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"well, come on"
"they're beautiful," you mumble and pull the joint back between your lips. "beautiful girls."
pete moves; his face comes into your peripheral vision. the tv sheds blue light over the bedroom and turns the smiling faces of pete's daughters a purplish color.
"get out of my wallet," he demands.
a huff puffs from your lungs and you slip the photograph back, placing it in its old spot atop the nightstand.
you fall back beside pete and watch the late-night eagle fly across the television screen. nothing left to watch at this hour, just the images of americana to fill the static.
"do the band think you're sleeping?" your hand finds pete's wrist, his pulling pulse. "do they know you're here with me?"
his blind fingers search for the joint. you slip it to him. "they already know."
"did you tell them?"
"they're not dumb rocks. well sometimes they are, but that's not it. you're blatant."
you lie quiet. the hotel's heavy a/c folds over you and dries the sweat on your soaked, sated skin. stoned and contemplative, you ask the ceiling, where colors splash like ink in water: "do you still get that feeling of nonexistence?"
"sometimes," pete responds. "it comes on like a wave in the middle of doing something." the sheets rustle as he sits up. his back is pale. you run your palm across it, tripping over the ache of his spine.
he takes generous hits off the spliff. the motion causes his body to rise and fall.
"thank you, pete," you start. "for seeing me as more than just a makeup artist. i don't think i would have lasted these past tours without you."
he snorts, the sound and heave of his frame derisive. "you're the one who chased me down."
"because i'm obsessed with you. . . want me to roll another?"
"don't worry about it, there's the tiny bottles in the mini-bar. grab me two, will ya?"
you slip from the bed and bend down to pick up two little things of vodka from the fridge. when you turn around, pete's image catches you. he's hunched and sagging. his hair holds grease from a lack of showers, his eyes are puffed, the skin on his arms and chest is reddened from your love-making. you exhale.
your decisions are out there in front of you, a sign of all you've done after leaving home and creating a new life for yourself. pete is five things, ten, twenty, fifty. his meanings swell and wash like the ocean. you lap it all up.
his sad eyes rise and he looks back into your stare. he gets it, he does, if only for the small passing time, until he orders out: "well, come on."
you crawl back to him. he drinks without vigor. the dregs he tosses to you. and parched, you drink like a desert-bound man.
( so, this book comes to a close! thank you for reading and enjoying ~ i really think about the freedom i have to express myself through writing, to show appreciation to people who've changed and influenced my world. i appreciate the journey everyone has taken with me and i hope these chapters didn't get boring! so here's something a little fun for the end: a tag by classic_eastling feel free to do it too! much love to you kind people )
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1. Hatful of Hollow by The Smiths 2. No, 70s! 3. A solo artist named Okay Kaya 4. Mr. Moon 5. No, I can't keep it up 6. A happy life, peace and love (✌️ 🕶️👃✌️) for everyone, and to meet Mr. James Page. 7. Happiness 8. Light and Shade: Conversations with Jimmy Page 9. George Harrison 🤧🤧 all other answers are incorrect 10. (I'm) Cher (bitch!)
