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Chapter Seven: Hangover


Broadway in Nashville was always a mess of neon lights after dark. The blaring music, tourists growing blisters in brand-spankin'-new cowboy boots and hats, panhandlers asking for spare change and the luring smell of barbeque pulled pork wafting from the food trucks by Second Avenue created a blur of sensations that flooded Nick as he parked his car and started walking down the main strip, trying to look inconspicuous. He muttered promises to himself about only having one at whatever bar he landed in - just enough to scratch the itch of desire that was burning through his veins, shrieking for alcohol. One wasn't that bad, he told himself, especially if it would soothe the ache that he could feel all the way to his elbows.

A couple people did double-takes as he walked by, but they must've decided he wasn't who they thought because they walked on without stopping, though a couple of them giggled and glanced back. He was thankful nobody seemed to recognize him; anonymity was something he craved at this moment almost as much as he craved a glass of Jack Daniels.

He found the loudest, out of the way bar that he could find - on the riverside corner of Church and First, and he made his way through the riotous crowd inside to the corner of the bar where he perched himself, hunkered down, and ordered a JD on the rocks. He looked around and before the first sip he found the people filling the bar to be degenerates, with dirty hair and piercing and a certain sort of seediness to them that he recalled once being a part of in Los Angeles. Not tonight, he thought to himself as his 'one drink' slid across the counter into his palms.

But by the time he'd finished his second drink - something that he found much easier to rationalize after the first - the people started looking more normal. They were just having fun, he thought, and who didn't deserve some fun? Doesn't everyone?

By the time he'd drained his third glass he was up and wandering around, trying to find a group that he could foist himself upon to let the good times roll with. He found a guy playing pool during his fourth glass, and by glass number five he'd lost a substantial amount of money and stumbled onto the streets where the air hit him like a ton of bricks and he doubled over by a dispensor of the Nashville Scene and puked out his guts.

The next thing he knew he was laying on the floor in his bathroom.

"Oh God," he moaned.

He couldn't remember how he'd got home, if he'd driven or taken a cab. He couldn't remember where he'd gone or what he'd done after hurling all over the newspaper dispensor. All he knew was that he was now face-down over the toilet seat, his cheek smooshed into the porceline and a terrible stench of vomit wafting up from the bowl. He looked down and immediately puked some more and grappled for the flusher handle, washing the sick away in a hurricane of water.

"Oh God," he moaned again.

Just a small town girl... livin' in a lonely world... She took the midnight train going anywhere...

Nick peeled his cheek off the seat and his head felt like it'd been banged in with a sledge hammer. For all he knew, it had. He struggled to his knees and moaned a third time, feeling more vomit snaking up from his stomach. "Oh God."

Just a city boy... born and raised in south Detroit... he took the midnight train going anywhere...

He struggled to his feet, his knees like gelatin, shaky and strangely disconnected from the rest of him - at least that's how it felt. He gripped the counter of the sink, holding himself up.

A singer in a smoky room, the smell of wine and cheap perfume...

He suddenly realized the music wasn't just in his head, and he looked around for his cell phone. It was tucked up behind the toilet on the floor and he clicked the answer button, his head feeling like it was full of the Jack Daniels he'd drank and it was swooshing around inside his skull. "'Lo?" he murmured into the phone. The word was out before he realized how shitty his voice sounded and he rubbed his neck, the half-word having sounded more like the sound a frog would make rather than an actual utterance of the English language.

There was a pause. "Nick?"

It was Desmond.

"Hey," Nick answered. He grabbed at the door to the medicine cabinet. He needed something to make the pounding in his skull stop.

"Hey, um... Did I wake you up or somethin'?" Desmond sounded tenative.

"Yeah. No. I mean. Well. Yeah." Nick glanced at the clock. It was almost one in the afternoon. Who the fuck sleeps until one in the afternoon? Although, sleeping until a ridiculous hour was way better than admitting he'd been out drinking. "It's all good. Got inspired last night. Stayed up working on a couple riffs. You know how it is."

"Do I ever," Desmond said. He paused. "Do you want me to call you back later?"

