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Hooking up while going down,
Down into my grave.
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The motel was a single story, two-tone brown affair with a kidney-shaped pool behind a painted iron fence at the back of the building. Commercials were blaring from the local radio station as the Narc pulled into the lot. When Avery parked, we both went for our seatbelts. She set her hand over mine.
"Wait here. I'm gonna see what the rates are."
We hadn't discussed gas money or room rates. "I have like two-hundred dollars." More than I had ever had, but still, not much considering there was no payday in sight. I would have to get a job the second I got to Los Angeles.
Avery grinned, vacating the driver's seat. "Don't worry. This one's on me."
"Via your mother," I assumed.
"I kind of stole her grocery money." She laughed at my shocked expression and turned towards the office.
In less time than I expected, Avery was back in the driver's seat handing me a single, silver key with an orange tear-drop key ring. "Room number one-six-six."
"It's around back."
We scanned the lot for the tell-tale white van, but it was nowhere to be found.
The second we romped into our single star room with en suite bath, a fifteen-by-twelve palace, perfectly suited for trailer-park royalty like me, it was a race to get into our bathing suits. I snatched a few towels and we were headed for the pool in less than five minutes. Not to swim. At least I wasn't planning on swimming. I wanted to bake in the hot sun for a while; catch a little color.
While Avery familiarized herself with the spring of the diving board, I spread out my towel and commenced with sunning my back. The dry desert air swept across my skin, soaking me with warmth. Before long, every cell in my body opened wide, keenly craving the radioactive burn-minus tan lines. I reached back and untied the string of my top, flopping the black laces down around my sides.
It was so peaceful.
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My eyes flew open at the first scent of a vomit inducing stench. A rank wind kicked up while I napped. I smoothed my hair behind me and spotted a dark shape. The sudden closeness kick started my heart and I flinched before the shape registered-I was beside a trash can.
Avery was lying at the edge of the pool, beside the cool blue water. Her long body looked still like the sparkling surface she aligned herself against. With one hand extended over the concrete ridge, her fingers traced the surface of the water.
Just passed the edge of the nasty trash can, I found the shape of magnificence: a white van in the parking lot, a passenger model of American make, dirty inside and out with a dented back bumper, and way too many bumper stickers. Only three spaces away. It was parked sideways because there was a small trailer hitched behind it.
My stomach flipped.
Being with Jake was like being with two people. My Jake was quiet, panther smooth when he stalked me, super-sexy, and unintentionally brutal in his honesty. Also a little awkward in the way he'd get excited sometimes and talk with his hands. He was so completely talented, it blew my mind. When I was with him, I was me. But when I glimpsed Jake, the lead vocalist for the up and coming band Analog Controller that I loved longer than I'd known him; he was loud, raucous, and his performances exuded enough energy to power a small city. It turned me giddy. Every time I saw the front-man I devolved into the mumbling fan-girl he met in a dark hallway with his face plastered on her t-shirt.
From behind the van, carrying a long duffle bag, a pouch of drumsticks and a guitar case was the very mischievous Max Sims-the tall, brown-haired cutie.
"What are they doing at a shit-bag motel like this?" Avery snickered.
"It's no five-star Inn, but they offer free continental breakfast until eleven."
We were wrapped in towels and moving towards our room, keeping to the shadows like stalkers until we reached our door.
"Do you think they're all staying together?" Avery asked and I knew who she was referring to: the auditioning guitarist.
I shrugged. Avery shrugged back, stretching around the doorframe to see what she could see.
Her declaration came in a hoarse whisper. "Angel, they're all here." She jerked my arm forward and simultaneously fell out of my way so I could see.
Out from behind the van appeared the lanky form of Andrew Greene. He was wearing his favorite Sex Pistols t-shirt and faded jeans, carrying a backpack, and just behind him, a beautiful, talented dream. The lead singer. His head was covered with a black skull cap. Just below the edge, on the sides and back, the milky skin of his head was visible under newly shorn hair.
I was drawn, like a magnet, into the open corridor. Jake was looking down, adjusting the straps of the bags he was hauling. Just as my lips began to form the first sounds of his name, Avery's hand reached from inside the room, yanking me back.
