Authors: Amanda Weaver
“I can manage. Come on in.”
She followed him into the kitchen where he set about finding glasses. After a minute of fruitless searching, he remembered he didn’t have any glasses. Justine didn’t blink when he slid two coffee mugs towards her.
“I’ve never opened one of these before,” He muttered, attempting to twist the bulbous cork out.
“Here, gimme.” She took it from him and stuck it up under her shirt. He tried and failed to keep his eyes away from her bare midriff as she worked the cork out with the hem of her shirt wrapped around it. It released with a muffled pop and a tiny spray of champagne hit her stomach. She shrieked and then laughed, swiping it away with her fingers. “That’s cold!” she said, smiling at him as she raised her fingers to her mouth to suck off the champagne. Dillon nearly groaned out loud and positioned himself behind the kitchen counter to hide what it did to him.
“So,” he said, his voice low and raspy. “What’s the occasion?”
She poured the champagne and handed him a mug. Raising her own with a flourish, she said, “I signed with Nightfall today.”
His eyes widened in surprise, although he wasn’t sure why. He knew this was coming. They’d been talking to her for the better part of a month hammering out details. It was inevitable. “Wow! Congratulations.”
He moved forward to hug her and she bounced off her barstool and into his arms. It wasn’t helping with his need to touch her, but he forced those thoughts away. There was no place for that now. This moment was all about her and he was proud of her. He wrapped his arms around her—Justine, his best friend— and held her tight, happy just for her happiness.
“It wouldn’t have happened without you, Dillon.”
“Sure it would have.” He released her and leaned back on the counter. “It just would have taken a little longer, but it still would have happened.”
She nudged his foot with her hers. “My biggest fan.”
He smiled. “Always.”
“So are you going to let me record those songs you wrote for me? And write me a whole bunch more?”
He gave a little huff of laughter and shook his head. “I got no other use for them these days.”
Instantly, her news was forgotten and her expression sobered. “What’s that mean?”
He shrugged. “Nothing. Never mind. This is your day.”
“No, it’s not nothing. I told you all my news already. Now it’s your turn. What’s going on?”
He dug the heels of his palms into his burning eyes. “Nothing. Just… the album isn’t doing well.”
“It’s only been out for a few weeks—”
“A month and a half. The single hasn’t done a thing.”
“But it was getting airplay—”
“Because of some promotional tie-in stuff the label set up. Once that was done, it died. And honestly? I’m not surprised. Ash is barely coherent on those songs.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” Justine murmured, which he knew meant it was exactly that bad. “When does the next single get released?”
He sighed. “It’s supposed to be next month, but the label won’t promote it if they don’t think it will make money. Or they’ll take it out of our returns and we’ll end up owing them money for releasing our single. Jesus, this shit is so complicated. I have no idea what we’re supposed to do.”
“What do the guys say?”
“JD and Rocky know less about the business stuff than I do.”
“And Ash?”
He let out a humorless laugh. “Ash. What does Ash say about anything if it doesn’t come in a needle?’
Justine sat back, eyes wide. “Are you serious?”
Dillon looked up at her, his eyes wary and uncertain. “I think so. He’s not telling me anything. Can you believe this shit? Ash, not telling me what’s going on. Once, I could read his mind.”
“You think it’s heroin? Jesus, Dillon…”
He groaned. “I know. I know.”
“You gotta stop him.”
He laughed. “Stop Ash? When does anybody keep Ash from doing exactly what he wants to do?”
“Dammit,” Justine cursed under her breath. “I love Ash, I do. But sometimes… sometimes I hate him, too.”
Dillon sighed and reached for her hand absently. He felt better when he was touching her, grounded, less alone, even though he couldn’t ask her to fix this for him. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but me too.”
“What are you going to do?”
He shrugged. “In a way, there’s not much we can do. Stuff is already in the works. Tickets are already on sale for the tour next month. We have to go.”
“He’s going to fall apart on tour, Dillon. You know what it’s like out there.”
He rubbed a hand over his chest to ease the anxiety, He desperately wanted a drink.
“I know that,” he acknowledged. But they had to tour. These days, all the money was in touring. It was their only hope of recouping the album losses.
