Until today’s balls-in-my-face episode.
When I open my eyes again, Jacob’s still grumbling, but thankfully, zipping up his jeans. “Fuck you. If I die, you’re going to feel bad for being mean to me.”
I crawl out of my bunk, stand and stretch, listening to my vertebrae snap, crackle, and pop. Next time we tour, we better be able to afford more frequent hotel stays.
I slap Jacob on the shoulder. “Dude, if you die, I’ll definitely feel bad, but it won’t be because of that.”
His mouth twists, and he reaches down to scratch his balls. “Shit, this hurts all over. I think it’s spreading.”
“Get your ass to a doctor before your dick falls off.”
“That’s not funny.” He duck-walks down the aisle toward the front of the bus.
Maybe I’m an asshole, but I can’t stop laughing. “Karma comes for you when you least expect it!” I shout after him.
He throws up his middle finger.
Unfortunately, he returns fifteen minutes later. At least this time, he keeps his pants on. “I found a clinic not too far. Will you come with me?”
“Where’s Garrett?”
“Fucking that chick we picked up in Santa Fe. I don’t want to interrupt his flow. What else do you have to do but sit around moping about Mallory?”
“That’s how you want to convince me to come with you?”
“Come on, please? I don’t want to be alone if it’s bad news.”
“Fine.” Fuck knows the asshole’s liable to get lost trying to score drugs, and we need to be on stage at seven p.m. He’s been cutting it closer and closer every night.
I grab my leather jacket and follow him outside. We flag down a cab, and Jacob gives him the address.
The driver keeps eyeing us in the mirror, until I ask him if he has a problem. Maybe he recognizes us. Maybe he knows where he’s dropping us off and he’s afraid we’re infecting his seats. Who knows.
The area the clinic’s located in is downright nasty. I peer out the window. The grungy building has no sign or indication that it’s a medical facility.
“This is it,” the driver announces.
Jacob tosses him some cash, and we slide out of the car. The guy can’t speed away fast enough.
Jacob and I stand there staring up at the building.
“What is this? The saddest dick clinic in the world?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “The ad in the phonebook said free, confidential clinic.”
Reluctantly, I follow him upstairs. I don’t see any rats, but it definitely has the vibe of a place rats would find cozy.
A nurse in a white outfit greets us inside the office.
“Holdin McGroin,” Jacob announces. “I called earlier.”
The woman rolls her eyes and hands him a clipboard. “Fill that out, Mr. Mah-Groin.” Her gaze shifts to me. “You too?”
“Nope. Just here for moral support.”
“You don’t have to be so gleeful about it,” Jacob bitches.
We drop into two chairs, and I glance around at the crusty medical office. “Bro, keep your boxers on and don’t lay down anywhere. If you do, fifty to one says you’re leaving here with crabs in addition to whatever else you’ve got going on down there.”
“I hate you.” He flips through the papers on the clipboard. “Garrett would’ve been more supportive.”
“He’s an enabler. You’re in need of tough love.”
He waves off my assessment. “Bro, don’t you miss strange pussy?”
I glance at him and arch an eyebrow at our surroundings. “Not even a little.”
“Shit!” He laughs and slaps my leg. “Do you remember when we all caught crabs from Patricia after the Clover show?”
“Jesus Christ.” I sit up and run my hands through my hair. “That was fucking horrible.”
“Remember how pissed Alvin was when we didn’t warn him?”
“We didn’t know.”
“And we kept calling her Crabby Patty until she tried to run me over with her car?”
“We were assholes.”
“What are you talking about? That was fucking hilarious. I wonder what she’s up to now? She was a fireball in the sack.”
“Yeah, and a crotch fire after.”
We’re stopped from our disgusting stroll down degenerate memory lane by the nurse calling several times for “Holdin.”
I nudge him with my elbow. “I’ll wait here.”
Jacob stops and stares at me. “You’re really making me do this by myself?”
“You already played your dick in my face card for the year.” I shrug and hold up my hands. “Sorry, buddy. Nothing I can do.”
“Asshole.”
I tap my fingers against my leg and pull out the small notepad and pen I keep stashed in my jacket pocket. Despite my less than sterling surroundings, I miss Mallory. No matter where I am, my need for her is a tireless throbbing inside my chest. Writing has helped channel all my pent-up desire. I use my time alone to jot down some lyrics. The need to finish my latest song about her has turned into a never-ending beat against my ribcage.
The band’s supposed to go from the tour into the studio to record our next album with Cutter, and I want to have plenty of material.