Top Dog

“I’m fine.”

“I’m driving.”

“I’m not even drunk.”

“I’m driving. Now get in,” she said. “You'd think you, of all people, would know better than to get behind the wheel when you've been drinking.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“You know what I mean,” she said. “Now get in the fucking car. I'm driving.”

She had a fucking point, and it hit me like a ton of bricks. I wasn’t drunk, but I still had a drink that morning.

I watched her open her truck door and hop in, sitting there as she waited for me to join her .I ripped my guitar from my truck and slammed the door, gritting my teeth in the process.

I slid into her truck, my guitar sitting between my legs as we pulled out.

“I got the address of the place,” I said.

“I know where you’re going,” Delia said.

“You told Hank I’d been drinking, didn’t you?” I asked.

“Yep,” she said.

The truck ride was silent after that. Her hands were gripping the steering wheel tightly, and her back was completely straight. If she wasn’t going to entertain me with some sort of conversation, then I was going to study her. I hooked onto the profile of her face and grazed my eyes down her body.

She was a pain in my ass, but she was nice on the eyes.

We pulled into the venue, and I saw Hank flagging us down. Delia pulled into a parking space, not speaking to me as she slid out of her side of the truck. I grabbed my guitar and started for the coordinator, who was usually a goofy-looking asshole with a clipboard.

Hank and Delia were talking to one another before they joined the conversation.

“You’ll have time at the top of the hour to set up, then your set starts at eight fifteen, Mr. Blackthorn. Your bus is here with your gear in case you need it, though it’s an acoustic set so a speaker and a hookup is plenty. Your bus is yours to use as you wish—”

“I know my bus is mine,” I said. “Just point me in that direction, and I’ll take it from here.”

Both Delia and Hank looked over at me before the coordinator pointed.

“Thanks.”

I didn’t wait around for either of them to lecture me on my tone of voice. Hank fucking acted like my mother, and Delia was quickly becoming that nagging little voice I wanted to squash like a bug. I heard the pitter patter of little feet behind me as I strode for my bus, pulling the door open and stepping inside.

I heard someone step in behind me before the door closed.

“Sure you wanna do that?” I asked.

I looked up into a mirror and saw Delia’s reflection standing at the front of the bus.

“Didn’t realize you’d need all this for a local performance,” she said.

“Gets brought to every performance,” I said. “Personal protocol. If you don’t wanna attend the performance, you can stay on the bus.”

“Sounds fine with me,” she said.

“I got a forty-five-minute set, so try not to miss me too much.”

“It’ll be hard, but I think I can manage.”