CHAPTER SIX
I woke up with the light streaming in my face, burning through my eyelids; the first thing I noticed—as soon as I gave up on trying to burrow into the pillows and blankets on Olivia’s bed—was that I was in it alone. I couldn’t hear a single sound in the apartment, no matter how I strained my ears. You’ve got to be shitting me. She goes on about me sneaking out on her in the morning… I had to grin to myself. If Olivia had sneaked out of her own apartment, leaving me by my lonesome, I had to at least give her points for turning my usual trick around on me.
I managed to find my clothes scattered around, and get them on, wondering to myself if this was some kind of test; was Olivia looking for me to stay, and prove that I wouldn’t abandon her? Or was I supposed to leave? I found my phone, and saw that I had more than a few texts on it from the guys in the band. Nothing from Olivia saying anything one way or another. I told Mark and Alex that I was okay, told Dan that I’d managed to pull it off with Olivia after all, and texted Jules that I’d be able to make it to rehearsal—in that order. I looked around the apartment, trying to decide how to go about going home to my own place. If Olivia was looking for me to stay—if she’d stranded me by not letting me know she was leaving—then I had to decide if it would be better for me to disappear without any notice, or stick around and see if she came back.
She is not the kind of girl you want to just hook up with and then ghost out, I thought, shuddering at the memory of what Olivia had felt like, the sound of her moans, the way she’d tasted and smelled—everything about her. I wanted more. If she hadn’t run out on me before I woke up, I was sure that I would have convinced her to have a little morning delight, as Jules called it sometimes. A little quickie, something to leave her with a memory. I definitely wanted to see more of Olivia—that much I knew. I wanted to see her as much as possible. I wasn’t sure if I wanted what Alex had exactly, but I couldn’t help but feel more than a little intrigued at the little flash of Olivia’s personality that I’d seen. Too bad we’re going on tour in a few weeks. I cringed at that; normally tour was great—a different girl in every city, no expectation from any of them that they’d “land” me or “tame” me or whatever it was girls tended to think. But it would definitely make it harder to make any kind of lasting connection with Olivia, or set up any kind of arrangement to see her regularly.
I wandered around her apartment a bit, looking at the show posters, at the different things scattered around. Her place definitely smelled better than mine; I’m not a messy guy, but I’m also not the kind of guy who buys candles or anything like that on a normal basis. Don’t get me wrong; it wasn’t like walking in some kind of flower garden at Olivia’s place, but there was a kind of warm, clean smell to everything.
I decided that I might as well catch a ride from someone; Olivia either was out doing something and wouldn’t be home soon, or was going to be away from the apartment avoiding me all day. I found a note pad in her kitchen with a pen attached to it and decided to leave her a little note. Good job turning my own trick around on me! I waited a bit but decided that you probably made yourself scarce for good reason. I’ll be in touch, unless you tell me not to be. I signed it the way I signed all my autographs—it’d become ingrained habit—and left it where she’d see it as soon as she walked into the house.
I texted Mark and told him that I needed a ride, and started walking up the street. The kind of neighborhood where Olivia lived was exactly the kind to have a bunch of tiny, mom-and-pop restaurants and cafes nearby. I needed coffee yesterday; with any luck, I’d find a Cuban-run place and stuff myself with some papas rellenas and a couple of shots of café Cubano while I waited for Mark to get dressed and come get me.
A few blocks down from Olivia’s place I found exactly what I wanted: a tiny, run-down building with a whitewashed stucco exterior (stained along the sprinkler line), with a flickering neon sign saying it was open. I didn’t even pay attention to the name written in Spanish; I just walked in. The smell of slow-roasting pork and onions and garlic hit me hard enough to make my stomach almost cramp with hunger. The woman behind the counter understood at least enough English to take an order—thank God, since there were parts of Dade county where that wasn’t the case—and in a few minutes I had a big plate of greasy, fried things, and a few plastic shot glasses of syrupy, foamy, dark Cubano coffee in front of me on a rickety plastic table. I sent Mark a location ping and he said he’d be there in fifteen minutes; just enough time for me to scarf it all down. I’ll buy him some of those croquetas and a café con leche to thank him. He’ll never have to know I pigged out before he got here.