Always (13 page)

She’d only met him briefly once, when he came out to see the band early in the tour, but Dillon’s faith in him meant she already trusted him.

“Sorry, it’s always a mad house back here. It’s hard to place faces.”

He smiled, disarming and relaxed. “No problem. I know how it is. Hey, I caught the show tonight and you were great.”

She smiled and muttered a non-committal thanks, one she used by rote in all of these meaningless meetings. Everybody said you were brilliant. Few people actually meant it or even knew what they were talking about.

“Really,” he insisted. “I saw you when I came out at the beginning of the tour and then tonight. You’ve grown so much. Dillon told me so, and as usual, he’s dead right. This tour has been great for you as a performer.”

“Oh. Wow. Thank you.” Dillon had been talking about her? To the one person at his label he trusted? That insidious warmth was back, snaking through her heart.

“You’re welcome. So you’re only out here another week, huh?”

She nodded, hating the thought of the dwindling days. The Outlaw Rovers tour was booked for nine months but they’d only been contracted for the first five. In the end, the record company had re-taken some ground in the battle of the opening acts and gotten their own pick in for the second half.

“What’s next for your band?”

She inhaled deeply and forced an excited smile she didn’t feel. “Who knows? We’ll go back to LA. Hopefully the exposure out here will lead to some new opportunities. I guess we’ll see.”

“You guys working on a new album?”

Her eyes cut to the side, automatically looking for David, who thankfully seemed to have left. He’d probably blow a gasket if he caught her chatting to a label rep without him, no matter what the reason.

“We don’t have any solid plans yet. I guess we’ll get back home and just see what happens.” What she didn’t say was that she and David were barely speaking. After Dillon’s revelation, Justine could hardly look him in the eye and David’s jealousy had driven him even further away from the band. Most days she didn’t even see him until they showed up for sound check and then they said only what was necessary to get through the set.

Justine couldn’t imagine being in a studio, working up new songs, being creative together again. Right now, it seemed impossible. She could see the band falling apart completely without the discipline of the tour to hold them together. One more reason to want to stop time. The truth was, they had no plans and no plans to make plans. She swallowed down a flash of panic.

Jon’s eyes darted back and forth between hers for a second, like he was silently assessing her. Did Dillon tell him about the friction in her band? Maybe he was just being polite, humoring her, by asking about their plans.

“Hey, I need to go find something to drink. Are you okay here? Do you need anything?”

Jon waved her off with a good-natured smile. “I’m fine. Just waiting for the boys to surface.”

She laughed. “You might be waiting a while. It’s crazy back here tonight.”

He laughed, too. “I’m used to it. Take care, Justine. Maybe we’ll talk sometime.”

“Sure,” she shrugged, just to say something. “Look me up when you get to LA.”

She moved off into the crowd, forgetting all about the conversation as her worry about the future took over again.

While she’d been talking to Jon, David had surfaced, hugging the edge of the room, nursing a beer and trying hard to look like he wasn’t looking at anybody. But her new knowledge skittered down her spine, making her feel watched. His pointed lack of attention was like a weight pressing down on her shoulders.

In her back pocket, her phone vibrated and she grabbed for it, thankful for the distraction. She prayed it was Dillon. Maybe he was already back on the bus and looking for someone to hang out with. The name on the screen was a pleasant disappointment. Ian.

He’d been texting her steadily as she made her way across the country, attentive and interested, but never pressuring. Sometimes she texted back. Once, he called. When the band was headed to New York, he’d wanted to see her. Remembering his kisses and his warm hands, it didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Still, when he was sent out of town on assignment right before she got there, she hadn’t been all too unhappy about it. Besides, she’d gone with Dillon and Ash to an amazing show that night and she wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

She ran her thumb over his text.

How’s Houston?

He kept track of where she was on the road. That wasn’t insignificant. She just wished his actual text set off half the excitement in her chest as just the possibility of a text from Dillon had. Glancing up one more time to see if he’d finally wandered in, instead her eyes met David’s. Her stomach clenched with a whole new kind of anxiety. She felt sick with it, and sick of all these people and fake conversations and loud laughter.

