Page 9 of Missed Exit

He walks out, and I watch his ass with no regrets.

Lucky for him, my B.O.B. is as quiet as a whisper. A buzzing hum of a whisper, but it won’t travel through the wall. Even if it did, he probably wouldn’t be home to hear it. If he can keep his live bedmates as quiet, we might make good neighbors after all.

4

Law

Raw Talent

I’velostcountofhow many Saturday nights I’ve spent in dive bars and dance halls namedThe OfficeorThe Libraryover the past five years, but I’m about to add one more. Those names were clever once. Now, they’re so common they’ve become cliché to everyone but the regulars, who see these dark, dusty spaces as community centers.

They know their favorite beer is always on tap and nobody’s going to judge them for drinking whiskey from the bottom shelf, but they come for more than the drinks.

On occasion, I’ve probably been looked at like a regular in a few of these places.

But it’s never community I’m looking for when I walk through the doors. I’m in search of raw talent, nothing more.

My new neighbor has an inflated expectation of my last-call exploits. There was a time, but that shit gets old like any other habit.

Tonight, I’m hoping a twenty-one-year-old singer named Derringer Wells actually shows up for his set. Born with a goddamn stage name. Go figure.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t born with a whole lot of drive. He’s got big dreams, but what little ambition he’s got he spends in pursuit of cheap liquor and enthusiastic women. Because he’s a typical twenty-one-year-old stuck in a place where there’s not much else to do.

What’s not typical about him is his polished look, his natural stage presence, and his million-dollar voice. Raw talent wrapped up in the perfect package.

If he’d get his package to the stage a little more often, I could get this kid everything he claims to want.

I know he actually wants it. He just doesn’t want to work for it. He’s too easily distracted. And far too damn much praise has already been thrown his way. I’m pretty sure he’s been told how perfect he is his whole life. And he’s definitely bought into his own hype.

He wants to be a star. Definitely wants the money, but he wants the recognition even more. There’s nothing wrong with wanting money. That’s not the real root of all evil. It’s fame that does the dirty work, especially at a young age.

Is it really so fucking hard to just show up? Because that’s about all he’d have to do at this point.

The problem is he’s already hometown famous, and he hasn’t ventured beyond his hometown far enough to know how little that actually means.

He’s a big deal here, and here is all he knows.

His family’s got oil money. Old oil money. Unlike so many other young men his age from here, he’s never had to work a single day in the patch to get a taste of it. His great grandfather was wise with money and ruthless with people.

I’m not sure Derringer inherited either of those qualities. I see an incredibly gifted dumbass. I should move on, let him burn out on his own terms. But I can’t yet.

Because I know this kid.

I was him.

Minus the trust fund and the lack of ambition. I had the drive and enough of the talent, but when the first blow knocked me down, I didn’t have the strength to get back up again.

Derringer Wells doesn’t even have the strength to start, but with everything else he’s got, I could guide him through it. If he’d just fucking bother to show up. I check the time on my phone again.

The bartender makes her way down to me. “Looks like the golden boy of Agate Ridge is a no-show tonight.”

“Shocking absolutely no one.”

“He was here pretty late last night. Drinking and being adored. He got up on stage for a few songs. Even sloppy drunk, he sounded better than anybody else who’s ever performed here.”

“Of course he did. Speaking of drinking.” I slide my empty glass her way.

“He’s got a golden voice, Law.”

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