She reached for his free hand, gripping his in hers. Her face was earnest, so concerned, and so, so lovely. “I’m here for you. Just tell me if you need me.”
He smiled down at her. “You’re going to have your hands full, superstar girl.”
“I’ll always have time for you. I promise.”
February 2010
Dillon’s first thought when he woke up was that he was still drunk, because the world was tilting under him. He groaned and reached out to grab the edges of the bed. The world continued to rock and he realized he was on the bus. Not that he could remember getting on the bus or falling asleep, or much else about the night before. His head was pounding and nausea threatened every time he swallowed.
He was sick of himself, sick of waking up feeling this way, and sick of the mess his life had become. The album was a bomb, the tour was selling badly, and his best friend was a junkie who refused to get help. If he thought about it too much he panicked, unless he was drinking or stoned. So he got drunk and stoned. A lot.
The bus lurched and so did his stomach. Scrambling out of bed, he barely made it to the tiny bathroom before everything from the night before came up in a rush. Five minutes later, he sat slumped on the floor, clammy and grey, empty but feeling no better. Even though the alcohol was leaving his system, anxiety came rushing in on its heels. All he wanted was another drink.
Fifteen minutes later, he’d splashed water on his face and rinsed out his mouth. He was feeling marginally closer to human. When he staggered out to the front of the bus, he found Rocky there, feet up on the table, watching TV. He turned his head slightly and cocked an eyebrow.
“You’re alive.”
“Barely.”
“I kicked Ash and it seems like he is, too.”
“That’s good news.”
“Last night, I wasn’t too sure. It was a close thing.”
“Isn’t it always?”
Rocky exhaled hard. “Look.”
Inwardly, Dillon groaned, knowing a heart-to-heart was coming and feeling completely ill-equipped to face it. Still, Rocky deserved his say, so Dillon stood still and took it.
“I’m hardly one to judge. I’ve been in bands since I was thirteen and in my day, I’ve gotten in a shit-load of trouble. I still get into plenty. Everybody deals with shit in their own way. But Ash—”
“I know.”
“He’s on the edge, man.”
“Rocky, I know.”
Rocky turned to face him, his worry evident in his face. “Can’t you get through to him?”
“You were there in Detroit. I talked to him. You were there in Phoenix when we
all
talked to him. He doesn’t want to hear it. It’s not like I can tie him up and cart him off to rehab. We’re booked on the road for three more months and the album is doing bad enough already. The best we can hope for is to finish the tour and recoup the losses, if we can.”
“If he lives.”
“I’m watching him. I won’t let it happen.”
Rocky looked him up and down—his wrecked hair, his grey skin, his bloodshot eyes, his three-day-old clothes—and shook his head. “And who’s watching you, Dillon?”
“I’ll worry about me.”
“If you say so.” Then Rocky tossed his folded up magazine at him. It hit Dillon in the chest before he caught it. “You should call Justine. Her first single just hit number one.”
Justine had a number one single? When the hell did that happen? It seemed like it was just last week when Justine had called him from her record release party, buzzed on champagne and euphoric with excitement. He reached back in his memory and realized it had been the beginning of December, the same week he’d first confronted Ash about the drugs. It was February now. Had he talked to her in all that time? He must have. Even if he’d been stupid enough to forget to call her, she would have called him. Wouldn’t she? He must have been too drunk to remember talking to her. More things to feel shitty about.
He glanced down at the Billboard Rocky had thrown at him, folded back to the top 100 chart.
“Chase Me”- Justine James
. He’d written that song for her. He felt a peculiar mix of pride and pain at the sight.
“I’m proud of her,” Rocky said, eyes back on the TV.
“I am, too,” he replied, turning back towards the bunks.
When he was back in bed, staring at the bunk above, only two feet from his face, he pulled out his phone and called her. She answered on the fourth ring.
“Dillon?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Seems I owe you a congratulation.”
“You heard? I’m sorry I haven’t called. Everything’s been so crazy.” She sounded breathless and thrilled, bursting with excitement.
Guess he wasn’t the only one to forget. That bothered him more than it should.
