He rested the sheet of drywall he was wrassling against the wall so he could turn fully to me and plant his hands on his hips.
I couldn’t tell if he was amused or annoyed.
Or relieved.
Though I was fascinated to note he looked all of those.
However, he said nothing.
“What do you like on your pizza, or you can answer the alternate question of what don’t you like?” I asked.
“You goin’ all out on pizza, you gonna skip La-La Land?” he asked back.
“Hell no,” I gave him the obvious answer.
“No pineapple or peppers and I don’t mind anchovies.”
“I do,” I told him.
“So don’t get ’em,” he returned.
I lifted my hand up to my forehead in a salute and executed my take of a precise military turn on my leopard-print-strapped, flat sandals that had feathers dangling.
Deke was no longer in my vision so I couldn’t see the expression on his face when I heard his audible grunt that also sounded both amused and annoyed.
On my way out to my truck that two of “Wood’s” men did, indeed, return to me last night at four thirty, I engaged my phone, hit the number to the pizza place in town I’d Safari’ed and ordered it on my way down.
I hit up Sunny and Shambles. We had a short gab. I then grabbed the pizza and a six-pack of Coke and headed back.
I’d thrown one of the mover’s blankets over the stack of drywall in the great room, the pizza down on it, put the Coke in the fridge with one out for Deke and a bottle of water for me, before I shouted on my way down the hall back to the pile of drywall, “Soup’s on!”
I was cross-legged on the floor with another blanket under me, throwing open the pizza box when Deke strolled in.
Yes, I was maneuvering having lunch with him, not just bringing lunch to him.
Yes, I was fucked because he’d demonstrated that he could be a nice guy, somewhat forthcoming and definitely cool after he’d fucked up. This meant not only was he too attractive by half, cracking that nut that was him was something I was enjoying, even knowing I would never really be able to dig into that shell and get to the meat.
He didn’t even hesitate to plant his ass on the drywall by the pizza I’d torn a wedge from and was now munching.
He also didn’t hesitate to grab his own wedge.
“Pepperoni, sausage, Canadian bacon with mushrooms thrown in for vitamin D,” I declared through a half-full mouth.
“I approve,” he returned on a full mouth after taking a big bite.
“Bubba tomorrow?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he answered.
“I thought Bubba worked at Bubba’s,” I remarked.
“Bubba works for Max. He’s only at Bubba’s to help out and be with his woman.”
Interesting.
“You guys do your thing, should I take off?” I went on.
“Yep,” he replied.
I munched.
Before I could lock on something that would crack deeper into Deke, my phone rang.
I did a stretch, yanking up the lacy weave of my long sweater that hung over my battered khaki short-shorts to pull my phone out of my back pocket.
I looked at the screen.
It said, Joss.
Mom had bad timing.
But I hadn’t heard from her in a while, she’d been suffering from Dad’s loss too, and if she needed to connect, I needed to let her.
I shifted to a hip in order to find my feet while muttering, “Gotta take this.”
Deke just gave me one nod.
I took the call. “Hey, Joss.”
Side note, I’d never called my mom “Mom.” This was not because she was not a mom person. She was. She’d been a great mom.
She was just a cool mom.
And she also left her home to be a groupie at age seventeen. She further raised me to be grown-up enough to start the switch from mom to friend at age seventeen.
So, since she’d been living for the day when she could set the mom part aside and go to concerts with me, she’d always been Joss.
“You need to talk to your stepfather.”
Right.
I’ll provide added detail.
She’d always been Joss until my stepfather did something stupid and then she became my mother only so she could order me to deal with her shit.
“What’s going on?” I asked and did it not hiding the fact I didn’t want to know.
I also did it lamentably leaving Deke behind so I could take my phone call and pizza slice out to the back deck in order that he not hear my conversation.
“He wants to do a reality program,” she informed me.
My blood heated.
“And he wants me to sign to be on it with him,” she continued.
That heat intensified.
“And he wants me to talk to you to see if you’ll come to town and do a few walk-ons on the show,” she finished.
I was on the deck, the door closed behind me, swiftly and angrily making my way to the railing, doing it asking loudly, “Is he high?”
“He’s pissed I’m reacting to Johnny’s death so he’s pushing my buttons. But his tour didn’t sell great last year and he’s also taking advice from that shit-for-brains manager of his on how to increase his profile and get on the radar of younger fans.”
My mother was not only a groupie who caught the eye of an up-and-coming legacy rock star who would eventually make it huge.
She also was not only Johnny Lonesome’s first wife.
She was a personality in her own right and this was not simply because, between Dad and Joss’s current husband, Roddy Rembrandt (a ridiculous name his handlers made Rod change to, also a name Rod couldn’t ditch later because it had become part of him to his legions of fans), she was girlfriend and muse to a number of big name rockers.