Playing Dirty (Stargazer #2)(45)
Author: Jennifer Echols

She asked gleefully, “Do you think Erin’s going to be jealous when she sees my birthday present?”

Quentin chuckled. “She’ll be nice in front of you, but I guarantee she’ll let me have it later.”

“Really? That’s great! What did you get her for her birthday last year?”

“Rosin. We were on tour up north, and she was out of this special German rosin that had changed her life. She couldn’t remember the name of it. She’d know it if she saw it, but the music store in St. Paul didn’t have it, and the store in Madison didn’t have it, and the store in Lansing didn’t have it. I finally got online and figured out what it was, and had it delivered to our gig in Indianapolis.”

“That was thoughtful. Costly?”

“About thirty dollars.”

“I see. What did you get your manager for her birthday?”

Quentin looked at Sarah blankly, then snapped his fingers. “No wonder she was so pissed at me in Austin! Oh well. Too late now. Watch this.”

He pulled into the passing lane and blew past Owen’s truck. Sarah waved, and Erin in the passenger seat waved back cheerfully enough. Maybe they could skip the catfight after all.

“Where’s Martin?” Sarah asked.

“In the back of the club cab, asleep. He’s depressed about Rachel and he used more than he should have this morning. I went down to his room and argued with him about it but . . . ” Quentin glanced over at Sarah. “I know. It’s bogus to argue with your best friend about using heroin in moderation. But you can’t send somebody to rehab until they want to go. It doesn’t take. And when I’ve suggested it to him, he’s disappeared for a couple days. He’s going to do it. Better for him to do it at my house than in some abandoned building on the north side. At home, at least I can catch him if he falls.”

She shook her head. “It seems really obvious to me. I don’t understand how Erin and Owen haven’t figured it out. I mean, he’s high in the back of their truck.”

“It’s only been this bad since we got back from Thailand. Thailand left us all a little crazy. And you’ve seen drug abuse before, so you know what it looks like. I understand him better than they do, because I’ve roomed with him off and on since I was eighteen. And Erin’s innocent, and Owen’s a dumbass. Martin still has more sense when he’s high than Owen and Erin have put together, sober.”

“For now.”

“Right. And that may be what it takes. When he can’t write music anymore, then he’ll let me help him.” Quentin’s tone brightened. “Speaking of which. Do you read music? Then look in the glove compartment and get the staff paper and a pen. No, under the condoms. Write this down so I can show it to Martin.” He sang easily, “Slap my face and slam the door / You never done that way before.”

“Door and before?” Sarah looked up from scribbling. “You’re not going to keep that, are you?”

“You said at the hotel that you liked it! You acted all amazed and shit!”

“It’s a great song. But that rhyme’s been used a million times, not the least of which is ‘Ruby, Don’t Take Your Love to Town.’ ”

Quentin cleared his throat. “Pardon me. How many hit singles have you written?”

“Point taken.”

“Trust me on this. Folks don’t want to think too hard when they’re drinking margaritas and line-dancing. They’re liable to get a lime stuck in their two-step.”

Small towns, green forests, and kudzu-covered hills spun by as Sarah jotted down five verses of “Slap My Face and Slam the Door” for Quentin. Despite his lack of sophistication, or perhaps because of it, he was a master at composing catchy tunes and rhymes about the mundane. The third album would be a success and Sarah’s job security assured if the music had anything to do with it. She kicked off her running shoes and stuck her feet out the window, crossing her ankles on the doorframe. What a relief, a whole day without high heels. The warm wind tickled between her toes.

An hour later, Quentin maneuvered his truck into an empty space in the nearly full parking lot next to a rambling brick restaurant, with Owen’s truck close behind.

“The Highway 280 Steak House,” Sarah read from the sign. “Did you eat here a lot growing up?”

“You could say that.” He took her hand and led her through a side door and between crowded tables, as if he knew the place well. Sarah wondered whether he’d worked here.

“I don’t see anyone eating steak,” she observed.

“They only serve steak on Wednesday night, after church. The rest of the time, they serve chicken. Except special occasions, when they serve Indian food.”

“Indian?” Small Alabama towns had no taste for the exotic. “Why Indian food?”

“Because my stepmother’s from Delhi,” he called over his shoulder as he pushed open a swinging door into the enormous, bustling kitchen.

Several women and men came away from their pots and knives to hug or shake hands with Quentin and shout greetings at him over the foreign pop music with strange percussion. A beautiful older Indian lady in a purple sari approached him, talking in heavily accented English or a foreign dialect—Sarah couldn’t tell which with the music blaring.

Quentin gave the lady a long hug. He said loudly over the music, “This is Sarah.”

The lady eyed Sarah’s hair. Then, smiling broadly, she leaned close. “You made Quentin drive.” She hugged Sarah hard, talking over Sarah’s head to Quentin in what Sarah assumed was Hindi.

Quentin responded, “No,” then, “Yes,” then, “Oh yeah? How many hit singles have you written? Everybody’s a critic today.”

Muttering something, Quentin’s stepmother released Sarah, then ladled stew out of a nearby pot and handed Sarah a plate and fork. Sarah politely prepared to try it.

“Don’t eat that,” Quentin warned her.

Sarah didn’t want to be rude. She opened her mouth.

Quentin took the plate and fork away from her and dumped the stew into the garbage. He handed the plate and fork to a passing worker, who took them without comment and headed for a dishwasher the size of a car. “When I tell you not to eat something that my stepmother gives you,” Quentin said, “don’t eat it. People from Schenectady don’t eat that part of the animal.”

“What is it?” Sarah asked, horrified. “An Indian delicacy?”