Always (17 page)

“That’s me, recording a solo album.”

Both David and Eddie stared at her in stunned silence.

“That bastard,” David finally spat.

Justine scowled. “Who?”

“Dillon.” David said his name like it was a dirty word.

“What’s he got to do with this?”

“He got inside your head, twisting shit around, turning you against me.”

“David—” Eddie started, but Justine cut him off.

“Why, because he thinks I’m talented, David? That’s some kind of betrayal to you?”

David just stared at her, his face dark with anger. When he spoke, his voice was low and shaky, more vulnerable than she’d ever heard him sound. “I’d have done anything.
Anything
. And he… you just fucking worshiped him from the second you set eyes on him.”

Justine gasped and Eddie closed his eyes. “David,” he groaned. “Stop. Not like this. It won’t help.”

She shook her head. “No, it won’t. And it was never about that, David. That’s what you don’t get. He listens to me. That’s all. He listens and he respects me.”

“I think you need to leave,” he finally said.

“David,” Eddie started.

“No, he’s right, Eddie. I need to leave. I’m sorry. But yeah, I need to leave.”

“Justine,” he caught her arm as she closed her laptop with shaking hands and stowed it in her bag. She didn’t look up, not wanting to meet David’s eyes. “Is this it? Are you done?”

She put her hand over Eddie’s, the one person she would truly miss. “I’m done. We’re done, Eddie.”

“Yeah,” David said across the room, his voice arctic in its chill. “We’re done.”

For the first few days after she walked out on Failsafe, Justine was in a fog of unreality. The band had been her identity for two years. She had been back at her day job at the vintage store since the tour ended, but the thing her life revolved around was Failsafe. Without it, she was adrift.

When she called Dillon to tell him what happened, he let out a shout and congratulated her. Then he and Ash insisted on taking her out to celebrate. It was fun until Ash went to the bathroom half way through the night and never came back, and then Dillon had to go hunt him down and make sure he was okay. Justine eventually went home alone.

Emily was delighted. She said it had been a long time coming and for maybe the first time, she was in complete agreement with Dillon that Justine should be performing solo. Even Eddie seemed happy for her when he called her a week later. Failsafe was done, he said, but he didn’t blame Justine for that. In the end, it was David who caused the biggest problems in the band. She was grateful beyond words that she hadn’t lost him as a friend.

Next came the daunting prospect of launching a solo career. She had the demos Dillon recorded for her, and she knew enough people at the clubs Failsafe used to play that she thought she could drum up a gig or two when she was ready. But she needed musicians to play for her and a vision for what her performance would be. From the start, she knew it would look and sound nothing like Failsafe. No dour, dark, brooding rock songs. She would be louder, faster, brighter. She’d embrace her pop music instincts and love of a good dance beat. She’d leave off the jeans and leather jackets she tended to wear when she fronted Failsafe and wear what she wanted—stuff that was fun and sexy. Things David would have hated. She wouldn’t stay rooted to the mic stand. She’d move, she’d flirt with the crowd, she’d
entertain
. She couldn’t wait. Now she just needed her chance.

She spent the next month working the club scene, showing up for the gigs of every band she knew, chatting up every contact she had. She passed around copies of her demo, trying to interest someone, anyone, in what she was trying to do. For the first time in her life, she was flying without a net. It was alternately thrilling and terrifying.

It was a Tuesday afternoon, dead quiet at the vintage store. There hadn’t been a customer in over an hour, so Justine was on her laptop, digging through another record label’s website, memorizing the names of the staff and the roster of artists. After all, information was power. Her cell rang, a number she didn’t know.

“Hello?”

“Justine?”

“Yes?”

“This is Jon Verlaine. We met when you were on the road with Outlaw Rovers?”

She blinked a few times as she tried to place him. Shaved head, funky glasses, blazer and a band t-shirt. Ahhh, right. The rest clicked into place quickly. “Oh. You signed Outlaw Rovers.”

“Yeah, I was their A&R rep.”

“You’re not now?”

There was an almost imperceptible pause on his end. “Several people at the label deal with the band now.”

“Oh, Dillon didn’t tell me that.”

