want my cash cow to get dehydrated.

He flips me off, downs the rest of the water, and passes out on my couch again.

I’m going to have to take more than beer over to Greta’s for the game later. Maybe some flowers.

And ear plugs, just in case I decide to babysit the golden boy again.

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