Always (26 page)

He went to more sessions with Keith than was strictly necessary, and he went for hikes when Keith was too busy for him. Perhaps the most surprising thing about his post-Outlaw Rovers days was how very alone he was. While the band was flying high, there had always been people around. Record execs and the people who ran the band, managers, and road crew and back-up musicians and endless extras and hangers-on. They’d all seemed like friends. They were all gone now.

He got the occasional call from Rocky or JD. Rocky was already in a new band, a metal outfit out of San Diego. JD was picking up work as a session musician. And of course, Justine. Justine was always there, despite everything.

Her marriage to Ian was still a raw wound. If he thought about it too much, he could barely breath. It still felt slightly unreal, since he had yet to actually see them together. They’d been back in LA for a month and Justine had been in the studio hard at work on her new album for most of the time. She called and they talked, usually about music and the songs they’d written together, but he hadn’t seen her, and certainly not with Ian. Truthfully, he hadn’t pushed to see her, knowing he’d have to face him, too.

He made it through most days pretending he was okay with it. He didn’t have much choice. She was married, and having a baby. That door was closed for good. She said she’d gotten over him, but he didn’t know how, now when it was his turn to do it. His feelings for her were too tied up in their friendship, bound together with years of loyalty. It was like what Keith had said about Ash. He wouldn’t get over it, so he’d have to learn how to live with the burden.

As he came back in the front door from picking up the newspaper and the mail, his cell rang on the counter. He answered, juggling the phone and an armful of mail. Fucking financial advisement statements were so damned thick.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

Dillon paused, shoving the phone under his chin to free his hands. “Justine? Um, I’m opening the mail.”

“Any good news?” Justine asked, although she didn't really sound interested.

Dillon let out a low huff of laughter. “I'm unemployed, so it’s rarely good.”

“See, and that’s
just
why I'm calling you. Get your ass over to my house.”

“What? Why?”

“I want you to produce my album. And since I've been in the studio for nearly a month already, time’s a-wasting. Move it.”

Dillon closed his eyes and exhaled, trying to focus.

“Justine, what are you talking about?”

She sighed. “You. Me. Record. Produce. What's the problem? You got too many other things going on?”

“You know I don’t.”

“So? Co-ome,” she sing-songed.

“You have a producer.”

“Ugh. You know the label picked him. And you know I haven’t been happy.”

That was true. Most of their conversations had revolved around her struggles with her producer, and her dissatisfaction with the way the songs were turning out.

“He’s a moron, Dillon. He’s never going to get this right.”

“Why me?”

“Well, for the past month, every time I butted heads with the Great Moron, I kept thinking ‘It should sound like the thing Dillon did’ or ‘Why can't he get that effect Dillon had?’ or ‘Why doesn’t he understand what this song is about like Dillon does?’ So I figured it was time to cut to the chase and get you to do it.”

“I'm not a producer.”

“You don't know how to work a mixing board? Will you need a remedial class or something?”

He huffed in exasperation. “You know that's not what I meant.”

“I know you did all the heavy lifting on your albums. I know they sounded the way they did because of you. I want your sound. I want you.”

“Your label will never go for it.”

“Already taken care of.”

“How?”

“I pitched the first truly epic diva fit of my career. It was awesome. You should have seen it. I made a guy cry. I'm unhappy, they're freaked out. No one wants to mess with the hormonal, pregnant rock star.”

“So you got your way, huh?”

“It wasn’t quite that easy. You should know, Jon went to bat for you.”

“Jon Verlaine?”

“Yep. When I said I knew you could do it, he backed me up. I think it’s what made the label finally back down. Now I get what I want, and that's you. So get down here. We have a ton of work to do.”

Dillon was silent for a long time. “I don't want to be your charity case, Justine.”

“Jesus, Dillon, after all we've been through, you think that's what this is about? You know— you
know—
how I feel about these songs. Because it’s how you feel. I wouldn’t mess with that to do somebody a favor. Even you. I
need
you to do this with me. Will you?”

