“Okay, let’s be fair here,” Dash said. “I don’t care if they do make it part of the driver’s test; parallel parking is not most people’s strong suit. Think about how many cockeyed cars we used to see when we were out bombing the Ave.”
“What I always wanted to know was who the fuck came up with that phrase in the first place,” Johnny asked.
“Wish I knew,” Dash replied, “it was before my time too.”
“Whoever coined it, it’s been awhile, my old man called it bombing the Ave too,” I pointed out.
“I bet all of our dads did,” Johnny said. “So, I take it no more mopeds after that?”
“Hell no,” Dash said. “To top it off, the cops showed up and wound up ticketing him for having a passenger on the back when he only had a learner’s permit.”
“I bet he just loved that,” I said.
“Dude, this fucker flew off the handle when we got to his place,” Dash explained. “He tore half his room apart looking for the driver’s manual, just so he could find the passage that said motorcycle riders weren’t allowed a passenger with a learner’s permit, but that the book classified mopeds as motorized bikes, which didn’t come with the same restriction.”
“Okay, fair. I’d have fought the ticket too, then,” Johnny said.
“I couldn’t fault him for that, or for calling the station and giving them the name of the officer and ticket number and reading them what the manual said.”
“So he beat it,” Johnny said. “Right on.”
Dash chuckled at that and chugged the last of the juice at the bottom of the bottle he held. “He beat that one, which was thirty-five bucks. He’d have been better off paying it, though, since the permit he’d given the officer wasn’t even his. He’d stolen it out of another friend’s glove box. So the information on the ticket sent the cop to our friend’s house and he brought the cop to Louie’s place, where the cop tore up the first ticket, and issued three more, totaling over two hundred and forty-fivedollars.”
“Dayum!” Johnny screeched, while I just sat there shaking my head, because, holy shit.
We laughed at that, sipped water, and reminisced some more, the stories changing as we rotated in and out, but like the songs we were recording, the memories would linger for the rest of our lives.
Chapter 32
(Steel)
I woke to the feel of fingertips dancing up my arm and the cry of gulls on the beach. Sea salt-scented air filled the room, carried by the breeze that wafted in from the windows. We’d arrived last night, exhausted as hell, to a beach house backlit by the moon.
And yes, it was on the beach.
After nine days at the studio with Jagger and the Damaged Saints, I’d been free to catch up with Kit and Rebel, who’d wrapped up their album the night before. Exhausted texts and bleary-eyed videochats had kept me from missing them too much, but not by much. Carrying our bags up the steps to Rebel’s bedroom took the last of our energy, and we’d tumbled onto the California King, me in the center, as they draped arms and legs across me.
“What time is it?” I murmured and sat up, looking for a clock on the nightstand like there always was in their hotel room.
“Time is irrelevant here,” Rebel said, voice coming from the opposite side of the caresses that had moved to my spine.
“I’m not awake enough for a Zen lesson,” Kit protested.
“Not Zen,” Rebel said. “There are no clocks in the house. When I’m here, I don’t care what time it is.”
“I can work with that,” I said. “So, what’s on the agenda forthe day?”
“No agendas,” Kit said. “That has to go along with the wholetime is irrelevantthing.”
“Now you’re catching on,” Rebel said.
“So…” I began, intending to ask if we needed to kickstart the day with a grocery order, when Rebel cut me off.
“Just go with the flow, man,” Rebel said. “The day is whatever we make of it.”
Now that was going to take some getting used to.
“After months of Draven’s daily itineraries, it’ll be nice to wake up and not have to check my email,” Kit said, giving voice to exactly what I was thinking too.