of CJ sitting next to Nessa, engaged in what appeared to be normal, pleasant conversation.
“I hope nothing,” I answered back, keeping my tone low. “But, I’m not anyone’s caretaker, so …”
“Oy,” answered Georgia. “Frankie’s a mess.”
“What?” I said of CJ’s sort-of ex-girlfriend back in Massachusetts, a little louder than intended.
Georgia rolled her eyes. “She didn’t break up with him because she wanted to.”
I paused, waiting for Georgia to explain it.
“Well, she wanted to, but she didn’t want to want to, you know?”
“Barely.”
Georgia leaned in closer. “Look. CJ didn’t tell us all the details. And Frankie hasn’t been explicit except to say that she was done hoping for more. She thought he’d really bought into their relationship.”
“I think we all did,” I admitted.
“But what fucking choice did he leave her? He manages to be faithful on home turf but needs to run around like a cock in heat when he’s on the road? What shit is that? Anyway, she’s a crying mess.”
“Did she say that? Has he cheated on her before?”
Georgia shrugged. “He can’t keep secrets for shit, so I doubt it.”
“Yikes,” I replied, not even knowing where to go with this conversation.
“What?” CJ broke in. “Telling secrets?”
Georgia silenced him with a wry grin. “Nah, I was just telling Regan I’d chatted with Frankie today,” she said casually, perusing the menu.
CJ’s jaw tightened and damn if he didn’t do his best to unclench. But it didn’t work.
“So,” he replied.
“Ohh,” Nessa entered, interested with devilish eyes. “Who’s Frankie?”
“No one,” CJ answered, clipped.
“Someone,” Nessa concluded with raised eyebrows.
Georgia waved her hand. “Yes, someone. But no one you have to worry about, Nessa. She’s out on a date tonight three-thousand miles away.”
At this, CJ pushed back his chair and stood. “I’m grabbing a smoke. If the waiter comes, I’ll have the number eight. And ten.”
The waiter did come, shortly after CJ left, rescuing us from awkward silence. While the rest of the group placed their orders, I whispered to Georgia once more.
“You didn’t tell me about Frankie.”
Georgia smiled, looking quite pleased with herself. “That’s because it’s bullshit,” she whispered back. “Guess we found out how he really feels about being free from Frankie, huh?”
“You’re evil,” I replied, only half kidding. She didn’t meddle much anymore, but when she did, Georgia could go to the mat with the best of them.
CJ soon returned to the table, looking a little less homicidal than when he’d left, but only slightly so. The group eased into conversation about our upcoming shows, set lists, and our favorite foods, leaving all conversation of CJ and Frankie in the dust.
“Don’t tell CJ,” was the last thing Georgia whispered to me before our drinks arrived and we carried on with dinner with our friends.
***
Inevitably, dinner led to a discussion of where we’d go drinking and dancing next. At that point, I was itching to get my girl back to the hotel room, but she seemed to be enjoying the night out, so when she went along with plans for “part 2” of our evening, I did, too.
Soon, we found ourselves at a club that looked like an old movie theater from the front—it very well may have been once—but was wide open on the inside, and packed wall-to-wall with hot, grinding bodies. And, because luck in these places is rarely on my side, the bar was smack dab in the middle of it all.
“Well,” Georgia sighed, sounding playfully resigned as we scanned the crowd, “let’s go get sweaty.”
She took my hand and led me through the writhing crowd that was twerking along to PitBull and Jennifer Lopez. Despite her generally loathsome attitude toward club life, Georgia was able to make herself at home fast. Balancing on fairly high shiny red heels, she swayed her hips back and forth in time with the music,
“I hope nothing,” I answered back, keeping my tone low. “But, I’m not anyone’s caretaker, so …”
“Oy,” answered Georgia. “Frankie’s a mess.”
“What?” I said of CJ’s sort-of ex-girlfriend back in Massachusetts, a little louder than intended.
Georgia rolled her eyes. “She didn’t break up with him because she wanted to.”
I paused, waiting for Georgia to explain it.
“Well, she wanted to, but she didn’t want to want to, you know?”
“Barely.”
Georgia leaned in closer. “Look. CJ didn’t tell us all the details. And Frankie hasn’t been explicit except to say that she was done hoping for more. She thought he’d really bought into their relationship.”
“I think we all did,” I admitted.
“But what fucking choice did he leave her? He manages to be faithful on home turf but needs to run around like a cock in heat when he’s on the road? What shit is that? Anyway, she’s a crying mess.”
“Did she say that? Has he cheated on her before?”
Georgia shrugged. “He can’t keep secrets for shit, so I doubt it.”
“Yikes,” I replied, not even knowing where to go with this conversation.
“What?” CJ broke in. “Telling secrets?”
Georgia silenced him with a wry grin. “Nah, I was just telling Regan I’d chatted with Frankie today,” she said casually, perusing the menu.
CJ’s jaw tightened and damn if he didn’t do his best to unclench. But it didn’t work.
“So,” he replied.
“Ohh,” Nessa entered, interested with devilish eyes. “Who’s Frankie?”
“No one,” CJ answered, clipped.
“Someone,” Nessa concluded with raised eyebrows.
Georgia waved her hand. “Yes, someone. But no one you have to worry about, Nessa. She’s out on a date tonight three-thousand miles away.”
At this, CJ pushed back his chair and stood. “I’m grabbing a smoke. If the waiter comes, I’ll have the number eight. And ten.”
The waiter did come, shortly after CJ left, rescuing us from awkward silence. While the rest of the group placed their orders, I whispered to Georgia once more.
“You didn’t tell me about Frankie.”
Georgia smiled, looking quite pleased with herself. “That’s because it’s bullshit,” she whispered back. “Guess we found out how he really feels about being free from Frankie, huh?”
“You’re evil,” I replied, only half kidding. She didn’t meddle much anymore, but when she did, Georgia could go to the mat with the best of them.
CJ soon returned to the table, looking a little less homicidal than when he’d left, but only slightly so. The group eased into conversation about our upcoming shows, set lists, and our favorite foods, leaving all conversation of CJ and Frankie in the dust.
“Don’t tell CJ,” was the last thing Georgia whispered to me before our drinks arrived and we carried on with dinner with our friends.
***
Inevitably, dinner led to a discussion of where we’d go drinking and dancing next. At that point, I was itching to get my girl back to the hotel room, but she seemed to be enjoying the night out, so when she went along with plans for “part 2” of our evening, I did, too.
Soon, we found ourselves at a club that looked like an old movie theater from the front—it very well may have been once—but was wide open on the inside, and packed wall-to-wall with hot, grinding bodies. And, because luck in these places is rarely on my side, the bar was smack dab in the middle of it all.
“Well,” Georgia sighed, sounding playfully resigned as we scanned the crowd, “let’s go get sweaty.”
She took my hand and led me through the writhing crowd that was twerking along to PitBull and Jennifer Lopez. Despite her generally loathsome attitude toward club life, Georgia was able to make herself at home fast. Balancing on fairly high shiny red heels, she swayed her hips back and forth in time with the music,
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