He stayed on the yacht for nearly twenty minutes, long enough to chain-smoke three cigarettes back to back. Each drag burned a little rougher than the last. The words Michelle had left him with - The Point of Futility - kept bouncing around in his skull like a song he didn't want stuck in his head.
Eventually, once the lump in his throat had dulled and his limbs didn't feel so shaky, he stood up and cleaned the place. He straightened the bed, wiped down surfaces, and made sure everything looked just as it had before they'd stepped inside. Then he locked up and started the slow walk back toward Willie's.
The night air smelled like river water and gasoline. Down by the roadhouse, the jukebox thumped bass through the walls, a distorted backbeat to the crowd's drunken laughter and shouted conversations. Jake stepped into the haze of cigarette smoke and stale beer, greeted almost instantly by a group of fans - five women, two dudes - gushing about the show.
"You were amazing tonight!"
"God, you guys are the best band in this town."
"You're gonna blow up! I can feel it!"
Jake nodded, muttered a few "Thanks," and kept moving, breaking away as politely as possible. He made a beeline to the bar where Chris, the bartender, had already poured him a rum and Coke.
"Thanks, Chris," Jake said as he settled into a stool.
Chris nodded. "You want a smoke too?"
Jake gave him a look like he was offering salvation. "You bet your ass I do."
Chris ducked under the bar and tossed him a fresh hard pack of Camels along with a clean ashtray. "Put it on your tab?"
Jake smirked. "Absolutely."
That tab didn't exist, technically. Willie let the band drink for free when they were on the premises, a perk meant to keep them visible and mingling - extra bodies meant more drink orders. Cigarettes weren't officially covered, but the bartenders liked the band enough to bend the rules. Especially since Jake tipped like a rockstar even when he was broke.
He took a deep drag, exhaled toward the ceiling, and stared at nothing in particular.
Matt dropped into the stool beside him a few seconds later, nursing his own half-dead cigarette and reeking of booze.
"Chrissie!" Matt banged his glass on the bar. "Hook me up again, brother!"
"Jack and Coke coming up," Chris called back.
Matt threw an arm around Jake, pulling him in like they were frat boys. "What the hell's up with you, man? You look like you just buried your dog."
"I'm fine," Jake said, barely believing it himself.
"The fuck you are," Matt said, squinting at him. "Where's your girl? She flake out on you?"
Jake nodded slowly. "Yeah. For good this time. We broke up."
Matt blinked. "Wait... like actually broke up? You and the little Catholic school queen?"
"Yep," Jake said. "She told me to call her once I decide to cut my hair and go back to school and become a nice respectable member of society."
Matt whistled low. "Damn. That's cold."
Jake flicked ashes into the tray. "That it is."
Matt leaned in. "But tell me, man. You at least got to hit it one last time before she bailed?"
Jake laughed bitterly. "Nope. She let me go down on her, then hit me with the God talk while I was still wiping my mouth."
Matt reeled back like he'd been slapped. "That's just... evil."
"No shit."
"Well, at least she'll remember you fondly." Matt grabbed his fresh drink and lifted it in mock toast. "To Catholic guilt and tight skirts."
Jake raised his glass. "Amen."
"You should come back to my place," Matt said. "Pick a groupie, any groupie. Spare bedroom's got your name on it."
"Thanks, but I think I'm just gonna crash early. There's a song idea kicking around. I want to try and get it down."
Matt snorted. "Suit yourself. But remember what they say - 'all work and no blowjobs makes Jake a dull boy.'"
Jake gave him a weak grin. "Noted."
Matt slapped him on the back and wandered off into the crowd, leaving Jake to stew in his drink.
A minute later, a girl slid onto the stool next to him like she was born to be there. She was maybe nineteen, rocking Brooke Shields hair and enough makeup to qualify as armor. Her jeans were vacuum-sealed to her legs, and her hot pink tube top jiggled with enthusiasm every time she moved. She held a cocktail in one hand, a lipstick-smeared cigarette in the other.
"Hi," she said, her voice sugary sweet, body angled toward him like an invitation.
"Hey," Jake replied, expression unreadable.
"I'm Colette," she said. "Colette Jones."
He gave a polite smile. "Jake Kingsley."
She laughed. "I know that. Everyone knows that. I saw you sittin' here all by yourself and thought I'd come keep you company."
"That's real nice of you."
"You guys were amazing tonight. Totally blew me away."
"Glad you liked it."
"You have such a sexy voice," she purred, leaning closer so her top could do most of the talking. "Bet you hear that a lot."
"Once or twice."
"I just love music. You guys totally rock. This is like my sixth time seeing you. Mostly at D Street, but I come here sometimes too. Everyone knows me over there." She winked. "I got a reputation."
