Page 29 of Hot Mess
Like right now, sitting in this cafe… I should’ve probably had him with me. Jude had recommended that I call him whenever I was “in public.”
I still wasn’t totally comfortable with that, though.
Haz was cool. We’d become friends. He didn’t cramp my style when we went out at night; that was key. The girls liked him, for sure. I really didn’t mind having him around, in theory.
But I figured if I could keep a decently low profile on my own—like sitting here by myself, on my phone, with my cap pulled low over my eyes—I didn’t need him babysitting me. If I planned on drawing attention to myself, or getting drunk and letting my guard down, I’d call him in.
Interesting enough, it wasn’t even my own management company who’d been concerned about my security and suggested the bodyguard thing. They’d never really had my back like that.
It was Dirty’s manager, Brody Mason.
Now that my band had broken up, I didn’t even know where I stood with my management company anymore, or how long I’d be able to pay for everything. My accountant assured me I was solid, that I didn’t need to worry so much, and I’d seen the numbers. But growing up in a shack with my deadbeat dad, where the electricity and water were always getting shut off and he was always selling my shit out from under me to pay for food or smokes, had left me with an uncomfortable association with money.
Even when I had it, I didn’t exactly trust it wouldn’t up and disappear.
Money.
Love.
Security.
Elusive shit.
No matter how solid my finances were right now, I didn’t feel secure. Which meant I needed to look ahead, at how I was gonna make a living in the future.
And make some killer music.
On that point, I knew it was time for a complete overhaul of my professional network. Starting with the breakup of my band—check. Then meeting with management and discussing what the future looked like—to be completed at some future date when I pulled my head out of my ass.
Hours passed as I fucked around on my phone, not really accomplishing anything at all. Two, to be exact, before I completely lost the ability to kid myself that I was sitting in this cafe to work. Sure, they had Wi-Fi and I could’ve kept busy all day returning messages if I had any desire to do that.
The only desire I really had at the moment was to figure out who the hell Danny was, why I couldn’t stop wondering about her… and what it would feel like to meet her again, sober.
Since that didn’t seem like much of a possibility, I finally called it a day. My parking meter had probably expired anyway.
I told myself that even if lightning struck a third time and I saw her again—unlikely as shit—it probably wouldn’t matter anyway.
She’d jetted on me. Twice.
After the whole Dylan/Amber thing, I’d fucking sworn to myself that I was never getting involved with anyone who didn’t really want me, ever again. Been there, done that, way too many times.
Hence all the breakup parties.
And this girl? She didn’t want me four years ago, and clearly, she didn’t want me now.
Dead end.
Waste of time.
So why was I so willing to waste it for her?
I went back to my truck and drove home, where I manned up and called my management company, set up an in-person meeting for later this week. Like the professional I was supposed to be.
When I got off the phone, I looked around my empty, silent condo.
Wondered which would be worse: hanging on the island, alone, or hanging here, alone.
Then I called up Brad, Dylan’s brother-in-law, and went to meet him for beers.
