The girls didn’t go the way of hemp but, at Annette’s demand, we were al displaying Annette’s wares wearing jeans and most of us wearing cowboy boots (except Ava, who had on flip-flops). Indy had on a Grateful Dead tee. Al y was wearing a peach and yel ow tie-dyed tee with a yel ow peace sign on the front. Jules had on a violet tee that said,

“Give peace a chance” across the front in psychedelic scrawl. Ava was sporting a vintage Jefferson Airplane tee.

Upon arrival, Annette had given me a pink tee with “Flower Power” written across the boobs in cartoon daisies and, like al the other girls, I’d changed in one of the dressing rooms. Roxie had on a kil er Indian-style tunic that was also sold in the shop.

Daisy appeared to have missed the dress code communiqué. She was wearing a white, denim mini-skirt, a backless, halter top made of what looked like tiny, silver beads and had a drape at the cle**age that was so low, on her enormous bosoms, it was vaguely threatening. She’d completed her ensemble with a pair of silver, platform go-go boots and her hair was teased out to there.

When I’d looked her from head-to-toe, Daisy told me. “I don’t do hippie, comprende?”

I just nodded, there was nothing else to do.

I watched as a scruffy-looking guy who I knew was a friend of the Rock Chicks because I’d met him at a gig some time ago (he went by the moniker “The Kevster”, FYI), shuffled up to Leo and Pong and said one word.

“Dudes.”

Then he lifted up both his hands in peace signs like this was going to work.

I closed my eyes in despair mainly because I knew this wasn’t going to work.

“Fuck off, hippie,” I heard Pong snap and I knew it was time to act. With an apologetic glance at Indy and Al y, I pushed forward to take care of my band.

As I made my way through the crowd, I watched The Kevster rear back in offense. “I’m not a hippie. I’m a pothead. World of difference, man.”

Leo ignored The Kevster and yanked on the tee. “Let go, Pong.”

Pong turned back to Leo. “You let go!”

Leo yanked again and shouted, “No! You let go!”

“Dudes, you gotta respect the vibe of a head shop,” The Kevster cut in informatively. “It’s like walkin’ into a Kabbalah Center and starting a bitch-slapping fight. You don’t do that shit. You’re kil in’ the vibe.”

“Fuck the vibe,” Pong yel ed just as I made it up to them.

I had bad timing. Pong lost hold on the shirt. He went flying backwards and since I was behind him, he slammed into me and we both went down. Our arms reeled out to find purchase and we took down two clothing racks with us.

They fel to their sides and crashed around us with loud bangs and then started rol ing, t-shirts and hemp clothes flying everywhere.

“Chaos!” The Kevster shouted, arms waving over his head. “Chaos at the head shop!”

Al y arrived and pul ed The Kevster back, ordering,

“Calm down, Kevin.”

Kevin didn’t feel like calming down. He pointed at Pong then at Leo. “Eject. Eject, eject, eject!”

“If there’s no chaos at the head shop, there ain’t no eject either,” Pong said from the floor but The Kevster was having none of it.

“It’s about respect, man,” The Kevster decreed. “No one brings chaos to a head shop. Everyone knows that!” Indy was behind me and she pul ed me up by my armpits as Hugo made it to our clutch.

He looked down his nose at Pong.

“Crazy honkies,” Hugo muttered, making it clear he wasn’t there to help.

Shirleen was al of a sudden close and looking at Pong too.

“Brother, you got that right,” she said to Hugo.

I’d let this al wash over me without much thought.

This was not unusual. Chaos, in my life, even before the bul ets were flying, was not unusual. My band caused chaos everywhere they went.

But at that moment, I was over it.

Effing over it.

I’d spent an hour after my time in the bathroom with Duke that morning sitting in Lee’s office while the Rock Chicks guarded the door. I read through the papers that the Rock Chicks, Duke and Tex final y shared with me.

Chicks, Duke and Tex final y shared with me.

The story about Caitlin was al there, with pictures.

Pictures of a beautiful, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, smiling, tiny teenage girl. There was even a picture of her with Mace during his surfing days, maybe after a competition.

He was standing on a beach in a wetsuit, his hair and suit slick with water, his board planted in the sand behind him.

Caitlin, tiny and young, maybe ten years old, was pressed into his side, hugging him around his waist, smiling brightly, her head tilted back to look up at him as his was tilted down to look at her. His arm was around her shoulders, his long, strong fingers curled in, holding her tight. You could see she didn’t care, not even a little bit, that she was dry and Mace was soaking wet.

Mace was smiling at Caitlin too. He was a lot younger in the picture. I had no idea how old, maybe in his early twenties. He smiled at her in a way I’d never seen him before. His face relaxed, open, unguarded and it hurt my heart to look at it.

I didn’t know how much of himself he’d lost after that situation, not until I saw that photo.

When I saw it, I knew he lost everything.

And it was my job to get it back.

And I was damned if I knew how.

I’d learned about Preston Mason too. A lot about him.

Mostly I learned that I wasn’t wrong. He was the Supreme Asshole of Al Time.

And I’d read about it al . About her hand. The commandos. And how Mace had watched his sister get her head blown off right before his beautiful body had nearly been riddled with bul ets.

This meant Mace had a dickhead father, a dead sister and now a girlfriend under fire.

That was worth being pissed off about.

That was earth-shattering.

That could f**k you up for the rest of your life.

I found I no longer had patience with Leo and Pong fighting over a tie-dyed t-shirt of al effing things.

And seriously, could you blame me?

When Pong got to his feet, I moved forward, my cowboy-booted feet treading on t-shirts and I put my hands in his chest and shoved. This surprised him, I’d never done this before and he went back on a foot.

“What’s the matter with you?” I snapped.

Pong’s eyes got wide as they stared at me and my uncharacteristic loss of control and he muttered, “Stel a Bel a.”

“No, real y. What’s the matter with you?” I repeated. “I wanna know.”