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Less than five minutes later, we reach Dash’s abandoned Tesla—right where we left it, like the bright-red cherry on our shit sundae.
15
China Girl
July 1
They say Virginia is for lovers. And I think I love Virginia. We stopped in Blacksburg today. Mom said she was tired of driving, but I think she secretly wanted to scope out the hot guys strolling around the Virginia Tech campus. Despite being right in the middle of summer break, it was still pretty packed with the college crowd. Everyone seemed to be gearing up for the 4th. We had a picnic on the lawn and met some nice people. At least one cute guy. Okay, several cute guys. As usual, Mom hogged them all. A few of the guys convinced us to stick around for a karaoke contest at Sammy’s Pub. Not that she needed much convincing. All it took was the promise of free booze and lots of free-flowing attention, and Mom was sold. After drinking way too many shots, and flashing her boobs to the crowd, she dragged me onstage to sing. Bowie, of course. As wild as she acted, I totally expected to get kicked out, but nope. We won! The contest had to have been rigged. Sammy himself took our picture. He said our fifteen minutes of fame will be forever immortalized on the bar wall. Ha! Imagine that. Not like anyone I know will ever see it . . .
“We have to go to Sammy’s Pub in Blacksburg, Virginia!” I snap Mom’s diary shut and hug it, holding my breath until my head swims. I must find that undiscovered piece of her, left behind like breadcrumbs in a forest.
The corner of Dash’s mouth tips into a smirk as he navigates us back to the highway, leaving the Cookeville Supercharger in the rearview mirror. “Change your mind about getting drunk?”
“No.” I roll my eyes. “Mom’s picture is on the wall.”
Dash’s smile slips, and I know what he’s thinking. What if they took it down?
“Thirty years is a long time.” His eyes soften. “Are you sure the bar is still in business?”
“No.” My heart sinks. I never even considered that the bar might not be there.
A quick search for Sammy’s Pub returns dozens of images of historic Blacksburg, and I scroll through the quaint brick buildings and tree-lined streets until I land on a fairly recent picture of the Sammy’s marquee.
I skim the online description. “One of the oldest pubs in town . . . Hugely popular with the college crowd. And . . .” My pulse skips as I skim down until I find what I’m looking for. “The original wall of fame has grown to include all four walls!”
Relief sweeps through me, and I sink into the seat. Her picture has to be there.
“I’m afraid to ask how your mom ended up on the wall of fame,” Dash says, his sexy smirk firmly in place.
I flash my teeth. “It may or may not have involved my granma’s boobs.”
He shudders, and a laugh bursts out of me.
“Sammy’s has karaoke every Friday and Saturday night. Mom and G-Lo won a contest.” I gaze out the window, trying to imagine Mom singing for a crowd. When I was a kid, she barely sang in the shower. “I wonder what they sang.”
“‘China Girl’?”
I groan. “Anything but that.”
“Come on.” He turns his dazzling smile on me. “It’s a great song. I think you secretly love it.”
Warmth flutters through my belly, and I tear my gaze from his face, focusing on the road outside to keep from climbing over the center console. Forget the damned song. The urge to kiss him is driving me insane.
I’ve never been the sort of girl who makes the first move, but if he doesn’t make one soon, I may have to reevaluate that position.
The line of people in front of Sammy’s stretches halfway down the block, and after almost an hour waiting with what appears to be half the Virginia Tech student body, our progress has slowed to a crawl. One by one, the streetlights come on, drawing every bug in Virginia. At this rate, the place will be closed by the time we reach the door.
“Stop fidgeting.” Dash pries my fingers from a rip in my jeans.
I tear my gaze from the small group of people behind us, passing a silver flask back and forth.
“What if they don’t let me in?” I whisper. Even if I had my stolen wallet and ID—both of which are probably sitting at the bottom of a dumpster somewhere in Cleveland—I’d still be three months too young to get in.
“Relax.” His hand slips into mine. “Stay behind me.”
The warmth of his palm seeps beneath my skin, and I nod, open to whatever it takes to get inside.
We finally reach the front of the line, and Dash lures the doorman aside, slipping something into his hand. They exchange a few words before the man grins and waves us through.
