I didn’t remember drinking the bourbon but I remembered having drunk it, if that makes sense. Like I had no sensory memory of the flavor or what kind of container I drank it out of, but I remembered checking off my mental to do list as show prep. When I took my second Vitamin F, I know I had already had that shot of whiskey.
I felt great. Which was good news, since in the back of my mind I was a teensy bit worried about the warning the doctors had given me about how Flexeril and alcohol could be bad. I felt fine. I felt better than fine.
I was definitely picking up on everyone else’s “last show” mood, too. After I had brought everyone down with my apparently sad lounge act, the group bounced back. In fact, everyone was happier than usual. I mean, Nomad was typically a fairly happy bunch, until the strife between Remo and Alan about drinking. Alan had been sullen and stoic by turns since then, but even he seemed buoyant and smiling as showtime approached. Maybe it helped that his wife was there.
Lots of folks were there for the last show. I’m bad at remembering people at the best of times and while medicated as much as I was, there’s no hope I’ll remember it now. But pretty much all the wives and families were on hand.
I had gotten out of the habit of wearing the brace for my hand very much but I put it on in the hour before that show just to make sure I didn’t do anything to it, like trip and fall and catch myself on it. Or shake hands too hard with anyone what with all the extra people around.
I lost track of Ziggy at one point–I lost track of myself, to be honest–but when I saw him again he had gelled up his hair and did his eyeliner and put on a shirt with bold diagonal red and black stripes. His lipstick was black and red somehow, fading from one color to the other. I had gotten used to seeing him in stealth mode and his return to his public face was briefly startling.
He wasn’t stirring up trouble, though. At least so far as I noticed. It meant I had to remember to keep my hands to myself, though, because if I kissed him or something I would completely mess up his makeup.
The euphoria hit the moment I took the stage. Whoosh, like a roman candle lighting up my brainstem. I remembered suddenly that this was supposed to be fun–wasn’t it?–and by the third song I was fucking around with the band. Like I used to. That makes it sound like it was years before when it had only been weeks. How had I forgotten how much fun it was to challenge them? When I wasn’t up to doing it because I was being so careful with my injuries it hadn’t been much fun at all.
At the time I thought it was one of our best shows ever. Then I had a nagging question–what if it was just the drugs that made it seem that way? But even Louis, whose professional opinion I really trusted, thought it was, too. So there you go.
Flip handed me a Gatorade spiked with bourbon during Remo’s long solo and the euphoria just rolled on. Which was good because we played all the encores. Everything we could play, we played, I think. I was starting to wonder if Remo was going to crack out “Mary Had A Little Lamb” right about the time we called it a night for the final time.
I felt that bourbon starting to wear off about an hour into the post-show party, though. Ziggy had been sticking close by me, and so had Courtney, and they both noticed it when my jaw got a little tighter and my smile a little thinner. They snagged Carynne and the four of us ended up in me and Ziggy’s room, each of them with a beer and me with a regular, non-spiked Gatorade.
“He’s asleep, isn’t he.”
“Make sure he’s breathing, please?”
“Yeah, he’s fine.”
“He’s sitting up with a half-full bottle in his hand.”
“That means he drank at least half of it.”
I felt the bottle plucked from my fingers and opened my eyes.
“You doing all right?” Ziggy was asking.
I nodded. “Just mellow. And tired. And slightly horny.”
Court pushed herself off the dresser where she was sitting. “And that’s my cue to leave. See you tomorrow.” She gave me a kiss on the cheek goodnight. Carynne kissed the other cheek and did the same. Ziggy saw them to the door.
And then we were alone. He climbed onto the bed. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
“Yes. But if you want to really be on the safe side, keep me awake for another hour?” I reached out for him. “At least?”
“Supposedly through tantra you can have an orgasm that lasts for an hour,” Ziggy said, stripping his shirt off over his head.
“Dunno. Haven’t read that part of the book yet.” He began stripping me out of my clothes and I helped by moving slightly, but not so much that I took the fun out of it. When I was down to not a stitch left, he finished getting undressed himself. “Now for the full body massage part.”
“I thought you said that was a euphemism for sex.”
“It is, dear one. It is.”
[Hey folks! Thanks for all the donations! Saturday chapter coming your way! -ctan]
(Figured I’d crack this one out since I mentioned it in a recent chapter. -d)
I’m just gonna focus on how cute you two are…so I don’t lose my shit over how fucked up you are. Here’s to Saturday’s chapter NOT including a trip for you to the ER.
As usual, to what s says, I cosign.
Cheers! (j/k, I’m reallllly not drinking anything beyond the planned. I promise.)
I’ll drink to that.
“…I was a teensy bit worried about the warning the doctors had given me about how Flexeril and alcohol could be bad. I felt fine. I felt better than fine.”
Of course you do.
It’s like until I’m not feeling anxiety I forget how good it feels to not feel anxiety.