Page 21 of Out of the Blue

I fumble with my underwear, tucking my spent cock into them before hiking up my jeans and zipping up.

Why did Cordelia run out of here like Satan was chasing her?

I redo my belt buckle and slide my hand over my naked arm. Where’s my shirt? Blindly, I bend down and grope the floor until I latch onto a piece of cotton.

She was sitting on the sofa crumpled over, crying. Like Mom used to do.

I sigh. My heart broke for her then. It always gutted me when Mom would cry over her diary. Of course, that was before I knew what she was crying about. I shove my shirt over my head and smooth it down my torso.

She blew me and then acted like I forced her to do something she didn’t want.

The hell. I didn’t force her to take me down her throat, her eyes all red because of her stupid ex-boyfriend. Who got engaged and put a photo on the back cover of some stupid magazine.

She probably lied to him. There’s always another side to a story.

Yanking the door handle open, I storm back to the after-party. Her blow job was terrific, so there’s that. And it’s for the best she bailed. If I fucked her again, she’d probably want to be in a relationship, and I’m never going there again. If it wasn’t for my lying ex-girlfriend, my mother’s betrayal cemented my decision. Totally not worth it.

I scan the room. My band’s off to one side, so I grab a Bud and walk toward them. Before I reach my friends, the curvy figure of a woman with long brown hair—with fake red undertones—slips out the door. Good.

Taking a swig, I say, “So, great show tonight, yeah?”

* * *

Iwake up around nine the next morning. Ended up having a rather early evening last night, as I wasn’t in the mood to hang out with the guys for too long. Even though it’s just us from now on since their wives had to get back to their day jobs, I wasn’t feeling the vibe.

I throw on my workout clothes and wander over to the hotel’s gym. At least being on tour with Hunte has some perks, like staying in nice hotels with all the amenities. I hit the elliptical first, moving my arms and legs at a punishing speed. After thirty minutes, I switch over to the rower for more cardio. Dripping sweat, I wipe my face with a towel and chug two paper-cone cups of water.

At least this workout cleared my head. I didn’t force Cordelia to do anything with me last night. I was offering her a sympathetic shoulder. She was the one who dragged me into the closet and took off my clothes. All on her. At least I got a first-rate orgasm out of it.

Later that morning, after showering and getting dressed, I flip on the television to some random entertainment show. More like a tabloid on the screen, judging from the topics they’re discussing. I’m about to change the channel when one of them says, “Hunte’s new opening band is hiding some deep secrets, according toFirst Rumors.”

What the . . . ?

One talking head turns to the other one and says, “Yeah. I read an article about the bassist and his heroin addiction. Doesn’t look like this group’s going to be opening for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame band for too much longer.” A voice-over urges everyone to stay tuned for more celebrity gossip, and a commercial starts.

I close my eyes and focus on my breathing, pinching the bridge of my nose. How did a stupid magazine get hold of Joey’s secret? I better get to the bottom of this. Picking up my phone, I pull up the most recent article of the magazine and pay them five dollars for the privilege of reading their shit.

This fucking sucks. Without explaining why, I text Joey about meeting up, and he invites me to join him for breakfast. My churning stomach revolts, but I agree. We need to fix this mess.

I knock on Joey’s door and we shoot the shit on the way to the elevators. “Cheri’s back teaching kindergarten, right?”

He slants me a quizzical once-over. “You know she is.”

“Probably for the best, given what I need to talk with you about.” So much for keeping things light.

He cocks his head. “What’s up?”

“Nothing good.”

The elevator opens and we join a couple others inside the cab, so we ride down to the restaurant in silence. We’re shown to our booth, and order before Joey says, “Alright. I’m all tied up in knots here. What’s going on?”

In response, I yank out my phone and punch the screen. Tossing it onto the table, I lean back and watch as he reads it.

“Shit.”

“I hear you, brother. How do you want to deal with this?”

I can see him processing the ugly words. Shane, Cheri’s younger brother, died of an overdose five years ago. It was the night Cheri and Joey ventured into the heroin den to save him, after getting a tip from another junkie. They failed with her brother but did manage to save the guy who tipped them off. Ever since, they’ve been doing charity work for heroin survivors on the down-low. Somehow, the rag got wind of the story and twisted it into an unrecognizable bunch of lies, saying the two had met shooting up heroin. And he’s still a heroin addict.

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