Pushing through the crowd towards the door, she was determined to find Dillon. He might be just her friend, but he
was
her friend, dammit, and she needed one right now. She had a right to seek him out. If she was lucky, he was still sober enough to have a coherent conversation.

Rocky and JD were in the hall with a bunch of fans. Neither had seen Dillon. The big dressing room, the one assigned to Ash and Dillon, was right off the green room, and although there were a ton of people in there—a full-scale party of its own—none of them were Dillon.

She pressed on, peering into rooms further down the hall. Rocky and JD’s room had a couple in it making out. She backed out with her hands raised in front of her in apology, but neither noticed she was there. The room shared by David, Eddie and Paolo was likewise filled with a party for two. Rolling her eyes, she snapped the door shut behind her. Seemed everyone was scoring tonight but her.

She was exhausted, both physically and mentally. She was soul-sick. Screw this. She’d clear her stuff out of her tiny closet-sized dressing room and go crash on the bus. Maybe it would all look better in the morning. Maybe, in the morning, she’d call Ian back. Or maybe not.

Down the dark hall on the right was her room, the corner where they’d tucked the token girl. She pushed the door open and fumbled for the light. She blinked at what was illuminated. A girl was lying back on her table, eyes closed and shirt off. She was giggling as Ash bent over her, inhaling a trail of white powder in a line up to her breasts. Incongruously, Justine was pissed they’d moved her stuff.

But there was still worse. So much worse. In the chair in the corner, Dillon had a different girl in his lap, straddling him. Her shirt was off, too. She was trying to light a joint and laughing. His face was pressed to her chest in its magenta lace bra. His eyes were closed.

Justine wished she had a snappy insult, a biting quip. Instead, she just stood in the doorway, watching as one by one they registered her presence.

“This is my room,” she finally said. That was all the brilliance she could manage.

Countertop Girl turned her head. “Ooops, sorry. We’re almost done with it.”

Ash looked back over his shoulder and for perhaps the first time ever, he looked a little ashamed.

“Justine—”

Her eyes skittered away from the two of them and back to Dillon. Slowly, his eyes came open and then widened with shock. He was pale and sickly looking, his eyes wild with whatever he was on.

“This is my room,” she repeated.

Dillon pushed at the girl’s hips, trying to get out from under her. She squealed in dismay. “Hey, we were going to party.”

Finally, her blood started flowing again and her brain started working. And she was just done.

She looked back to Ash. “You moved my stuff, asshole.”

Then she turned on her heel and left, striding down the hallway and back towards the green room. She heard shouts and voices behind her but she didn’t stop.

“Justine.” Dillon’s voice sounded raw behind her.

She spun around to face him, livid with anger and humiliation, ready to let him have it, ready to unleash all her disappointment and hurt, but the ragged look on his face killed the words in her throat. Yelling wouldn’t change anything anyway.

“You know what, Dillon? It’s none of my business. Really.”

He shoved both hands into his hair and fisted, squeezing his eyes shut. “Fuck.”

“Yeah, you should get back to that,” she snapped. “She’s probably waiting.”

“It’s not like that. I mean, it is, but I’m not—”

“I just said its none of my business,” she cut him off with a shout. A few people nearby turned to look.

“No, you’re right to be pissed. We were out of line using your room.”

She wanted to cry. The tears welled up so fast in her throat that it hurt. She could barely breathe for it. She swallowed them back, because there was no way she would cry in front of him. “Jesus, it’s not the room, Dillon. It’s you. Why the hell do you do this? Why do you…
waste
yourself like this?”

On someone else.

She didn’t say it out loud, but her face showed it plainly. It was as close as she’d ever come to confessing to him—asking him to choose her. She still wouldn’t do it, she had too much pride. But he had to know she wanted him to. His face told her he did.

“Justine, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m not better. More.”

“I just need you to be
you
, not
this
. I don’t know this guy.”

He took a stumbling step towards her and reached out, grabbing her face with both hands. She was so startled, she took a step back, but his grip stopped her retreat. His eyes, red-rimmed with pinprick pupils, were frantic. “No. You know me better than anyone. You know the best part of me. You…”

He leaned closer, so close she could feel the heat from his body. His fingers curled in, she could feel them pressing into the back of her neck, tangling in her hair. It set all her nerves on fire. She was suddenly, painfully aware of him and his overwhelming physical presence, the part of him she worked so hard at ignoring.

