“They can track credit card usage . . . you know that, don’t you? If you want to disappear, using your gran’s card was never a good idea in the first place.”
“I don’t want to disappear. I just want to be left alone. Just for a while,” I said.
“Have you tried to talk to her?”
“Not since Minnie died. No. I’ve been too angry . . . and tired. And sad. I haven’t been able to muster the energy to make her hear. And making Gran hear anything other than what she wants to hear has always been close to impossible.”
“So you were just going to get another motel room and wait for the cavalry to arrive? Screw you, Clyde?”
“Yep. Screw you, Mr. White Supremacist with a scary-ass tattoo on his chest.”
Clyde laughed. “No games. That’s good. Say it like it is.”
I laughed with him, but his laugh gave me that same drop and slide feeling in my stomach I had felt when he’d smiled at me in the motel room last night, before I’d seen his tattoo and bolted.
“Do you have a girlfriend, Clyde?” The words popped out before I had a chance to register that they were even on my tongue, but I didn’t regret them.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m moving to Vegas.”
“So you had a girlfriend, but broke up with her because you’re leaving town?”
“No.”
“No, you didn’t have a girlfriend, or no, you didn’t break up with her because you’re leaving town?”
Clyde just lowered his eyebrows and shot me an irritated look. I shrugged.
“You’re probably smart to end it now—long distance relationships never work. There was a boy I liked back in Grassley, but after I won Nashville Forever, I didn’t ever go back to school. In fact, I didn’t even go home for almost a year. Minnie was the only one from home I kept up with. I talked to her almost every night. When I finally made it back to Grassley, the boyfriend, Matt, was dating another girl. I can’t really blame him. A year when you’re that age feels like ten dog years. It’s forever.”
Clyde just grunted, not participating in the conversation at all. Time to shake things up.
“When I was nineteen, I asked my bodyguard, Bear, if he would have sex with me.”
Finn swore and swung on me, his eyes darting between me and the road. “You don’t have a filter, do you? You just say whatever the hell comes into your head!”
“You just told me no games. You just told me to say it like it is. That’s what I’m doing.”
“There’s a big difference between saying it like it is and telling all there is to tell!”
“You’re probably right.” I nodded. “I’ve always been . . . blunt, but something happened to me when I let go on the bridge,” I explained softly. “My give-a-damn broke. I don’t care anymore. I just don’t. I’m not afraid. I’m not feeling suicidal, but I don’t give a rat’s ass. Does that make any sense?”
Finn nodded. “Yeah. It does. I’ve been there myself. But I just fixed my give-a-damn, unfortunately. So you need to have a little respect and show a little restraint. Deal?”
“Okay.” I sighed. “Tell it like it is, but only in doses Clyde can handle. Got it.”
“Thank you,” he said sarcastically.
I resolved to freeze him out and didn’t say another word, staring out the window, composing song lyrics in my head so I wouldn’t go crazy.
Finn sighed again. “Why do you call him Bear?” he asked, all but admitting he had been thinking about what I’d said for the last twenty minutes.
“He says he got the nickname because he’s big, black, and cranky. His mama even calls him Bear. He’s a forty-five-year-old, divorced father of two. He’s actually a grandpa. But I love him, and I thought if I could have my first time be with someone I loved, someone I trusted, than I would be safe while getting it over with.”
“He didn’t take you up on it, I hope.”
“No. He didn’t. He said that was the most disgusting thing he’d ever heard, and he was going to wash my mouth out with soap, tell my Gran, and let her do her worst. And she would have too. He said I was like a daughter to him. A scrawny, white daughter to boot. His words, not mine. He said I shouldn’t feel bad, but he didn’t find me attractive. At all.”
“Nice.” Finn was smiling a little now.
“Yeah. Really boosted my ego. So, I was hurt and more confused than ever, and I managed to hook up with a rising star who’d had one decent hit and was looking for more air time and a little one-on-one time with someone who could boost his celebrity status. Enter Bonnie Rae Desperate. And it was awful. And humiliating. And I realized something then. I’d been lied to. I’d been singing, and dreaming, and writing songs about something that was a big, fat lie. So I convinced myself that surely it must get better, otherwise, why would everyone do it? So I endured it a few more times. It didn’t get any better.”
Finn was tense again, listening, probably wondering where I was going with this confession. He fiddled with the radio when I didn’t continue and then flipped it off with finality. I was waiting him out again. He was going to have to ask for the juicy tidbits after his lecture on saying it like it is versus telling it all.
“And the point to that very personal story was?” he prodded finally.