Jon made a non-committal sound. “Just business. Hey, word has it you’ve left Failsafe.”

She chuckled. “Yep, that’s absolutely true.”

“And you’re going solo?”

“Well, I’m trying. Right now I’m selling second-hand clothes.”

“Justine, you know I thought a lot of your performances on the road. You were by far the best thing about Failsafe.”

“Thank you.”

“Dillon sent me those tracks he recorded for you and I liked them. I’ve been playing them for some people here at the label and we’d like to bring you in to talk about your future.”

Justine stopped breathing, just staring blankly at a rack of men’s seventies polyester shirts. Her ears were ringing and her mind raced. What did he mean, bring her in to talk about her future? Did that mean they wanted to sign her?
Her?

“You want me to come in?”

“We think you have a lot of promise and we’d like to see what we can make happen. Do you have any time to talk on Friday?”

Friday. Friday Friday Friday. She was having a hard time remembering her own name, never mind what she was doing on Friday. Screw it. Whatever she was doing could be canceled.

“Yes. Yes, Friday is fine. I can come on Friday. That would be… I can… yeah, Friday is good.”

Jon chuckled and she felt her nerves release a tiny bit. She remembered now how friendly he seemed when she met him on the road. “How about two?”

“Yes!” she said with way too much enthusiasm. “Two is great!”

Jon gave her the address, which she wrote down on the back of the receipt book with a shaking hand, before saying he couldn’t wait to see her again.

After she hung up, Justine planted her palms on the counter and closed her eyes, breathing deeply and trying to calm her racing pulse. Her next instinct was to call Emily, but she stopped, not wanting to say anything until she knew what there was to tell. Right now, she only had a meeting. Granted, it was a meeting with a record exec who’d openly admired her abilities, someone she trusted because Dillon trusted him….

Dillon.

Jon Verlaine was Dillon’s favorite contact at the label. Jon said Dillon sent him the demo.

Dillon was her first call.

“Hey, did you tell Jon Verlaine to call me?”

“Um… hey. What?” Dillon sounded confused, and maybe a little hung over.

“Jon Verlaine. He just called me and wants me to come in to talk to him. Did you put him up to it?”

“He did? Damn, that’s great, Justine.”

“Did you tell him to do it? I mean, yes it’s great, but I don’t want to be a charity case, Dillon—”

He chuckled. “Do you have any idea how these guys work? Yeah, Jon’s a pretty good guy, but the label is full of sharks and underneath it all, Jon’s one of them. Yes, I gave Jon a copy of your demo. And yes, I told him I think you’re amazing. But trust me when I say that they wouldn’t do anything just on the strength of my word. If Jon called you it means he played that demo for a lot of people and they all thought the same thing. That you’re great.”

“Really? You swear?”

“I wish I had that kind of pull, but yes, I swear. I can’t call in those kind of favors.”

She exhaled in relief. As the anxiety fled her body, the excitement flowed back in. In fact, she felt ready to burst from it.

“Oh, my God, Dillon. He called me. They want to meet with me.”

“Do I sound surprised? Because I’m not. I’ve been telling you that you’re brilliant. It was only a matter of time until other people figured it out.”

“I’m so nervous. What do I do? What do I say?”

“You just listen. Let them talk and see what you think. And Justine?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t sweat this. They want you. Remember that. And there’s a good reason for that.”

“Okay. Right.”

“One more thing.”

“Shoot.”

“I know I said I like Jon, and I do. He knows his stuff about music. But at the end of the day, he works for the label. It took me a while to figure that out.”

“What—”

“Never mind. Just remember this. If you need advice or an opinion from someone who only cares about you, you come to me. I’ll always be straight with you. No agenda.”

It was enough to melt her heart, if Dillon still had that kind of power over her. Which he didn’t. Mostly. “Got it. And Dillon?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

June, 2009

Justine.

She was singing. God, her voice.

Dillon groaned and rolled his face into the pillow. His room was flooded with late-afternoon light and it hurt his eyes for the millisecond they’d been open.

