She shrugs. “Most people talk. Ajay has a right to know his kin.”
I sigh as loudly as possible. I stand, grab our things and look at her over my shoulder. “You’re about as useless as a screen door on a submarine, Jolene. Y’all need to mind your p’s and q’s and stay out of my business.”
Ruining Evelyn’s trip to the park isn’t something I’m willing to let happen so I move to the other side of the jungle gym. The sun’s in my eyes here, but I’d rather go blind than to have to listen to Jolene Johnson-Johnson lie about things when she has no idea what she’s talking about.
9
Ajay
I don’t know how long I waited outside of Bailey’s for Whiskey to come out, hoping she’d follow me outside to yell at me, but she never came. Must’ve been an hour or two, maybe even three before I decided that I better see if the Inn down the street had any rooms available before I hoofed it to the edge of town. What I should’ve done was take Elle up on her offer to get me car, but being as I can’t leave the county, everything I need is close by. And I wasn’t joking about calling Sheriff Foster for a ride. I will because I know it’ll piss him off. He won’t tell me no either, that much I’m sure of.
Inside the Inn, I’m met with the soft smile of Mrs. Buxley. “I heard you were back in town.”
“Yes, ma’am, just for the week. Trying to clear up a matter with Judge Harvey.”
She waves off his name. “That old coot needs to retire and make way for the young’uns.”
“Wouldn’t hear me complaining.” If he wasn’t a sitting judge, I might not be in this position right now.
“I hear you on the radio every now and again, playing those drums.”
I smile shyly at her. “Thank you, Mrs. B. Can you tell me if you have a room available? I’m looking to stay the full week.”
“Let me see what I have.” She thumbs though what looks like an old, outdated
reservation system, pulling cards and matching them to the calendar on her counter. “Looks like room 4a is available. Would that work?”
“Sure will.”
She hands me a form to fill out and in turn, I hand her my credit card, hoping she takes plastic. If not, I’ll have to call Elle and tell her I need cash. There’s no way the bank here is going to give me anything other than the two-hundred daily limit on my debit card.
Mrs. Buxley hands my card back to me and holds the key, letting it dangle from her hand. “You know, this room has a view of Bailey’s.”
“Okay,” I say, unsure where she’s going with this.
“Miss Jameson works Monday and Tuesday during the day. She arrives between nine and ten. Friday and Saturday nights, arriving around five.”
“And on Sundays?” I ask.
“I don’t know, but I know she’s not in church.”
“Why you are telling me this, Mrs. B?”
She shrugs. “Sometimes true love needs a little push in the right direction.”
I take the key and thank her for the information. I don’t believe in that true love thing. Love is messy. It hurts. It causes you to bleed and do stupid things like leave your girl behind. The room I’m staying in has one full-size bed, a decent size television and a very small kitchen with a small table by the window. However, the bathroom is a nice size with a soaking tub. The bonus of the room is the balcony.
Pulling the sliding glass door open, I step outside and place my hands on the ledge. Main Street in Bailey is bustling. Cars are parked along both sides of the road and people are out walking. Sure enough, the bar and grill’s within eye sight and I can see who’s coming and going. With nothing but time on my hands, I can sit here and people watch. I can try to recall faces that I’ve long forgotten and pull up old stories from the recesses of my mind. I can try to sit here and think about any and everyone except for Whiskey, but I know that won’t happen. Not now. Not since I’ve seen her. It would almost be better to know she wasn’t living here or working across the street. And now that I know what days she’ll be there, I have every excuse it the world to stay in my room, yet I know that won’t happen. I’m going to be there every time she is because I’m sick it the head and madly in love with that woman, although, I’ll never tell her. She has a life and doesn’t need the likes of me coming in and disrupting things for her.
As much as I want to stand here and watch my former hometown move along with the day, a hot shower sounds more appealing. The duffel bag Elle packed for me has most of my essentials. I strip out of my suit and hang it up, preserving the almost wrinkle free garment for my next court hearing. I’m tempted to take a bath but am eager to get the filth of the jail off me and don’t want to wait for the water to fill up. Besides, the last one I had, Whiskey was with me and for some reason it doesn’t seem right to take one without her.
She’d be shocked to find out I’ve only casually dated about three women over the past five years. It took me close to two years to stop having dreams about Whiskey. Dreams that would turn into nightmares, nightmares into panic attacks. I often wondered if she ever figured out that the person calling and hanging up in the middle of the night was me or if her father figured it was some punk kid from town harassing him. I waited for her to answer, to whisper my name in the darkness, but she never did. I don’t know what I would’ve done if she had. Come back, probably.
The water pressure is a god send, pounding down on my neck and shoulders. I rotate my head back and forth, loosening up my muscles. They’re tight and in traction from the lack of sleep or better yet, quality of bedding. As much as I complain about the tour bus, I’d gladly take a rocky night of swaying on the road over what I just went through.
When the water turns cold, I finally shut it off and step out, wrapping a towel around my waist. The alarm on my phone is going off, reminding me it’s time for rehearsal. Not tonight or tomorrow night. Fans of Sinful Distraction are going to find Harrison behind my kit, playing our songs and wowing the crowd while I sit here and have a pity party for myself. If I were a betting man, I’d place a Vegas style wager on how long it takes social media to speculate why I’m not there. Drugs will be the foregone conclusion, followed by exhaustion. It won’t take them long to figure out that I’ve been arrested, if they haven’t already. I’m not sure Sheriff Foster or Judge Harvey is smart enough to alert the media, nor do they probably care. Doing so does give the town of Bailey a tourism boost though. People, mostly teens and the younger generation, will come to town looking for me. They won’t have to look hard, no one here is going to keep my secret except for maybe Mrs. B. I left all those years ago without a word, except to Whiskey. I’d be back in a few weeks. I was just going to go to Nashville and make some money, hopefully enough to get us to Los Angeles. Boy, did my plan go array as soon as I got there.
Bar after bar, I look for notices of house bands needing a drummer. Bar after bar, I’m rejected or told to come back later, but later is an indefinite time. These managers have no idea, they expect the house band to be on their game each and every night and don’t care for the likes of me hanging out, praying that someone isn’t showing up for work tonight.