“You,” he whispered, pulling her even closer. Her eyes darted to his mouth without her wanting them to, but he was
right there
. So close. She could still smell the liquor and weed on him. She could see the coke in his eyes. And she could almost see the fingerprints of that girl all over him. His mouth, so close to kissing hers, had just been on that girl. She’d never want something so cheaply given. Besides, he probably wouldn’t even remember this tomorrow.

At the last second, when his face was just inches from hers, she turned her head to the side and closed her eyes.

“No, Dillon, stop.”

“Really?”

She reached up, her hands dying to curl into his shirt and pull him in, to close the distance left and never let him go. Instead, she flattened her palms on his chest and shoved. He let her go and stumbled back.

“Really.”

She couldn’t look at him anymore, so she closed her eyes and turned away, leaving him to do whatever he wanted. Her days of standing by to witness it were done. She felt him behind her, watching her walk away. She didn’t look back.

The elevator dinged when the doors opened and Justine flinched at the noise and the light. She stepped out and stopped to stare at herself in the mirror on the lobby wall. Her skin was ghastly. Her hair was scraped back into a messy ponytail. She’d wrapped herself in her favorite ratty, oversized hoodie— the one she’d stolen from Dillon ten cities ago— and her whole body was lost in faded black cotton. She couldn’t see her eyes behind her dark glasses, but she knew for a fact they were blood-shot and puffy.

It had been a long night. Too much whiskey and too many tears. She rarely indulged in so much of either one, but after that awful scene backstage with Dillon, she told herself she deserved to wallow in self-pity for one night. The problem was always the morning, when nothing was any different and all she felt was worse.

Sighing, she pushed her glasses up on her head and swiped her fingers under her eyes. It didn’t help. The bus was leaving in an hour, which meant she was ridiculously early, so she turned into the hotel coffee shop. Caffeine couldn’t hurt. She’d need something to fortify herself before she had to face Dillon again.

Fifteen minutes later, she was sipping her coffee, hands curled around the warmth of the cup, when she felt someone slide onto the stool next to her. Turning her head, she found Ash, head propped up on his fist as he smiled weakly at her. He was wearing his clothes from the show the night before and if it was possible, he looked worse than she felt.

Out of patience, Justine snorted in disgust and turned back to the front.

“Rough night?” he quipped, his ragged voice giving him away. He might be pretending to be his usual louche self, but he was a wreck.

“Not as bad as yours, apparently,” she snarled, tired of pretending to be cool with his recklessness.

“Mine was pretty awesome, actually.”

“Yeah, I saw, remember? The chick laying on my dressing table while you snorted coke off her chest?”

Ash shifted uncomfortably on his stool. “Yeah… uh, sorry about that.”

She waved her hand to brush him off. “Save it. I’m tired, Ash. Of all of this.”

“You’re mad.”

She swiveled to give him a disbelieving look. “You think? I just don’t get the two of you. Why do you need to be partners in self-destruction like this?”

She turned away, not really expecting him to answer. Ash sat quietly at her side, clearly thinking about something while she sipped her coffee and ignored him. When he finally spoke again, his voice was different, lower, with no laughter at the edges. The voice she thought of as “Real Ash.”

“Did Dillon ever tell you how we met?”

She shook her head. “He just said you guys knew each other as kids.”

He nodded slowly. “Since we were twelve. My mom, she was a model. You’ve probably seen her picture on old ads for designer jeans from the eighties. And perfume. And cars. She was big for a while.”

Justine set down her cup, but said nothing, waiting for Ash to spin out his story.

“She quit when she met my dad. He’s a film maker.” Ash rolled his eyes when he said that part, passing judgment on his father with a single dismissive gesture. “Things were good when I was a kid. He made a lot of commercials, one or two small films. My mom didn’t work, she stayed home with me. We lived in the Hollywood Hills with a lot of other industry kids. We were all so full of ourselves. We were going to inherit the world, you know? Or at least California.”