was fading, and stone chips and small dents exposed glimpses of the original yellow. The big dent in the front still hadn’t been fixed, but I suppose they didn’t exactly have the funds to go around fixing materialistic things like that.
Dale was where he’d said he’d be, camped out outside the bus on a deck chair. Wearing Wayfarers, checkered Vans, and an unbuttoned black dress shirt, he sipped his coffee while plucking at the strings of the guitar in his lap.
“Decided to try again?” I asked, leaning against the bus.
“These shmucks can’t keep bagging all the good chicks,” he said, strumming a soft melody that sounded painfully familiar, right up until it bottomed out. “That fucking chord.”
“C minor nine.” My smile was grim as I remembered Hendrix trying to master it some years ago.
Dale’s hand slapped against the strings, and he sighed. “You’ve created quite the mess, Stevie Nicks.”
I tried to smirk but failed. “I know.” I toed some gravel with my chuck. “He here?”
Dale leaned the guitar against the side of the bus. “Who, your brother? Or the drunk?”
“It’s gotten that bad, huh?” I knew without having to ask, but I still had to.
“Yeah.” Dale exhaled. “He can rock that stage drunk, high, or sober. But as soon as he’s off?” He rose, stretching his arms above his head before bending to retrieve his coffee. “The shitshow begins.”
“All the women…” I trailed off, wishing I hadn’t said anything.
“Stevie.” Dale gave me a tired smile. “The only time he doesn’t have a drink in his hand is when he’s asleep.” He stopped, a short bark of laughter leaving. “No, even then he’ll sometimes nurse a bottle or flask.”
I looked up at the bus, worry mingling with anger. “He needs help.”
Dale’s voice lowered, his hand coming to rest on my shoulder. “He can stop. He just doesn’t want to.”
I didn’t know if I believed that. I didn’t know what to believe anymore. “I thought—”
“That he’d be better once he left the two assholes he called parents?”
I nodded.
“We all did. Especially him.” He stepped back and glanced up at the bus when movement sounded from inside.
“He took off,” Dale said. “Hendrix. Wasn’t here when we got back.”
Guilt thickened my voice. “Will you tell him I’m sorry? I don’t know if I’ll get to see him. He won’t answer my calls.”
Dale wiped a hand down his face, mumbling what sounded like, “Shit, here we go,” when the door to the bus flew open, and Everett stumbled out, falling to the gravel lot.
He didn’t even see us, and I made to go to him when he rose, steadying himself with a stream of curses. Unzipping his fly, he staggered over to a weed-infested garden to relieve himself.
“We’re nothing if not classy,” Dale said, grabbing the guitar and heading to the door. “I’ll be inside if you need anything. Otherwise, bye, Stevie.”
“Thanks. Later, Dale.”
Everett swung around then, still tucking himself away. His eyes widened, his hair a stringy mess, falling into his face until he shoved it back. “Clover?”
“Hey.”
Zipping his jeans, he trudged over, the laces of his untied boots slapping at the small stones. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you and, um”—I straightened from the bus, slipping my hands into the pockets of my shorts—“Hendrix.”
Recognition lit those green, bloodshot eyes. “Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
We stood there a long moment, me watching him, and him watching the ground.
Then a rough laugh had his head snapping up, though he didn’t look happy at all. “Thought you would’ve run back to your preppy boyfriend by now.”
That all depends on what you decide to do tonight.
I rubbed at my forehead. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“You don’t look too sure about that.” Everett squinted; his voice soft and rough at the same time.
I ignored him. “What happens now?”
“With what?” He pushed his hand through his hair, clearing it off his face.
I tried not to wince at his words, the split, swollen lip, or the bruise on his cheekbone. “Us.”
His brows scrunched, and a hollow laugh tightened my gut. “There is no us, Clover. Just because your brother knows I like to fuck you doesn’t mean anything’s changed.”
Ice-layered thorns wrapped around my heart. “You’re serious?”
He lifted a shoulder, then dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a squashed pack of cigarettes. Sticking one between his teeth, he lit it, then shoved the lighter and pack back inside his pocket. “Yeah,” he finally said. His eyes darted behind me and hardened further before he let them settle on my face.