Jake nodded politely. He was supposed to ask what kind of reputation. That would cue the flirty innuendo, the party invite, the inevitable backstage romp. He'd heard the script enough times from the other guys.
But tonight, he wasn't in the mood.
"That's... interesting," he said.
She pouted. "Very well-earned, I might add."
He sighed quietly. "Look, uh..."
"Colette," she said, not missing a beat.
"Right. Colette. I'm... having kind of a rough night, see..."
"You get in a fight with your girlfriend?" she asked, bright-eyed and smug.
That caught him off guard. "What makes you think that?"
She sipped her drink and gave a little smirk. "Everyone knows you got a girlfriend. All the girls hate her, all the guys want her. She's cute, I'll give her that, but she dresses like a librarian. Cotton skirts? In a club? Come on."
Jake blinked. "Right."
"She was here with you earlier," Colette continued, "and now she's not. And you're still here. Alone. Which never happens. So you two must've had a fight."
He stared at her for a moment. "You're very observant."
She batted her lashes. "Thanks."
He chuckled despite himself. "Not sure if that was a compliment."
Colette took it as one anyway. "So... wanna talk about it?"
Jake looked at her. Really looked. She was attractive, clearly down, clearly game. And part of him, the part that wanted to get even, was tempted.
But the rest of him just wanted to go home and write.
She leaned in close, her hands sliding gently down onto Jake's shoulders. Her bare thighs brushed against his jeans, and her cleavage hovered just inches from his face. Then, softly, she kissed him on the forehead - slow, deliberate.
"Take me to the party tonight," she whispered, her voice breathy. "You won't regret it."
Jake could feel the heat radiating off her body. Between the view down her halter top and the softness pressing into him, it was doing a number on his self-control. His groin still ached from earlier, from the night's unfinished business with Michelle. And now here was this girl - Colette - basically handing herself to him like a backstage pass with no expiration.
Still, even with all that... he hesitated.
He'd just broken up with Michelle - less than an hour ago. Eighteen months together, and now it was over. Shouldn't there be... decorum or something? A mourning period? What if Michelle had second thoughts and called him tomorrow, all tears and apologies?
He might've turned Colette down if she'd just let things sit there. But she didn't.
Instead, she leaned in again, this time brushing a kiss just beneath his left eye. Her lips lingered, then she inhaled softly near his cheek and smiled.
"You were with her tonight, weren't you?" she said, like she'd just caught the scent of a secret.
Jake blinked. "What?"
"I can smell her on you," she said, matter-of-fact. Her smile widened, playful, sultry. "I love that."
His mind stuttered.
"You... do?"
"Mmhmm." Her eyes fluttered. "Back in high school, I had this girlfriend. We'd mess around during sleepovers - nothing serious. Just... curiosity, you know? But I loved it. The taste. The smell. The feeling. It's... exciting."
Jake swallowed. Hard.
She leaned closer, lips brushing his again - not a kiss, not quite. More like a dare. "I like the way you taste right now."
He didn't answer. Couldn't.
His thoughts of Michelle didn't vanish completely, but they got quieter, fuzzier - shoved to the edge of the stage as the spotlight turned on someone else.
Colette leaned in and murmured, "Did you sleep with her tonight?"
Jake shifted uncomfortably. "No," he muttered, though his voice barely registered.
She just smiled wider. "Shame. I would've loved a taste."
Jake's resistance - what little was left - cracked. Whether she was telling the truth or just spinning a fantasy didn't matter anymore. Her confidence, her forwardness, the way she knew exactly what strings to pull... it all landed. He slid a hand onto her waist, feeling the warmth of her skin just above the waistband of those too-tight jeans.
"So," he said, voice husky now, "you still wanna go to that party?"
Colette leaned forward, lips brushing his ear.
"Yeah," she whispered, then gave his earlobe a slow, teasing flick of her tongue.
Jake exhaled through his nose, sharp and quiet.
"You got it."
They didn't linger. Colette downed the rest of her drink in a single pull, then took his hand and led him off the barstool. Her hips swayed in perfect rhythm to the music still thudding through the speakers. She didn't look back, and he didn't need her to.
The rest of the band was still somewhere in the crowd or out in the lot, already pairing off or deep into party plans. Matt would be pleased - spare bedroom in use after all.
Jake followed her out the front door into the humid California night, still warm even after dark. The stars were faint above the city lights, and the distant echo of sirens blended with laughter and the muffled bass from inside Willie's.
Maybe it was too soon. Maybe he'd hate himself in the morning. Maybe Michelle really would call.
But right now?
Right now he was walking away from heartbreak with someone else's hand in his. And for the moment, that felt like enough.