Trust: Book One of Gypsies, Gamblers & Thieves

Chapter 16: Closer

Thanks to our Sunset Strip Throw Down, we went to bed earlier than expected. The next morning, I heard Bridget wake up, take a shower, and pack her bags. Then she shook me.

"What do you want for breakfast? I'll go get some and bring it back."

"What time is it?" I asked through half-open eyelids.

"It's 7:30. If we hurry, we'll miss the Sunday morning rush."

I blinked until Bridget came into focus. "Hoooolllleeee shit. Your eye."

"I know," she said. "I'm gonna be wearing a lotta makeup this week."

"Does it hurt?"

"More than it did last night, yeah. Now, what do you want for breakfast?"

"Pancakes and coffee."

"Do you want any eggs?"

"No. But I'll take an order of crispy bacon—please. Emphasis on the crispy."

"Okay—Get in the shower and pack your stuff—emphasis on hurry up. We're leaving in an hour," she said and closed the door behind her.

Bridget could be bossy, but she meant well. If you were her friend, she'd take care of you, even when she was broke and half-homeless, which was most of the time. 

I rolled out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. Splashed some water on my face and took a pee. Started the shower, got undressed, stepped into the warm rush and soaked my hair. Then I lay down in the tub, closed my eyes, and took a ten-minute shower nap.

I heard Bridget return and roused myself to wash my hair. Before I could rinse it, there she stood in the bathroom, hollering at me to "Come eat." I downed my breakfast in a towel and got dressed; threw my clothes back into their Snoopy suitcase; and stuffed my makeup, toothbrush, and comb back into a silver Caboodle.

We put our bags in the hatchback; double-checked the room; and delivered key 222 to the office. Then we bailed.

Bridget took us from L.A. to San Bernardino, where she stopped at AM/PM, bought one of those perpetually frozen blue ice packs, and told me to "Drive." She held the pseudo-ice against her face all the way to Stateline, Nevada.

On the ride home, Bridget taught me how to draft, or tailgate.  That's when you use the wind behind bigger, faster cars to save gas. We also talked about whether Bridget would see Alfonse again, whether the Bitch with Blonde Braids was his girlfriend or a groupie, and—of course—the fight. 

We reviewed every detail of the fight. How those girls had started it by sweating us before the concert; then kept it going in the bathroom. How they snuck up on Bridget in the street, fucking bullies, four girls ganging up on one. 

Bridget insisted on knowing the precise moment when I figured out she was missing. And how I launched myself like Superman into the fight circle. The surprise counterattack was her favorite part of the story: When we, the innocent tourists, overcame the local bullies who tried to ruin our weekend in Hollywood.

We talked about the ongoing saga with Dylan. What it would mean, how things might change, if I officially became his girlfriend. Bridget wondered if I would've liked Takoda more, if Dylan hadn't occupied my thoughts that weekend.  She wanted to know if I'd hang out with her, Alfonse and Takoda, if they came to Las Vegas. I assured her that neither would happen.

Bridget was correct about leaving when we did. Within four hours, we were home. I had driven most of the way, through a smooth stream of traffic. All hail the driver's permit.