“No, I should have called you. It’s just been… well, you know how it gets out here.”
She paused, a tense silence stretching out for a moment too long. “Yeah, I know how it gets.”
“So,” he said, forcing a lightness into his voice he didn’t feel. “Number one, huh? Right out of the gate. I should have known you’d set the world on fire.”
“It’s your song.”
“It’s nothing without you singing it.”
“My biggest fan,” she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice.
“Always. Now tell me what’s been going on in your life.”
She blew out a breath. “What hasn’t been going on? Seriously, everything just sort of blew up right before Christmas when the single charted and I haven’t stopped since then. There are all these interviews and appearances. I was on SNL! We had to shoot the video for the second single last week because the tour is coming up so fast. I told you I’m going on tour, right? With three other people. That girl from The Voice, this other girl, and a boy band. The Summer Heatwave Tour. I know, ridiculous name, right? Anyway, there’s so much to do for that. Rehearsals and wardrobe and merchandising. You should see my clothes. They hired this stylist and she’s amazing. She brings in all these great clothes for me. It’s so much fun. And then….” She paused and chuckled. “Sorry. I clearly have a lot to say.”
“Don’t apologize. I want to hear every bit of it.”
“In a minute. How are you?”
He sighed and scrubbed his hand across his face. “Fine.”
“And Ash?”
He paused. “Fine.”
“Mm-hmm. How much longer are you on the road?”
“Three months.”
“Be careful?”
“Always,” he lied.
Never. I’m walking along the edge of a cliff and about to fall over.
“Now, tell me about your tour. Who’s playing for you? Who’s your lead guitar?”
“This guy, Smith Walton. Jon found him.”
Dillon grimaced.
“That
guy?”
“What? Does he suck?”
“No, he’s a decent player, just a douche. He’s going to make a pass at you at some point so watch out.”
She snorted. “I think I can handle that.”
“You can, huh?”
“It’s happened once or twice. Or a dozen times. I can handle horny guys.”
Dillon went still, imagining her out there on the road with all of those guys that weren’t Failsafe or Outlaw Rovers, guys who would want her, guys who would try to win her. An unfamiliar sensation flooded his chest and it took him several beats to recognize what it was. Jealousy. He hated every guy who existed in her orbit. And considering the way her career had just taken off, there must be hundreds of them.
Suddenly the distance between them felt like far more than physical. She was on a whole new trajectory and it was carrying her away from him. He thought back to last year, when she’d been right here on the bus with him, day in and day out. How did he spend so many months with her and never reach out and grab her? It would have been so easy then. They were friends and it would have been the smallest step in the world to make it more. He’d wanted to. He was fairly sure she’d wanted to. And still, he never had. He’d had his reasons for not doing it, good reasons that were still valid. But now that he was on the verge of losing her, they all seemed secondary. She could have been his and he was too stupid and stubborn to take the chance. It was starting to feel like the worst mistake he’d ever made.
“Hey,” she murmured, interrupting his litany of self-abuse. “Where’d you go?”
“Nothing. Sorry. So you have Smith the Douche to put up with. Who else?”
She laughed and for the next few minutes, the conversation was easy. She told him all the particulars of her touring band and he gave her his thoughts on anyone he knew. Throughout the conversation, he heard voices behind her, people coming and going around her. Once or twice someone spoke to her and she had to lean away from the phone to answer.
“Do you need to go?”
“No, I’m good. I’m doing wardrobe fittings today, but I told them this was important.”
“I’m flattered, Ms. Rock Star.”
She laughed. “You are, you know.”
“What?”
“Important. To me.”
Again, a flood of unfamiliar emotions, these distinctly warmer and more pleasant than jealousy.
“Same,” he murmured quietly. Then he cleared his throat. “Hey, email me your itinerary. Maybe we can find a time to come and see you.”
“I will. I’d like that. I’m nervous about doing this on my own. I wish I had a friendly face out there.”
“Call me whenever you need to.”
“Uh-oh. They’re really glaring at me now. I think I have to go.”
“Sure thing. I’ll call you soon?”
“I’m counting on it, Dillon.”