He could still hear Justine singing, but now he was awake enough to realize that it was just his phone, the custom ringtone of her singing repeating over and over. Reaching out blindly, he found his phone on top of his jeans, still in a pile on the floor next to the mattress, also on the floor. For the thousandth time, he told himself he really needed to get some furniture. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t afford it, at least for now.

“H’llo?’ he muttered.

“I know you’re in there. Come let me in.”

Justine herself, not just her tinny ringtone voice.

“Huh?”

“Your car is here so I know you’re home. I’ve been ringing the bell for ten minutes. Were you asleep?”

He rolled onto his back.
More like unconscious.
He couldn’t remember when he’d come home and passed out, but judging from the light, it was early afternoon, which meant he’d slept the day away. He hoped there wasn’t anything he was supposed to do today. When he swallowed, he tasted stale whiskey and it made his stomach roil. He felt covered in dried sweat and beer. Well, at least he was alone. Then he rolled his head to the side and cracked an eye open, just to be sure. Alone.

“Dillon, are you there?”

Justine sounded just as fresh and energetic as she always did. He didn’t really want her to see him like this, hung-over and disgusting.

“Dilllloooonnn.”

“Uh…” He cleared his throat until he could make an intelligible word. “Yeah, I’m here. Gimme a second. I’ll come let you in.”

“Okay. Hurry, I have news.”

She sounded so damned excited that he smiled in spite of everything. And he wanted to see her, even if he was in no shape for it. He always wanted to see her. Ending the call, he rolled out of bed and shrugged back into the jeans he found on the floor. He wasn’t sure when he’d first put them on. He made a minor effort at respectability by pulling a fresh t-shirt out of the drawer, but mostly because he couldn’t find the one he’d been wearing. It felt like something died in his mouth, so he swallowed a mouthful of mouthwash in the bathroom, figuring a little hit of alcohol couldn’t hurt, either.

Downstairs, he unlocked the door for her. The alarm wasn’t set. He must not have done it when he came in the night before. Or this morning. Whatever. He couldn’t remember getting home, so it hardly mattered.

Dillon might have felt like death warmed over, but when he opened the door, he found Justine there looking like the sun, the rain, and every fresh, beautiful thing in the world. She was beaming, her smile so bright and brilliant that it made his breath catch for a second. Her expression dimmed as soon as she locked eyes on him, though.

“Are you sick? You look like hell.”

“Why, thank you,” he grumbled, his voice still raspy with sleep and liquor. “Yeah, I’m not feeling so great.” The lie came easily, but people tended to go easier on you when they thought you were sick than if you told them you’d gotten falling-down drunk the night before.

“Sorry,” she said, her brow furrowed with concern. She reached out and laid the back of her hand on his forehead and he found himself closing his eyes at her touch. He’d always been aware of her. Justine was stunning. It was impossible not to notice that. And he’d always been wildly attracted to her. But for all those reasons that seemed so valid on the road, he’d never laid a hand on her that way. He mostly avoided even
thinking
of her like that. Her friendship was too important to screw up with something like drunken lust or a one-night stand.

But then came that night in his living room in January when she’d come over to vent about Failsafe, when she hugged him, and kissed his cheek. Then he kissed her cheek. Then he very nearly kissed
her
. It was perhaps the best or worst timing ever that a phone call kept him from doing it. So they were still okay, still friends, confidants, and sometimes musical collaborators. But all he could think about was kissing her.

When she came to him like this, overflowing with excitement and so beautiful he could barely stand to look at her, that moment plagued him. Her hair tumbling over his fingers and her skin, so warm and silky under his lips, were all he could think about. But he was right not to have done it, and not to do it now. If he didn’t have any business getting involved with her on tour, then he certainly had no business now. He just had to figure out how to stop thinking about it so much.

So he reached up and gently wrapped his hand around her wrist, moving her hand away from his forehead. “I’m fine.”

“You sure? You look kind of green.”

He was so hungover that he was about to throw up. “I’ll be okay. What’s your news?”

She lifted her free hand to show him the bottle of champagne she held. “I brought this to celebrate, but maybe you shouldn’t—”

He reached out and snagged it. Hair of the dog.