The Resistance(56)
Looking back at me, Dalton introduces me, “This is Holli.” I note how he doesn’t call me Holliday. Looking at me, he says, “Cory’s our bassist and writes a lot of the songs, most of the hits actually.”
“Hi,” Cory says, shaking my hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I heard you created that lime.”
I Laugh. “Guilty.”
“That’s cool. It’s funny stuff.”
I shrug. “It certainly was when I was drunk and thought of it. Now it’s taken on a life of its own.”
He nods as if he understands. “Yeah, I can see that. The music business can be the same.”
A petite brunette—hair highlighted from the SoCal sun, olive skin, big dimples in her cheeks, pregnant—joins us. “You must be Holli.”
“Yes, I—”
She hugs me, an embrace that comes with genuine warmth. “It’s so good to finally meet you. Johnny has told me so many wonderful things about you.”
My eyes meet Dalton’s over her shoulder while a sly grin teases the corner of his mouth. “This is Rochelle—the heart of the band,” he says.
She turns and smacks him in the stomach. “Stop it. Don’t embarrass me. Everyone knows the great Johnny Outlaw is the heart of the band. I’m just a groupie these days.”
Dalton reaches forward and wraps his arms around her and she does the same to him. The hug is sweet, the embrace sincere. “How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Big,” she replies. “How are you?”
“Happy.” His gaze flashes to me, then back to her.
Rochelle smiles. “I like happy on you.”
Dalton steps next to me and takes my hand. “So do I,” he says, as if the emotion is something he’s trying on for the first time. “Rochelle is eight months pregnant. Cory managed to knock her up twice out of wedlock.”
Cory laughs, beer in hand. “Ha! Not for lack of trying to shackle her to me. She’s the hold-out, not me.”
Looking at her, she smiles like she’s heard this a thousand times and maybe even a faint blush is hidden in those dimples of hers. “Ask me again when you’re not drunk and lonely on the road.”
“Done,” he says, draping his arm around her shoulders and kissing her on the head. She rubs his stomach over his T-shirt, the gesture loving. They feel so different from what I expected. By the way they look at each other, I can tell they’re more than just significant in each other’s lives.
Suddenly, the realization that I’m Dalton’s current ‘other’ hits me like a sledgehammer.
“Holliday?” Dalton sounds distant though he’s standing right next to me. His hand takes hold of my elbow and he calls me again, “Holliday?” When I look up, his green eyes are curious. “Rochelle just asked if you want something to drink.”
Turning to her, still a little shaken, I say, “Yes. Yes, I think that will be nice. I’ll go with you.” My hand drifts from Dalton’s, one of my fingers keeping contact until he’s out of reach.
Rochelle smiles at me, and says, “Johnny says you own your own business.”
“I do,” I reply as we stroll. “It’s grown a lot in the last year and I’m expanding the brand.”
“Sounds like a lot of hard work. Guess you won’t be joining them on the road.”
“No, my schedule sucks right now. This afternoon, Dalton had to force me away from my computer.”
“I like the name Dalton. I used to call him Jack but it got complicated in public. The masses want Johnny Outlaw. Anyway, I’m glad you came over. Johnny came over on Wednesday and had dinner with us. Neil, our little guy playing over in the garden, loves him. Calls him Uncle Johnny.” She nudges me. “I think Johnny has a soft spot for kids, too.”
Kids? That’s not a topic I’m ready to broach anytime soon. “Maybe just Neil.”
She laughs, knowing I’m trying to change the topic. “Yeah, maybe just Neil.”
I’d call Rochelle a modern day flower child, but she has a rock n’ roll edge to her that makes her a paradigm to place. The skirt is full and flowy with a knot holding it high above her left knee, exposing her lean legs and bare feet. A simple, man’s white tank top fits her pregnant body and exposes a few tattoos. I suspect she has more, but not on display. One tattoo is a ring of wildflowers that adorns her wrist. It’s colorful and pretty, reminding me of mine.
She leads me to a light blue metal swing set and she sits. The set is not new and has rust spots and is a duplicate of one I had when I was six. I love that it’s not a rich kid’s swing set or even one of the large treehouse-type playscapes that fill suburban neighborhoods. I sit down in a swing and push off, my ass feeling way too big for this small seat.