The Asset by Shane Kuhn Page A

they’d left off. Too much water under the bridge , he told himself. And Love was curious, like Belle. She would ask him a lot of questions, and the answers would expose his sad, transient existence. He opted to slip out and spare them both the agony.
    He went out the same way he came in, through the back kitchen door.
    â€œFreeze!” a voice called out behind him as he stepped into the cool night air.

L ove was standing there in the amber glow of a naked bulb hanging over the club’s garbage cans. She smiled at him, the glint in her eye a spark of knowing she had busted him cold.
    â€œOh hey,” he said sheepishly.
    â€œDon’t oh hey me, dude. Trying to sneak out the back. I should punch you.”
    â€œI wasn’t—”
    â€œPlease.” She laughed. “I’m the one who showed you that door the night of the Descendents show when you wanted to burn a joint to get away from Charlotte what’s-her-name who was hammered on the bottle of Rumple Minze she stole from her dad’s liquor cabinet and kept trying to stick her tongue down your throat.”
    â€œJesus, how do you remember all of that?”
    She tossed her cigarette aside and hugged him.
    â€œYou’re forgiven,” she said, pulling away to get a good look at him. “Long time. Where the fuck have you been? I thought I was seeing a ghost.”
    â€œIt’s good to see you too . . . Love.”
    â€œHow do you like the new name? Better than dumb old yuppie Sierra, right?”
    â€œAbsolutely. It might take some getting used to, but it suits you . . . and your music.”
    â€œOh, so I might see you again this decade?”
    â€œYeah, of course.” He wanted to crawl under a rock, and she knew it.
    â€œYou’re a real piece of work, you know that? You come here unannounced, thinking you’re all incognito at the back of the club—the lone tall corporate gunslinger in a sea of drug-addled kidniks—don’t think for a second I didn’t clock you the moment you slunk in, and then you pull this exit-stage-left shit. I’m sorry but what the fuck barely covers it.”
    â€œSorry . . . It’s been so long. I didn’t want you to feel, I guess, obligated to talk to me after the show. You know? With all the fans . . . I know, it’s stupid.”
    â€œPretty much. Dude, it’s because I haven’t seen you in an eternity that I would want to talk to you. I mean, don’t think for a minute I’m not pissed at you for shining me on all these years. But you and Belle are family. Fuck it, it’s great to see you!”
    She hugged him again and squeezed him so hard he couldn’t breathe. Then she lit them both a cigarette.
    â€œI don’t—”
    â€œI hate smoking alone. Just pretend.”
    Kennedy accepted the cigarette and tried to actually smoke it in an attempt to prove to Love that he hadn’t surrendered what was left of his cool to Brooks Brothers. But the coughing fit after the first drag killed that dream.
    â€œThanks for playing.” She laughed again.
    â€œI never could hack those. Not even when I was trying to drink myself to death back in college.”
    â€œI need to quit so I don’t end up singing through a hole in my neck with one of those electronic monster boxes.”
    Kennedy laughed. She always could crack him up.
    â€œWhat’d you think of the show?” she asked, genuinely interested.
    â€œI think the roaring garbage fire they call the music business is completely fucked for not making you a megastar.”
    â€œThey don’t like my politics.”
    She pulled open her thin leather vest and revealed a tattoo of Shiva holding the severed heads of Jesus and Michael Jackson just below her collar line and just above the black lace of her camisole.
    â€œGood for you,” Kennedy said, glowing red. “And for the rest of us. I haven’t seen music