He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his eyes. He was too overwhelmed to know what he wanted. Terrified. Nervous. Afraid of failing. Afraid of proving himself to be a fraud. And also, undeniably, a little excited. More than a little. The whole time he’d worked up those songs with Justine, he felt only partially satisfied. He’d heard promise in every one, but he didn’t trust someone else would see the potential for greatness or know how to make it happen. He wasn’t entirely sure he could either, but he really wanted to try.

In the end, the excitement won out.

“I can be there in an hour.”

New Year’s Eve, 2011

Dillon stayed in his car for nearly fifteen minutes, gearing himself up for what he was about to do. He’d been over it ad nauseum with Keith, how he’d handle things, what he’d do, what he wouldn’t do. He was very clear on all of it. But there was nothing he could do about the emotions. Those were his to confront on his own.

Justine had invited the team working on her album to spend New Year’s Eve with her and Ian. Her house was lit up, every window glowing brightly. The outside was still liberally draped with multi-colored Christmas lights. He smiled faintly as he made his way up the walk, past the plastic reindeer marching across the lawn. Who knew Justine was a sentimental sap for Christmas?

A giant wreath decorated the door. He had to reach through the center to find the knocker, although of course she must know it was him since he’d had to be buzzed in at the gate. There was a security guard on duty down there with a guest list on a clipboard. Another one in a dark suit answered the door. Dillon recognized Art from work. He was Justine’s regular guy and was often hanging around the house. He shook Dillon’s hand with a smile and waved him in.

A moment later, a server dressed all in black approached him with a smile. “Can I take your coat for you, sir?”

Dillon smirked in amusement, but dutifully shrugged out of his worn leather jacket and handed it over. The server looked as if she was just as comfortable handling his decades-old motorcycle jacket as she was with cashmere and fur.

“The guests are this way—” she began, but Justine cut her off.

“Dillon?”

She rounded the corner, absolutely stunning in a green satin dress. Her dark hair had been curled and fell in long tousled waves down her back. She finally looked pregnant, her stomach swelling against her dress. The rest of her was a little more lush and rounded than usual and she had a glorious flush to her skin. She took his breath away.

“I figured you and I could split this one.” He raised a bottle of sparkling cider and she laughed.

“Sounds good.”

When she reached him, she hugged him and kissed his cheek. The moment in the spring when he’d kissed her hadn’t killed the easy intimacy between them the way he’d feared it might. She was gone for a while shortly after it happened, and all they did was talk on the phone, which helped ease any potential awkwardness. By the time they saw each other again regularly, it had been months and she was married. Ian changed everything. Dillon had been working in the studio in her house for several weeks now and he was always around. He managed to show up in the studio often, so Dillon never had a moment to forget he existed. He told himself all the time it was probably for the best even though he rarely believed it.

“You look beautiful,” he said, careful to keep his voice even and his eyes on her face.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m swelling everywhere, but thank you. Come on back.”

Everyone else was there already. Not surprising after his fifteen-minute panic attack in the car. His eyes skimmed the room automatically for Ian. When he’d finally met Ian again last month— as Justine’s husband— he’d been surprised at how much the guy had changed. His memories from back then were pretty hazy, but he’d been picturing a scruffy blond unassuming English guy. All that was gone now. He was sharply dressed, even hanging around the house. Tonight, he was in a dark suit and tie, the only guy in the room full of rockers who was. The guy who’d interviewed him years ago had been easy-going and casual. Now Ian was driven, intellectual and ambitious. He had to admit, Ian cut an impressive figure. He looked at home and at ease in Justine’s huge stylish house.

When Ian saw Justine and Dillon enter the room, he detached himself from his conversation with a word and a smooth smile before crossing the room to greet them. He slid an arm around Justine’s waist and leaned down to kiss her cheek. It set off a burn of jealousy square in Dillon’s chest he hated to acknowledge. Even worse were the memories suddenly crowding his brain, memories of his time with Justine on tour. Except not with Justine. Never with Justine. She was always there, feeling about him the way he now knew she did, and what was he doing? Getting a blow job from one of a million groupies he could no longer remember. What a fucking waste. And what a crime. How much must it have hurt her? How did she ever get past it and forgive him? He was sick with guilt thinking about it, but denying it would have been worse.
Quit lying to yourself.

