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Chapter Two

Fifteen minutes later, I was dressed in a toga fashioned out of one of Howie's purple bedsheets, fastened at my shoulder by an elastic we'd stolen from his wife's supply in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Two of the officers that had arrived on the scene were inside extracting bullets from my furniture and the third was questioning me about what had happened.

"Let me get this straight," said the cop, who was a female and clearly the man-half of a lesbian couple. She looked like she'd downed a few donuts and canoodled with a few lasagnas. She looked how I probably would look on my current "tour diet" if I wasn't burning all those calories as previously discussed.

I definitely wouldn't have fit under the bunk if I was her.

"Let me get this straight," she said, "You don't know the girl's last name."

"Her first name was Cindy-Jo," I replied.

The she-cop wrote this down. Howie was drinking a glass of brandy, leaning against his bus as we talked. "And it's amazing he knows that much," he muttered.

"How long have you known Cindy-Jo?" the she-cop asked.

"...a...while..." I answered tentatively.

"How long is 'awhile'?"

"I met her at the show we did tonight," I answered. The she-cop clearly didn't approve of one-nighters with fans 'cos I got glared at like she was Mr. Spock and I was some illogical piece of space shit that got stuck to the Enterprise's windshield. "It hardly ever happens," I stammered, "This, I mean."

Howie snorted in dirision.

The she-cop made note on her little notepad thingy. It probably said that I was a man slut or something. Thanks, D.

"Well it sounds to me like you got what you deserved," she muttered.

I felt my face flush. "I got shot at by a psycho hillbilly from back home by the crick!" I snapped, my voice melting into my worst impression of Brian's accent I'd ever done.

She ignored my terrible accent. I realized after I'd done it that she had an accent, too. I really wasn't building myself many points with this one.

"We'll investigate the case, but since you don't know anything other than the names Billy and Cindy-Jo, I can't promise you that it'll get very far." The she-cop paused and stared at me with a deadpan glare. "Those names are somewhat common back home on the crick."

I flushed harder.

After the she-cop had collected the other two officers off the bus and they'd driven away, I turned to Howie. "I hope you're happy," I snapped, "I'm gonna end up shot to death in my sleep by a freaking country bumpkin and it's your fault the cops ain't lookin' for him because you pissed off the investigating officer."

"I didn't piss her off dude, you and your horny-rock-star ways pissed her off." Howie argued, "You were withholding information that was pertinent to the case."

"Bastard..." I muttered.

"If that's how you feel, you can give me my sheet back," Howie replied.

I clung to it. "But I'm naked underneath."

Howie cheersed with his cup. "And on that note, good night, Nick."

"Wait!" I cried, as he stood upright and started to walk away. "Where are you going?" I asked.

"To bed? It's 4:00 in the morning."

"Yeah but where am I supposed to go?" I pleaded.

"....to bed?"

I looked back at my bus. It stood all silent and empty and ominous and -- violated. I looked back at Howie. "Can I sleep on your bus tonight?"

"Nick you're fine to go back on your own bus," Howie argued.

"What if Billy comes back? With his shot gun?" I pleaded. "He'll come for the kill." I flung myself in Howie's direction.

Howie looked down at my body pressed against his. "Get offa me when all you got between me and your junk is my sheet."

I let go of him. "Howie please," I begged.

Howie sighed. "At least go get some normal clothes."

"Okay." I paused. I looked back at my bus, then back at Howie again. "Will you come with me?"

"Ay Dios mio," Howie muttered. He slugged down the last of his brandy and followed me across the parking lot to my own tour bus.

It was silent inside and the officers had left my bedroom blacklight on. It hissed quietly and illuminated the broken shards of table and closet eerily. I flicked on the regular lights and tippy toed around the splinters towards the bedroom. I hoped his bullet didn't hit my favorite shirt as it flew through the interior of my closet.

Howie was studying the hole in the back of the driver's seat. "Good thing we weren't moving," he commented.

"If we were moving, Billy wouldn't have been able to get on the bus to begin with," I answered. "I would've actually gotten to finish having sex, I wouldn't be spooked and wearing a purple bedsheet toga, and I wouldn't have been snapped at by a she-cop. I only the bus had been moving."

I pulled on my favorite t-shirt - a grey v-neck that I'd worn to the point of being threadbare - and hopped into a pair of flannel sweatpants. Kicking on sandals, I balled Howie's sheet up and carried it out to him. "Here," I said, thusting it in his direction.

Howie promptly dropped the sheet to the floor. "Dude are you fucking kidding me?"

"What? I'm returning your bed sheet."

"It has your --" he waved his hand in the general direction of my crotch, "-- thingy germs all over it... Keep it."

"What in the hell am I gonna do with a purple sheet?" I demanded, "It's not like I'm Elton John or something."

Howie glowered at me.

In retrospect, it was probably that comment that made him leave me there on my bus and not let me sleep in his bus after all.