Still Not Over You(21)
I grit my teeth. He's right, and I hate that too, along with everything else.
“I heard that,” Dallas says, spinning around, tugging at that dusting of a blonde beard he's trying to grow on his face, red hairs sticking out of it.
Steve mumbles an apology. Asshole Dallas just laughs.
“Forget it, man. We're all entitled to our feelings. I don't expect to be best friends with either of you overnight. Just saying, don't be shy. I'm here to help. What happened to Mr. Strauss has got all of us on our backs. Only way we get back on our feet is if we help each other.”
Sage advice. And so damn unwelcome right now, coming from him, I want to gag.
“Yeah,” Steve says, always the peacemaker. “I'm sorry, again. We're all here for Landon and Mrs. Strauss. God. I can't fucking imagine.”
Fortunately, Steve doesn't have to. I'm living the nightmare for him.
We're quiet, an icy truce between us, when the screen door swings up. I hear mom sniffing loudly from the kitchen. I plod forward, ready to comfort her for the millionth time this week, only to slam into a wall of darkness and dense cologne.
“Shit, boy. Watch where you're – oh. Oh, no. Clumsy me.” Reg Reese spins me around, helps me catch my balance, and then steps onto the porch past me. “Uncle Sam's really putting some meat on those bones, I see. Micah would be proud of you, Sampson.”
I can't even manage an awkward grin. I don't know what the fuck my old man would think about anything happening right now. I'm not even sure I care.
Steve pulls the door open, following me into the house, and I hear a growl that makes me look over my shoulder one last time.
“Are you stupid, kiddo? I said, 'let's go!' We're gonna be late and there's a whole pile of paperwork waiting at the office.” I see Reg give Dallas a satisfying, annoyed slap to the shoulders, so hard it almost sends him to the ground.
Dallas freezes. It's just a split second, but I see a rare anger in his eyes, a redness behind his patchy almost-beard like humiliation itself licking his face. “Dad –”
“Car. Now. Fuck's sake.”
“Landon?”
“Coming,” I tell Steve, but my feet aren't moving. For some messed up reason, I stand there watching the two Reeses.
A surly Dallas as he slips into the passenger seat of a sleek black Mercedes, his face hung low. Then Reg, taking the driver's seat. The car doesn't start for several long seconds while he points his finger at Dallas, too close to his face. The skin on the back of Reg's hand is mottled from a birth mark or scar or something.
An evil part of me wants to be glad I'm not the only one going to pieces since mom relayed the horrible, world-ending news about why dad didn't come home. But a fucked up part of me almost feels sorry for Dallas, who looks at the house one more time, as Reg backs onto the street and then floors it.
Maybe the kid I've never liked is right. My father's death has punched a hole in everybody's world, letting in a blackness that's souring everything.
*
Present Day
Sonoma is a miserable place. Strange words, I know.
There's no good reason the bright, cool, sunny beating-heart-of-wine-country weather should make any sane human miserable, except for the company I'm in.
Maybe it’s just that Milah Holly is a miserable person, and I’m regretting this job for more reasons than one.
It’s not that I can’t handle the gig. It’s that I can’t handle her type: pampered, constantly drunk, a complete hot mess falling all over herself and knowing she's doing it.
Always with her groupies behind, the reeling, sloppy-drunk worshipers she keeps around for an ego stroke known as the Siren Crew. Milah was wasted before she even went on stage for her first show at a private VIP event before her main concert venue.
Her Sirens were worse. High as fuck on lines of white dust snorted up before they were all over each other, chasing tongues and sometimes clawing at each other over stupid fights, while I had to do some rapid two-stepping to get those bags of coke out of their hands, out of the Green Room.
Anywhere else where they couldn’t be traced back to me, Milah, or anyone on my crew. Only saving grace is my lead, Skylar, tracking down their local dealer and making sure he was banned from the premises.
It’s been worse since the third small show at the private afterparty, more skin than clothing visible everywhere I look. A near constant contrast with amber whiskey bottles and freely flowing, very expensive local wine, most of which sloshes out on the floor and sends several Sirens toppling on their rears. Still giggling.
I can’t believe these are adults.
Reb would never behave like this. I wish I could transplant her maturity into them.
It’s weird for thoughts of Kenna to be a comfort during this clusterfuck, but when it comes to the lesser of two evils, I’d rather have that sexy little mess of emotional baggage than this fucking mess, period.
Their antics are wearing on everyone. I catch Skylar outside chugging coffee during a break, her pale blue eyes a quiet, tired fury.
“We having fun yet, Pixie, or what?” I growl. She gives me the evil eye whenever I use that nickname. Too bad it's stuck with the entire crew because it's fitting.
She's small, and usually a little scary.