Page 2 of Real Dirty
She didn’t know what you were planning, so cut her some slack, I tell myself. I’m trying to give her some grace, but my patience is wearing thin.
Sometimes you just have to roll with the punches, so why not get out of here and put the 442 through her paces?
As soon as I lay eyes on the slick black-and-red paint job, I feel lighter. I jerk my chin at Frisco in the direction of the muscle car.
“Let’s go.”
The engine growls like the bad bitch she is as I roast the tires in the parking lot of the venue. In my rearview, two men in black suits stand with their arms crossed over their chests, watching me disapprovingly as a cloud of smoke fills the air.
Tough shit. My security. My payroll.
Which means I can do stupid crap like this and they can’t say a damn thing.
“You gonna let Tweedledee and Tweedledumb follow us tonight? Or are we gonna act like we got some goddamned balls and go have some fun?” Frisco asks, the taunt clear in his tone as a roadie waves me toward the open gate that leads out of the parking lot.
He’s still new enough in the industry that he can go places without being recognized, but I don’t have that luxury anymore.
“You know anywhere we can go without being mobbed by people? I’m not in the mood for that tonight, man.”
Frisco lays his arm along the open window frame. “I got the perfect place in mind. But first, let’s see what this beauty can do.”
2
Boone
Ahalf hour later, the smile on my face is in danger of becoming a perma-grin.
Damn, it feels good to tear around town in the sweetest piece of American muscle I’ve ever owned.We only had to duck into one alley to lose a cop, which shows you just how much I’ve held back. Last thing I need is a reckless-driving charge for the press to chew on and blow out of proportion.
Frisco laughs his ass off as we head back toward downtown Nashville and his apartment. He’s got one of those lofts in a rehabbed warehouse somewhere around here.
“Where am I going? Am I dropping you off?”
His laughter cuts off. “Fuck no. That was just the warm-up, right? We need some booze.”
I slow as traffic gets heavier near Broadway. All the people crowding the streets reminds me of playing for tips in some hole-in-the-wall on Sixteenth Avenue before I finally landed a record deal. Everything happened fast after that.
One day I was sleeping in my car, and the next they were putting me up at a hotel I couldn’t afford on my own, all because some record exec saw dollar signs when I played.
Worked for me.
“Where we headed?”
“Take a left up here.” He points toward a dark side street.
Even though I’m questioning whether he’s got his directions backward, I turn.
“Two blocks down.”
A few minutes later, the glow of blue-and-green neon lights appears up ahead.
The Fishbowl.
The logo looks exactly like you’d think. A blue bubble of a fishbowl with green writing in the middle and a matching green fish inside.
I slow, intending to pull up to the curb, but he points toward the next side street. “Take a right and park in the back. Might help keep someone from spotting the car and trying to track you down.”
“Good looking out.”
