“Bullshit. You get your head out of your ass, right now.”
“What?”
“Not made right. You’re the finest musician I’ve ever known. You will never run out of work. The line to get to you would wrap around New York twenty times.”
“Then what did I do wrong? I did everything I thought he wanted.”
“Shit, who knows? Who knows why shit goes bad? People break up. Whereareyou?”
“Shreveport. I want a car. A fast one. A convertible.”
“Sure thing, honey. Nothing fixes a broken heart like a fast car. And get into a hotel. Quit living like you’re a pauper.” Nathan chuckled softly. “Promise me. Promise me you’ll get a cab to the Eldorado. I’ll get you a room for a few days, book you a massage.”
Colt looked at his guitar in its beat-up, well-traveled case and his worn-in jeans and wondered what the hell he would do with himself at a high-dollar spot like the Eldorado.
“Promise me, Colt. I’ll take care of things for you, okay?”
“You got my word. Me. The Eldorado. A car.” A couple days’ nap, right? A drink or three.
“I’ll check in with you again in a few days. Until then you just rest. Relax. Fall in love with someone else for a night or two.”
“Rest. Relax. I hear you.” He didn’t have his heart back to give it to someone else, so he couldn’t promise that.
Hell, maybe he’d never get it back again.
19
Colt paidcash for a Mustang convertible and headed south, driving along the backways, singing along with the radio, flipping stations when one grayed out. Gospel, country, R&B—he didn’t care none.
His heart was broke, his soul had a tear, and he needed to play for a few days or until he was lost. He didn’t bother to take the exit for Houma as he drove. His mamma was about as lost to him as his daddy.
There was about a thousand missed calls—from the boys, from Timmy, his management, a dozen bands—but none from anyone he wanted to talk to right now.
Right now he wanted rum and blues and a whiskey-soaked voice singing with him, the wail drowning out the rejoicing of the carols. Satan rode with him right now, not the good Lord.
He pulled into the French Quarter, heading straight for the Place d’Armes. They had good parking, rooms with no windows, and enough haints to make him feel at home. He crossed their palms with silver enough to keep him out of the weather until Christmas at least. Then he went two blocks over and two down to Sydney’s and bought him the first one of a line of bottles that were needed to help him forget how Kyle had pulled away from him, had proven he wasn’t worth a hill of shat beans.
“Lawd, that you, Boudreaux? You Laird’s boy?”
“C’est bon. Is.”
He didn’t have to look to see who it was; it didn’t matter.
It was good to be home.
These were his own people.
* * *
Colt’s phonerang,shut off, then rang again for the eighty millionth time in a row. Goddamn. He didn’t even have to look to see who it was.
Timmy.
The man was relentless as a hurricane.
“You drivin’ me bugshit, boo.”
“Dude! You’re freakin’ alive! I totally thought maybe the morgue-guy, the uh, coroner dude was gonna pick up. I have called you forty-two-gazillion times! Are you okay? Where the hell are you?”