that's depressing."
"It's not depressing!" he said, nearly shouting. "It's enlightened. Think about it. When do you feel most alive? When do you feel most at peace with the world, with yourself? When you're boning, man! That's when!"
He lifted the bottle and took another gulp.
"And that's your problem right there, Trace. That's what's behind all of this emotional flailing you've been doing for the past year. The counseling and the pills and the thoughts of quitting the band… all this shit you’ve been going through since Sara’s little sis checked out. You're trying to over-think it all, trying to discover some deeper meaning. The truth, the real truth, is that life is full of bad shit, and fucking is one of the only things that makes dealing with the rest of it worth the bother."
The mention of Sara’s sister, of Lucy, was enough to rattle me a little. My eyes fixed on his, rage smoldering in me somewhere beneath the numbing fog.
But Joey didn’t look away. He raised the bottle to his lips and took another slug, his eyes never leaving mine.
"It’s been a year , Trace," he said. " More than a year. You need to move on. You need to get laid , trust me."
I looked at the steely glint in his eye, and didn't see any doubt there. And maybe he had a point. All the books I'd read in the past few months, all the counseling I'd gone through, all the pills I'd been taking—it all left me feeling dead, so emotionless and lifeless that I'd even begun to yearn for the depression that had nearly pushed me over the edge. At least I'd felt something then, and not just this opaque fog of feeling that swallowed up anything bright or sharp.
"Think about it, Trace," Joey said. "What are your happiest memories? When were the times that you felt the most pleasure, the most joy? When were the times you felt most alive?"
I bit the inside of my lip, thinking.
"I'll tell you when," he said. "When you were sliming the banana, that's when. You used to go through more groupies than anyone else in the band. Even when you got together with Lucy, the two of you always brought in playmates. And whether or not you admit it—whether you think of it as boning or as making love or as some intimate mingling of souls , or whatever woo-woo bullshit you want to label it with— that's when you're happiest. I know you, Trace. Believe me."
To my surprise, I actually was starting to believe him.
"Maybe you've got a point," I said.
"You're damn right I've got a point," he said, taking another swig from the bottle. "Nobody knows you like I know you, Trace. Nobody knows the way you're wired, the way your mind works. You need to dip your wick in a chick, that's all. And then you'll feel a whole lot better. Trust me. So tonight, when we're playing our show, keep your eyes open and your mind receptive. See who looks interested." He reached forward, putting his hand on my shoulder. "And please— please —let one of these horny groupies grease your weasel, for chrissakes. Do it for me, Trace. Do it for your old pal Joey."
I nodded my head.
"Fine," I said. "I'll keep my eyes open. And if a girl looks interested, I'll try to be receptive."
"Attaboy, Trace," he said, beaming that Cheshire Cat grin again, and slapping me on the shoulder. "That's what I'm talking about. Here." He held out the bottle. "Drink to it."
With the medication I was on, I wasn't supposed to drink. But I reached out for it anyway, grabbing the bottle by the neck. I raised it in salute, then brought the bottle to my lips and took a sip.
"That's what I'm talking about!" he crowed, and took the bottle back. "That's what I'm goddamn fucking talking about, man!" He raised the bottle up in the air. "To the ladies!" he said. "Especially the ones that'll screw us!"
And he lifted the bottle and gulped until it was empty.
Chapter 3
Anne
I did end up letting Becca dress me—which
"It's not depressing!" he said, nearly shouting. "It's enlightened. Think about it. When do you feel most alive? When do you feel most at peace with the world, with yourself? When you're boning, man! That's when!"
He lifted the bottle and took another gulp.
"And that's your problem right there, Trace. That's what's behind all of this emotional flailing you've been doing for the past year. The counseling and the pills and the thoughts of quitting the band… all this shit you’ve been going through since Sara’s little sis checked out. You're trying to over-think it all, trying to discover some deeper meaning. The truth, the real truth, is that life is full of bad shit, and fucking is one of the only things that makes dealing with the rest of it worth the bother."
The mention of Sara’s sister, of Lucy, was enough to rattle me a little. My eyes fixed on his, rage smoldering in me somewhere beneath the numbing fog.
But Joey didn’t look away. He raised the bottle to his lips and took another slug, his eyes never leaving mine.
"It’s been a year , Trace," he said. " More than a year. You need to move on. You need to get laid , trust me."
I looked at the steely glint in his eye, and didn't see any doubt there. And maybe he had a point. All the books I'd read in the past few months, all the counseling I'd gone through, all the pills I'd been taking—it all left me feeling dead, so emotionless and lifeless that I'd even begun to yearn for the depression that had nearly pushed me over the edge. At least I'd felt something then, and not just this opaque fog of feeling that swallowed up anything bright or sharp.
"Think about it, Trace," Joey said. "What are your happiest memories? When were the times that you felt the most pleasure, the most joy? When were the times you felt most alive?"
I bit the inside of my lip, thinking.
"I'll tell you when," he said. "When you were sliming the banana, that's when. You used to go through more groupies than anyone else in the band. Even when you got together with Lucy, the two of you always brought in playmates. And whether or not you admit it—whether you think of it as boning or as making love or as some intimate mingling of souls , or whatever woo-woo bullshit you want to label it with— that's when you're happiest. I know you, Trace. Believe me."
To my surprise, I actually was starting to believe him.
"Maybe you've got a point," I said.
"You're damn right I've got a point," he said, taking another swig from the bottle. "Nobody knows you like I know you, Trace. Nobody knows the way you're wired, the way your mind works. You need to dip your wick in a chick, that's all. And then you'll feel a whole lot better. Trust me. So tonight, when we're playing our show, keep your eyes open and your mind receptive. See who looks interested." He reached forward, putting his hand on my shoulder. "And please— please —let one of these horny groupies grease your weasel, for chrissakes. Do it for me, Trace. Do it for your old pal Joey."
I nodded my head.
"Fine," I said. "I'll keep my eyes open. And if a girl looks interested, I'll try to be receptive."
"Attaboy, Trace," he said, beaming that Cheshire Cat grin again, and slapping me on the shoulder. "That's what I'm talking about. Here." He held out the bottle. "Drink to it."
With the medication I was on, I wasn't supposed to drink. But I reached out for it anyway, grabbing the bottle by the neck. I raised it in salute, then brought the bottle to my lips and took a sip.
"That's what I'm talking about!" he crowed, and took the bottle back. "That's what I'm goddamn fucking talking about, man!" He raised the bottle up in the air. "To the ladies!" he said. "Especially the ones that'll screw us!"
And he lifted the bottle and gulped until it was empty.
Chapter 3
Anne
I did end up letting Becca dress me—which
Similar Books
The Only Thing Worse Than Witches
Lauren Magaziner
The Phantom
Jocelyn Leveret
Messenger by Moonlight
Stephanie Grace Whitson
Sea Breeze 04 - Just for Now
Abbi Glines
All the Way
Jordin Tootoo
A Wild and Lonely Place
Marcia Muller
Death Day
Shaun Hutson
The Tin Collectors
Stephen J. Cannell
Uncharted Stars
Andre Norton
Blueeyedboy
Joanne Harris