Page 19 of Lick
“And get cornered by them? Worry about it later.” He held his hand out, fingers beckoning for mine. “Let’s get out of here.”
I put my hand in his and we went.
CHAPTER SIX
“So, hang on, this song isn’t about his dog dying or something?”
“You’re not funny.” I laughed.
“I so am.” Mal sniggered at the opposite end of the couch as Tim McGraw let rip about his kind of rain on the flat-screen TV taking up the opposite wall. “Why do they all wear such big hats, do you think? I have a theory.”
“Shush.”
The way these people lived blew my tiny little mind. Mal, short for Malcolm, lived in a place at the beach that was mostly a three-story architectural feat of steel and glass. It was amazing. Not ridiculously huge like the place in the hills, but awe-inspiring just the same. My dad would have been in raptures over the minimalism of it, the cleanliness of the lines, or some such. I just appreciated having a friend in my time of need.
Mal’s house was clearly a bachelor pad–slash–den of iniquity. I’d had a vague notion to make lunch to thank him for taking me in, but there wasn’t a single speck of food in the house. Beer filled the fridge and vodka the freezer. Oh, no, there was a bag of oranges used as wedges to go with shots of vodka, apparently. He’d ruled out touching those. His super-slick coffee machine, however, made everything right. He even had decent beans. I wowed him by busting out a few of my barista moves. After drinking three cups in the space of an hour, I felt a lot more like my old well-planned, caffeinated self.
Mal dialed for pizza and we watched TV late into the night. Mostly he found his joy in mocking my taste in pretty much everything: movies, music, the lot. At least he did it good-naturedly. We couldn’t go outside because a couple of photographers were waiting on the beach. I felt bad about it but he’d just shrugged it off.
“What about this song?” he asked. “You like this?”
Miranda Lambert strode on screen in a cool ’50s frock and I grinned. “Miranda is mighty.”
“I’ve met her.”
I sat up straight. “Really?”
More sniggering from Mal. “You’re impressed I’ve met Miranda Lambert but you didn’t even know who I was. Honestly, woman, you are hard on the ego.”
“I saw the gold and platinum records lining the hallway, buddy. I’m thinking you can take it.”
He snorted.
“You know, you remind me a lot of my brother.” I almost managed to duck the bottle cap he flicked at me. It bounced off my forehead. “What was that for?”
“Can’t you at least pretend to worship me?”
“No. Sorry.”
With total disregard for my Lambert love, Mal started surfing the channels. Home shopping, football,Gone with the Wind,and me. Me on TV.
“Wait,” I said.
He groaned. “Not a good idea.”
First my school pictures paraded past, followed by one of Lauren and me at our senior prom. They even had a reporter standing across the road from Ruby’s, prattling on about my life before being elevated to the almighty status of David’s wife. And then there was the man himself in some concert footage, guitar in his hands as he sang backup. The lyrics were your typical my-woman-is-mean, “She’s my one and only, she’s got me on my knees…” I wondered if he’d write songs about me. If so, odds were they’d be highly uncomplimentary. “Shit.” I hugged a couch cushion tight to my chest.
Mal leaned over and fluffed my hair. “David’s the favorite, darlin’. He’s pretty, plays guitar, and writes the songs. Girlies faint when he walks by. Team that with your being a young ’un and you’ve got the news of the week.”
“I’m twenty-one.”
“And he’s twenty-six. It’s enough of a difference if they hype it just right.” Mal sighed. “Face it, child bride. You got married in Vegas by an Elvis impersonator to one of rock ’n’ roll’s favorite sons. It was always bound to cause a shitstorm. Given there’s also been some crap going on with the band lately… what with Jimmy partying like it’s 1999 and Dave losing his music-writing mojo. Well, you get the picture. But next week, someone else will do something wacky and all the attention will move on.”
“I guess so.”
“I know so. People are constantly fucking up. It’s a glorious thing.” He sat back with his hands behind his head. “Go on, smile for Uncle Mal. You know you want to.”
I smiled halfheartedly.
