Over You by Stevie J. Cole

Author:Stevie J. Cole [Cole, Stevie J.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, mobi, epub
Published: 2019-03-13T04:00:00+00:00

13

Spencer

There are certain things a man should never do if he wants his estranged wife to talk to him. He shouldn’t use derogatory terms. He shouldn’t ask her if she’s down to fuck. And he shouldn’t chug a bottle of whiskey, chase it with half a bottle of wine, and then toss his dinner in her bathroom.

Pretty sure I’d done all three the previous night.

Pain shot through my skull like a hollow-tip bullet when I sat up in Georgia’s—yes, I was really in Georgia’s—bed. Clutching my head, I threw my legs over the edge of the mattress, accidentally kicking over the trash can. A white pill bottle sat on the nightstand beside a stack of papers and a handwritten note from Georgia. It’s the British form of Tylenol. You’re welcome. Also, please sign the papers.

I snatched the medicine from the table with a grumble, dumped a few into my palm, then tossed them down the hatch while eyeing the document.

Petition for dissolution of marriage.

Now comes the petitioner, Georgia Hailstorm, by and through her attorneys, Laughtin and Brookes. . .

I grabbed the pen and flipped to the page marked with a fluorescent yellow flag. The tip of the ballpoint pressed against the signature line. It was pathetic of me to hold on to someone who didn’t want me anyway. I started to draw the curve of the S, then stopped.

Because I still loved her.

Because I knew how good we could be together.

Because one day I’d be better. . .

I threw down the pen, stood, and got dressed, swearing under my breath for hopping out of the limo with nothing but the clothes on my back. Ah! And my drugs. But when I shoved my fingers into my pocket, they came back empty. I dropped to my hands and knees and looked under Georgia’s bed, under the bedside table. Nothing aside from my half-dead phone. It must have fallen out when I was stumbling around outside. I punched the mattress, then glanced down at my cell and noticed the eighty-seven missed texts messages and calls.

Ricky: #fuckthelabel???

Ricky: #suckmyass!?!?!?!?!?

Ricky: Where are you!

Ricky: You better be in Glastonbury by tomorrow. If you miss that show, it’s your ass.

Nash: Dude!

Nash: Where the hell are you?

Nash: Seriously. Not funny. We can’t do the show without you.

Leo: I hope you find the peace to get clean one day.

Even though that self-righteous comment grated my nerves, sober me felt like a dickhead for choking one of my best friends. My Buddhist, everything is Zen, don’t kill bugs because they’re living creatures, best friend at that.

I had a show.

The right thing to do would be to catch a ride to Glastonbury, suck it up and apologize, and not let my fans down. I opened the last text from Nash and typed out: I’ll be there. My finger hovered over the blue send arrow. That worn-out Jiminy Cricket voice that tried to keep my ass out of trouble whistled, and I glanced around the room.

While most of last night was foggy, the way Georgia looked at me in that pub stuck out like a gangrened thumb.

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