Page 32 of After Care

“To show you I’m serious, I’d like to give you my room key.” He slipped a black plastic card out of his pocket. “It’s so you can visit me when you can, when you want, whenever…” His voice faltered, and he waved a hand. Was he nervous? I smiled again as I took the offered room card.

“I promise not to be a stalker, though,” I assured.

“Phew,” he teased, swiping at his forehead. “Already had one of them. Had she been you, I might have enjoyed it, though.” He wiggled his eyebrows, and I laughed, but the seriousness of what he said wrestled inside me. There was so much I didn’t know about him, and the fact someone tried to take advantage of him frightened me.

The waitress returned, and this time Tommy didn’t wave her away, so we ordered, and I decided to let my questions rest. Over dinner we discussed the guys in the band, and Tommy told me more about each of them. I think he was trying to reassure me that West was the most decent of the four.

“Gage is Gage. He’s intense, and he loves Ivy fiercely. He almost lost her, because he can be stupid, but he knows he needs her. She gets him because of her mother.” Whenever Tommy mentioned Ivy’s mom, his sister, there was a certain sadness to him.

“Petty is a male whore, and I have no doubt he’d impregnate someone if I wasn’t so diligent about who he’s with. Jared’s smart. He went to college, but dropped out for the band. He followed Gage’s dream. West is the newest addition. He replaced Cash.”

Tommy looked out the window as he spoke the last man’s name.

“Who was Cash?” I asked. Tommy snorted softly.

“You really don’t know music, do you? Cash Bennett. He was the lead bassist, and he killed himself.” Tommy sat back and drummed the table. “Damn overdose.” He swiped a hand through his hair. I focused on his face. There was more to the story, but I didn’t wish to pry. “Anyway, West is probably the best of them all. Talented, but good at heart. Eager and mostly still innocent. He didn’t mean anything to be misrepresented with your girl.”

“I know,” I replied softly. “It was just sort of a shock, and I felt guilty.”

“Guilty?”

“If I’d been there, West wouldn’t have been.”

“Darlin’, I know about guilt, but what happened with him sleeping next to your daughter has nothing on what I’ve seen. He’s a good kid.” He raised an eyebrow, defending someone belonging to him.

“I know,” I leaned on the table. “I said I overreacted. That isn’t easy for me to admit.”

“Well, let’s get to admitting more of your sexual history, as your musical one sucks.”

I laughed, and he watched my lips. I wanted to kiss him, or he wanted to kiss me. It didn’t matter. There would be more kissing, either way.

When dinner finished, we walked hand-in-hand again, taking our time meandering down the main strip of shops. He asked me about my job, and as I described it, I realized it didn’t sound very exciting, but it paid my bills. I was a personal assistant—which meant taking care of other people, kind of like Tommy. The conversation switched to my home, Chicago. He’d been there several times for concerts.

“Collision’s dream is to play the big stadiums. Wrigley Field’s a rare gig. The guys would love to headline there.”

We halted at a corner, and Tommy tugged me to the left. We walked past two storefronts before he stopped in front of what I assumed was a small bar. Neon signs strobed beer advertisements through a narrow window. The place looked like a hole in the wall, shoved between a surf shop and a tattoo parlor. He opened the door, and I was assaulted with music.

“Is that ABBA?” I laughed as ‘Dancing Queen’ flowed to the sidewalk.

“That it is,” he said, placing a hand on my lower back and pressing me forward to enter. Once inside, the lights were dim and the bar long. In the back corner were a jukebox and a strip of wood floor that could potentially be for dancing.

“What is this?” I giggled as Tommy led me to the end of the bar.

“Local hang out,” he replied, helping me up on a stool. He raised two fingers without speaking an order.

“You’ve been here before?” I questioned when two short tumblers with dark liquid were set before us. The dinner wine and rich seafood already made me warm and fuzzy inside. A short sniff of alcohol within the glass told me I was about to be set on fire.

“Something like that.” He raised his glass, tapped mine, and shot back the whiskey.

Oh, what the hell. I did the same, only I sputtered and coughed and didn’t empty the glass. Tommy walked away from me after patting my back a few times, and I watched him cross to the jukebox. Quarters were slipped in, and he pressed a few buttons. Returning to me, he explained, “The locals play this shit disco music to keep tourists out. If you can stomach the 70s, then you can hang without being bothered here.”

“How old do you think I am?” I teased, as he suggested I was familiar with 70s music, which I was.

“Not old, darlin’, but you’re not a headbanger, either. You aren’t even bell bottoms and tie-dye T-shirts. You’ve got poodle skirt and pearls written all over you, although you aren’t that old either.” He wiggled a finger as if sketching me.

“You’ve just painted an awful image of me,” I laughed, but he had me pegged. I loved the 50s although I was a product of the 90s. College years filled with fishnet stockings, shoulder pads, and off the shoulder tees had nothing on my ideal of saddle shoes and a full skirt.

“Not really.” He paused, leaning towards me. “I’d like to color in the lines of that drawing and then color outside them just for fun.”