“Anyone want to hit the beach?” Fern said brightly. Edgar immediately looked at Socks and me for an explanation for her good mood. I shrugged.
“I’ll join you,” Edgar said, smiling at Fern. It felt good. When the band was first forming, Edgar and Fern had spent so much time working out parts together. Her withdrawal had caused a lot of confusion for Edgar, and he’d become quieter and less outgoing as well. He was a quiet guy to begin with — and Fern had brought him out of his shell.
“Awesome! I want to get some cheeseburgers. I feel like I haven’t eaten in fucking forever.”
While Edgar, Socks, and Fern talked about how to spend the day off, I crammed wadded handfuls of my wretched laundry into a washing machine. The clothes smelled sweaty, wet, and musty. I quickly shoved in last night’s clothes.
Once the laundry was set, Edgar and Fern took off to check out the restaurant next door while Socks and I headed up to the room. Toad, who’d left us card keys and a note with the room number, was lying on the bed in a clean shirt and shorts, his long hair wrapped in a white towel.
“Timmy should be out soon — once he’s done jacking off,” Toad said, flicking channels; I could hear the shower running through the closed bathroom door. He looked at us. “You guys look like shit. Rachel, your hair looks like a wig made out of dog shit.” I glared. He laughed.
xXx
Once Timmy came out of the bathroom it was my turn — and my god, that shower felt good. I washed my hair, horrified by the dirty water that rinsed out, and then shampooed twice more. It sucks how gross touring can be. We’d had thirteen shows in a row — and nothing but a sink shower on any of those days. Girls who want to sleep with rock stars should remember that. The guy you’re making out with may not even have brushed his teeth, let alone washed his ass, for days.
I put on a clean sundress and left the bathroom. Timmy and Toad were both lying on one bed, Socks on the other, all staring at the TV. I took Socks’s place when he got up to shower.
I’d like to say that I felt some overwhelming need to meditate on the events of the night before, that it was haunting me, that I felt the urge to confess to the others what we had done. But honestly, the only thing that had really followed me into that morning was the grossness. The blood and the whistling noise. The sweat and the darkness. The smell. The worry of getting caught. As Toad flipped channels, I wondered if anything would be on the news about the dead guy. But I wasn’t very worried about it. I felt cool, clean, and comfortable lying on that big bed.
The telephone rang in our room. Toad answered. “Hello? . . . yeah. Oh, hey man. Good, good. You?”
He chatted for a few minutes. I tuned him out until he held the phone out to me. “Rachel, it’s for you.”
“What? Who is it?”
“Just answer it and find out,” he said, so I took the phone and held it to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Rachel?” a male voice asked.
“Yes . . . Who is this?”
“Uh, this is Chris, from Ripsawdomy,” he said. “Is this a bad time?”
“No,” I said, immediately breaking into a nervous sweat.
“I got your tour manager’s room number from ours,” he said. “I hope that’s okay.”
“Yeah! It’s fine.”
“So you guys stopped in the same city we did,” he said. “Toad said you’re staying at the Cherrywood Inn.”
“I guess so.”
“Do you want to do something today?” I could tell he was nervous too, and I found myself grinning. He said he would come by the hotel and look for our bus in the parking lot in about two hours. We hung up.
“So?” Toad asked as Socks came back into the room.
“I’m going to meet him, we’re going to hang out or something.”
“A date!”
“Shut up,” I said, glaring at Toad. I fixed Timmy with a glare as well. Even though Timmy and I barely spoke, he seemed to be Toad’s little follower, so I figured I may as well treat him the same way.
“With who?” Socks said.
“With Chris,” Toad tattled.
Socks looked at me. “Really?”