“You’re really good,” I said. “More than good. This is astonishing.”
“Yeah, thanks.” He rubbed the back of his neck, watching me hold the glass.
He probably thinks I’m going to break it. I carefully set the paperweight back down.
“So, I gotta get to the hot shop,” Jonah said. “That’s where I make them, the glass. I’ll be there until about two this afternoon.” He pressed his lips together, thinking. Finally he said, “I guess… Well, I guess you’re welcome to stay here until then.”
“Really? You don’t mind?”
“I don’t know if I’d go that far,” Jonah said with dry smile. “There’s some food here in the fridge, if or when you’re up to eating. Help yourself to the bottled water, too. If you really need to smoke, there’s a little courtyard in the middle of the complex. You’ll see the sidewalk just to the right as you go out. It has benches and an ashtray.”
“Okay, sure. Got it,” I said, relief flooding me that I had a few hours before I had to face the music. So to speak.
At the kitchen counter, Jonah scribbled something on a piece of paper and brought it back to me. “This is my cell number. If you need anything, just call. Phone’s in the kitchen”
I took the paper and met his gaze. Up close, his eyes were warmer. A deep, rich brown.
“Thanks a ton for letting me crash,” I said. “I really appreciate it. Not many people would let a total stranger hang out in their place unsupervised.”
Jonah smiled tightly. “Tell me about it.”
He pocketed his keys and went out, locking the door behind him. He left me alone in his place. Me. The girl who wrecked the Pony Club just hours before, puked in his car, invaded his space and almost cost him his job. He was being so cool about it. More than cool.
He trusts me. Sort of.
Not that I deserved trust. I winced at the thought of what the green room was going to look like tonight. Having to go and do another show filled me with a strange kind of dread.
What is wrong with me?
I figured I could get into less trouble if I slept, and I wasn’t lying to Jonah about needing a nap anyway. My headache thundered and I wanted to sleep for a million years. I lay down against the couch cushion and pulled the old afghan over my shoulders. It wasn’t as ugly as I thought at first. Its weight was comforting. Like a good hug.
My heavy gaze fell over the beautiful array of blown glass on the coffee table. Gorgeous swirls of color and design, trapped and floating in the center of the paperweights, wrapped like ribbons along the body of the bottle.
“Beautiful,” I murmured. My scattering thoughts imagined it would be peaceful and quiet inside one of those paperweights. I could float weightless in a glass ocean, suspended in beauty, surrounded by color and stillness. No noise. No pounding drums or tearing riffs or screaming fans. Just…silence.
And safety.
I was asleep within moments.
I woke up, unable to remember where I was until my gaze found the glass paperweights. My limo driver’s apartment. Jonah Fletcher. Fletch, like the Chevy Chase movie. I smiled to myself and stretched.
The light streaming in from the window was sharp and white, the kind that arrived with high noon. The DVR clock said it was one. I’d slept for six straight hours. My stomach was no longer queasy, but clamoring for food.
I wanted a cigarette more. I took my pack and headed outside, toward the courtyard Jonah told me about.
The heat smacked me upside the head and my headache threatened to return. I didn’t know how anyone could get used to desert heat. Born and raised in San Diego where it was almost always 74 degrees and breezy, I couldn’t tolerate this kind of stark, dry heat for longer than a day or two. It was like living in an oven. Though I sort of loathed the idea of rejoining the band, I was glad we were leaving Nevada on Tuesday.
I sat on one of the wrought iron benches in the dinky courtyard, shaded by one half of the L-shaped apartment complex. The courtyard was dirt and crushed limestone, lined with cactus and some other desert brush I didn’t recognize. Nothing here was real green, only pale green, as if coated in desert sand.
I puffed my cigarette and mentally examined my thought about rejoining my band. Did I really loathe the idea? We were on the verge of stardom. Buckets of money and loads of fame lay ahead.
So why did I feel like I wanted to walk away?
Because you don’t want to end up dead, came a helpful thought.
I shivered despite the insane heat, and took a long drag on my smoke. An apartment door facing the courtyard opened and an older lady in a peach-colored housedress, slippers, and curlers in her short hair started out. She stopped when she saw me.
I waved. “Hot enough for ya?”