"No it's cool," Nick answered. He pushed a couple bottles of mystery pills aside and found the bottle of ibprofin in the back and unscrewed the cap. He shook two pills into his palm, hesitated, feeling the throbbing in his head, and quickly shook out a third.

"You said to call," Desmond said.

"Yeah," Nick said. He tossed the pills into the back of his throat, turned on the faucet and palmed a mouthful of water to his lips. He tossed back the pain killers and faced himself in the mirror. He looked like shit.

Desmond pressed on, "You said you wanted to give me and Kelsey your address," he reminded Nick. "The demo and dinner or whatever... It's okay if something came up or whatever," he added.

Nick squeezed the bridge of his nose. His mind raced over shit he could say had come up - from the wildly unlikely to the mundane - and was about to blubber out one of the excuses when he had a flashing memory of Kelsey, sitting on the closed trunk of the car, her skin reflecting the moonlight, her pink lips almost lavender in the pale blue night. "Yes," he said, snapping himself together. "Yes." He bumbled out the address, and looked around the bathroom. A shower would make him presentable, some mouthwash to get rid of the alcohol and he should be just fine, ready to play the responsible, sober host.... ready to impress Kelsey, ready to incorporate her into his life. And once she was his, he wouldn't need alcohol, he told himself, not even just one because she would be his just one.

"What time do you want us to come?" Desmond asked.

"Whenever," Nick answered.

"Okay..." Desmond paused. "How about -uh- three-ish?"

"Great, perfect. See you then." Nick hung up quickly before Desmond could say anything more and he slammed the medicine cabinet closed and stared into his own blood-shot eyes, at the purpley circles beneath them, and he took a deep breath. He sprayed a crapton of Lysol at the toilet's general direction in hopes of covering up the vomit stench. Instead he ended up with fresh linen infused vomit, and he made a mental note to not let Desmond or Kelsey use this bathroom whatever the costs. He jumped in the shower and, with his hair still dripping wet, he went downstairs to investigate what kind of food he had in the fridge to offer them.

It only took a quick glance for him to know he needed to head to the store.

Nick grabbed his keys and wallet from the counter and headed out the door. Fifteen minutes later he was cruising through the nearest Kroger, grabbing premarinaded steaks, premade potato salad, corn on the cob, and barbeque sauce. He paused on the aisle by the beer and almost picked up a six-pack before he remembered that wasn't an option. He moved quickly onward.

As he stood in line at the register, he wondered why, as he was still dealing with one hang over, he'd been tempted by the thought of inducing another one. It didn't really make sense.

He threw the shit onto the conveyer belt and the underpaid cashier rang everything up at the pace of a snail. When she'd finally scanned everything in, Nick reached in his wallet to pull out his cash and discovered he didn't have any and the memory of the lost bets at pool flooded him and he cussed under his breath. The cashier raised her eyebrow at him. Nick pulled out a credit card and held it out to her and she swiped it and he tried to recall how much cash he'd had on hand the night before.

Back at the house, Desmond's car was in the driveway and he was leaning against it smoking. Kelsey was laying on the grass staring up at the sky. Nick pulled up behind the blue convertible and stared at Kelsey's form as she lay there, her legs tangled and curled and her figure perfectly accentuated. He swallowed back the urge to jump out and run over and have her right there on the lawn.

"Hey," he said, climbing out of the car. Desmond looked over and dropped his cigarette to the ground, scraping it out with the toe of his shoe. Nick pulled the Kroger bags out and walked over as Kelsey sat up and her hair fluttered around her shoulders.

"Hey," she smiled, "I was looking for shapes in the clouds."

"Shapes?" Nick asked.

Desmond nodded, "She swears she saw an exact cloud replica of Ted -- you know, the Seth MacFarlane teddy bear?"

"I did!" she laughed.

Desmond smirked and rolled his eyes.

"Better looking at cloud shapes than burning my lungs out with nicotine," she said in an accusatory tone. Kelsey looked at Nick. "You don't smoke, do you, Nick?"

He did. "No," he said because she obviously didn't approve. He added it to his list of things he'd have to give up for her. She was worth it. "C'mon, let's go inside."