That smile of his fell, slipping into anger. “Hang on. You’re not actually ditching me for Diddle, are you? That fucking loser never had a shot with you, not then and not now. He always had a thing for you. So fucking embarrassing.”
I clenched my teeth, hot anger boiling in my ribs as the flip switched, illuminating everything I’d avoided, lighting up all the things that had been right in front of me the whole time, if only I hadn’t been too blind to see.
“Fuck you, asshole,” I fired. “He’s fucking incredible. You’re the loser. How dare you. How dare you call me up on that stage and embarrass me and kiss me without my permission in front of all those people. You son of a bitch — you ruined me, and now you think you can call me up and bring me to a show and fuck me like you used to?”
He shrugged and ran his tongue over his teeth, his hands slipping into his pockets and his body shifting into a position that was intended to dominate, intimidate. “Listen, Pen. You’re a thing — you’re on TV — and I’m in a band. We’ve got status, and we make sense, more now than ever. Why wouldn’t I try to get back in with you? I mean, look at you. You and me on camera? On tour? I could fuck you like a rock star, just like before.”
“Fuck you, Rodney,” I said with a shaky breath.
I turned to go, but he grabbed my arm and said my name. And when I turned, it was with my tiny fist balled up and flying toward his eyeball.
The pop was the most satisfying sound I’d ever heard in my life.
Rodney yelled and doubled over, hands over his eye and ruined nose. “What the fuck, Penny? God, you always were such a fucking psycho,” he said to his shoes.
So I did the only thing I could.
I put my hands on his shoulders and kneed him as hard as I could in the balls. And then I left that motherfucker next to the gutter where he belonged.
Hair Of The Dog
When I cracked my eyelids the next morning, the very first in my list of regrets was the tequila.
I felt like I’d been hit by a smelly, greasy garbage truck driven by Macho Man, who happened to be high on cocaine.
My stomach rolled, and I shifted to lie on my back, hoping to calm the raging bile down as it crept up my esophagus. A long drag of air through my nose helped, and I swallowed, reaching for the glass of water on my nightstand.
Bad, wrong. Bad, wrong, was the song my heart screamed, my brain expanding and contracting in my skull with every masochistic beat.
Yeah, tequila was the mistake that demanded all my attention. But Bodie was the regret that had broken me in the first place.
The night came back to me, not in flashes but like a creeping fog, spreading over me in tendrils. Bodie, distant and hot and angry, so different from the sunshine I’d found in him before. Rodney calling me onstage. The cold dread I’d felt as I chased Bodie out. The hurt when he’d thrown my heart on the steaming pavement. The satisfying pain from punching Rodney in his stupid fucking eyeball.
I flexed my aching right hand at the memory, and pain shot across the bones up to my wrist.
“Fuck,” I croaked, opening my bleary eyes just enough to inspect my swollen phalanges.
My knuckles were split and swollen, fingers bruised, especially where one of my rings had been. Thankfully I’d taken it off or I probably would have had to cut it off. On top of that, I’d broken a nail over that fucker.
Worth it.
Of course, in a few hours, I’d have to use that hand to tattoo people all day. And as I closed my fist, I realized just how bad that was going to suck.
Still wouldn’t suck as badly as the fact that Bodie and I were through.
He was right, and he was wrong. I was right, and I was wrong. I should have gone after him. I should have called him or texted him. I should have known better than to go to that show at all, especially with Bodie.
I shouldn’t have waited so long.
I should have talked to him about how I felt.
And now it was probably too late.
Tears pricked my eyes, and I took a deep, shaky breath again. I’d come home to an empty apartment, drunk and hurt and defeated. A long shower couldn’t wash away my guilt or sadness or loss. It couldn’t erase all the things Bodie had said. It couldn’t wash the dirt off my heart after I picked it up and carried it home. So I dried off, threw on the first thing I could grab from my drawer — panties and an inside-out New Order T-shirt — and slipped into my sheets in the dark.