stammered.
Tuna? I hardly ever eat tuna. Well, at least I'll have a reason to sit here.
“Something to drink?”
“Iced tea, please.”
I could see the glass doors to the outside in the mirror over the counter. The waitress set down my tea. As I tore open a sugar packet, I saw Sly push the door open. He wore a bright yellow shirt and a cowboy hat. Shades covered his eyes. I slipped down in the booth, hoping he hadn't seen me. I thought about kneeling under the table, but the waitress's eyes were on me.
Oh, God
, I thought, sitting up.
He can't hit me in public.
I poured the sugar into my glass and stirred frantically. I kept my eyes on the swirling ice cubes as Sly slipped into the booth. He put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me into his chest. His shirt was soft against my bare arm. “I'm sorry, baby,” he whispered, kissing my neck. I tried to pull away, but his grip on me was tight, forceful.
When I opened my mouth to speak, a gurgling sound came out. I closed my mouth. When the waitress came back with my sandwich, she asked Sly, “Would you like to see a menu, sir?”
“No. I'll have what she's having. She's really healthy.”
I knew he was teasing me, and I glared at him.
When the waitress turned away, Sly pulled me closer, turning my face to his. He lightly fingered my lip. “I love you. I didn't want to hurt you. I love those beauty marks on your neck.” He was twisting compliments and apologies together. It was confusing, but his whole way of living bewildered me. One minute his charm and passion drew me in; the next minute his selfish need for power attacked me. “You want some coke?” he asked.
“No.” I slid two inches away and looked Sly straight in the eyes. “Don't you ever hit me again,” I sneered.
His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. I was not afraid of him. I was sad that our love was turning into misery, and I would fight to the end to be who I was and not a slave to his indiscriminate moods. Even though I was in love with the charming Sly, my father's and mother's courage and bravery were in my DNA. I was a fighter, even in my confused state of love.
While we ate, Sly clowned to entertain me. He smiled and tried to move close again, touching my arm. He reached behindme, rubbing my back. I watched him warily. He dropped two Seconals into my palm after I finished my sandwich. I drank them down with the last of my iced tea, knowing that in minutes I would feel mellowed by the drug.
“It will never happen again. I promise,” Sly said. “Ready to drive back home?”
His face was serious, his voice gentle. I wanted to believe him. I felt desperate by myself in Fresno. If I did not go with him, where would I go?
I nodded.
He paid the bill and wrapped his arm around me as we walked back to the room. Hamp had vanished. I never wanted to see him again. I finished packing, wrestling with my thoughts, which were muddled now that the “red devils” had taken affect.
Back at Coldwater, Sly tried very hard to be charming, and he begged me to go to the studio with him for inspiration. He could be so close, pull me into a kiss, under the roof of his power. He made the act of getting high—whether it was sharing a smoke or having me bend into his hands to snort coke from his tiny mother-of-pearl spoon—an intimate exchange of love. Sly made me feel as though he needed me. Stevie told me I was different from other girlfriends Sly had had. “You're sincere,” she said.
Sly asked Stevie to find a bigger house with a studio so that the band could record day and night. She quickly found a house to rent in Bel Air in which John and Michelle Phillips of the Mamas and Papas were living—they would be moving out in a month. More grandiose than Coldwater, the Spanish mission–style housewas in the center of circular footpaths beneath hundreds of fragrant blossoms. The living room led to a balcony overlooking a sunken garden with rounded hedges and a stone-edged pool next to a pool
Tuna? I hardly ever eat tuna. Well, at least I'll have a reason to sit here.
“Something to drink?”
“Iced tea, please.”
I could see the glass doors to the outside in the mirror over the counter. The waitress set down my tea. As I tore open a sugar packet, I saw Sly push the door open. He wore a bright yellow shirt and a cowboy hat. Shades covered his eyes. I slipped down in the booth, hoping he hadn't seen me. I thought about kneeling under the table, but the waitress's eyes were on me.
Oh, God
, I thought, sitting up.
He can't hit me in public.
I poured the sugar into my glass and stirred frantically. I kept my eyes on the swirling ice cubes as Sly slipped into the booth. He put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me into his chest. His shirt was soft against my bare arm. “I'm sorry, baby,” he whispered, kissing my neck. I tried to pull away, but his grip on me was tight, forceful.
When I opened my mouth to speak, a gurgling sound came out. I closed my mouth. When the waitress came back with my sandwich, she asked Sly, “Would you like to see a menu, sir?”
“No. I'll have what she's having. She's really healthy.”
I knew he was teasing me, and I glared at him.
When the waitress turned away, Sly pulled me closer, turning my face to his. He lightly fingered my lip. “I love you. I didn't want to hurt you. I love those beauty marks on your neck.” He was twisting compliments and apologies together. It was confusing, but his whole way of living bewildered me. One minute his charm and passion drew me in; the next minute his selfish need for power attacked me. “You want some coke?” he asked.
“No.” I slid two inches away and looked Sly straight in the eyes. “Don't you ever hit me again,” I sneered.
His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. I was not afraid of him. I was sad that our love was turning into misery, and I would fight to the end to be who I was and not a slave to his indiscriminate moods. Even though I was in love with the charming Sly, my father's and mother's courage and bravery were in my DNA. I was a fighter, even in my confused state of love.
While we ate, Sly clowned to entertain me. He smiled and tried to move close again, touching my arm. He reached behindme, rubbing my back. I watched him warily. He dropped two Seconals into my palm after I finished my sandwich. I drank them down with the last of my iced tea, knowing that in minutes I would feel mellowed by the drug.
“It will never happen again. I promise,” Sly said. “Ready to drive back home?”
His face was serious, his voice gentle. I wanted to believe him. I felt desperate by myself in Fresno. If I did not go with him, where would I go?
I nodded.
He paid the bill and wrapped his arm around me as we walked back to the room. Hamp had vanished. I never wanted to see him again. I finished packing, wrestling with my thoughts, which were muddled now that the “red devils” had taken affect.
Back at Coldwater, Sly tried very hard to be charming, and he begged me to go to the studio with him for inspiration. He could be so close, pull me into a kiss, under the roof of his power. He made the act of getting high—whether it was sharing a smoke or having me bend into his hands to snort coke from his tiny mother-of-pearl spoon—an intimate exchange of love. Sly made me feel as though he needed me. Stevie told me I was different from other girlfriends Sly had had. “You're sincere,” she said.
Sly asked Stevie to find a bigger house with a studio so that the band could record day and night. She quickly found a house to rent in Bel Air in which John and Michelle Phillips of the Mamas and Papas were living—they would be moving out in a month. More grandiose than Coldwater, the Spanish mission–style housewas in the center of circular footpaths beneath hundreds of fragrant blossoms. The living room led to a balcony overlooking a sunken garden with rounded hedges and a stone-edged pool next to a pool
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