“Dillon , thanks for coming tonight. ” Ian said, holding a hand out to him.

“Thanks for having me,” Dillon answered, gripping firmly and shaking decisively. He’d save the shame spiral for Keith. It wasn’t helpful tonight, especially when he needed to keep his head on straight.

“Well, I know how important you are to Justine.”

If he wasn’t crazy, there was something slightly icy in Ian’s tone, and there was certainly a glint in his eye which had nothing to do with friendship. Of course, it instantly put Dillon on the defensive. Usually, he tacitly avoided Ian. They certainly never hung out and socialized together. Dillon had no desire to.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Dillon said, forcing a casual smile. “She’s important to me, too.”

“Well, just remember, tonight’s for celebrating. No stealing my wife away for work.” Ian said it with a smile, but now there was a definite edge to his voice.

Justine glanced back and forth between them. “Okay, I’m going to go open this. Dillon, you want a glass?”

“I’ll help you,” Dillon said quickly, not looking away from Ian. Ian held his gaze for another moment before his face relaxed into a smile like the weirdness had never happened.

He followed Justine when she turned towards the kitchen.

“The place looks great.”

“Thanks. I love Christmas.” She flashed an excited smile over her shoulder.

“I can tell.”

She peeled the foil off the bottle of sparkling cider and wrapped a dishtowel over it. “You’d better stand back and let me handle this,” she said with a smirk. “I recall you couldn’t manage it last time.”

“Hey, you can’t judge me for stuff I couldn’t manage when I was hung-over. Or still drunk.”

She laughed as the cork released with a pop. After pouring two flutes of sparkling cider, she raised hers to Dillon. “To the new year and new beginnings.”

“New beginnings.”

“We have a lot of them, huh? And for once, they’re mostly good.”

Dillon watched her for a beat before raising his glass and taking a sip. “Mostly good,” he agreed.

Justine was called away to talk to the servers, so Dillon wandered off to hang with the session musicians for the album. They were a pretty good group of guys and it was fun to hang out with them outside the studio. It was his first real social event with alcohol present since he’d gotten sober. Justine had asked him well ahead of time how he felt about it, and after a session with Keith, he felt okay. After all, musicians were a hard-drinking bunch. If he was going to keep working in this industry, he was going to have to get comfortable being around alcohol without actually drinking it.

He couldn’t lie—he missed the feeling of a beer in his hand. He missed the social crutch and the way it would rub the hard edges off everything around him. His glass of sparkling cider would never scratch the itch. But like Keith told him all the time, no hiding from the truth, whatever you use to do it.

The thought sent his gaze seeking out Justine across the room, his hardest truth. She and Ian were talking to a couple of Ian’s reporter friends and she was looking a little bored. When the two reporters left to refill drinks, he made his way over to them.

“Great party,” he told them.

“Thanks,” Ian said, sounding like he actually meant it. If he was being honest with himself, which was the watchword of the day, he didn’t really like Ian. He’d tried for Justine’s sake, but it wasn’t happening. But Justine liked him. She loved him. He was in her life in a huge and permanent way, which meant he’d be in Dillon’s, too. So he kept making the effort to deal with him.

“How’s the writing going, Ian?”

“Very well, actually. I have a piece on Salon this week on political activism in rock. It’s quite exciting.”

“I didn’t know you wrote that kind of stuff.”

“He doesn’t, usually,” Justine chimed in. She ran a hand down Ian’s arm with an easy familiarity. “This is special.”

“And only the start, I hope. I’m working some contacts and I hope to do a profile on Senator Chambers from Wisconsin.”

“Politics?”

Ian smiled easily. “You can’t do rock and roll forever.”

Dillon raised an eyebrow in response, since he was fully intending to do just that, and so was Ian’s wife. “Seems like you’re in a perfect situation to do rock and roll forever,” Dillon observed, throwing a smile at Justine.