by Erin Hahn
She pulls out a bottle, and I hear pills rattling inside. She holds it up, crossing the room toward me.
“I’m not sick.”
“And these aren’t medicinal. Physically you might be fine, but even you have to admit you’re a bit of a mess. Your brand is fun, Clay. Careless, immature, drunken, reckless fun. So get your act together and show the label you’re still plenty capable of providing what they pay you for: butts in the seats with full cups and high social media presence. Save yourself.”
I shake my head, anger surging, smacking the pills out of her hand with a clatter. They smack against the far wall and fall uselessly on the floor. “I don’t want your drugs.”
She laughs at me, shaking her head, her dark hair swirling behind her shoulders. Lifting her purse strap higher on her arm and turning for the door, she says, “Jesus, Clay, it’s not heroin. They’re just some pills. They’ll loosen you up a little. I’m trying to help. Get your shit together, or you’re going to throw it all away.”
The door closes behind her with a slam, and after a minute, I walk over to where the bottle is sitting on the floor. I don’t pick it up, instead tapping it with my foot like it’s a yappy dog or a poisonous snake. I should throw it away, and I’m just about indignant enough to do it. Toss the bottle and return to my old-school hills song. To my grandfather’s woodshop. To my roots.
It’s not the first time someone’s tried to give me drugs. I’ve been around for about a year and have had plenty of offers from industry insiders. Uppers to keep you peppy onstage, downers to help you sleep when you’re too exhausted. It’s the first time Lora has given me something, though. The cynical part of me wonders who put her up to it. Stanton at Southern Belle? Is this some attempt at sabotage? Or was it Trina? Someone on my side, looking to save their career? I know Fitz wouldn’t stoop that low, but he’s pretty much as far as my trust extends.
I’ve never taken them. Always thrown them away without a second thought.
Someone should care about you, she’d said. Like I’m an orphan lost on the streets. Like someone needs to take responsibility for my care. Like I can’t do anything for myself. Same shit, different day. Someone always trying to run my life. I pick up the pills, and this time I don’t throw them away.
21
Clay
sunday, july 28
cleveland, ohio
The pills haunt me. I know they’re safe in my room, and logically I know that days ago I didn’t need or want them—that I’ve never wanted them. That my brother would kick my ass if he (were alive, of course, and) knew I didn’t throw them away the second I got them. That my grandfather would blister my backside. I promise myself I’ll flush them when I get back. I wish I could flush them now. I wish I had made Lora take them with her when she left.
I don’t want them.
But I can’t stop thinking about them. I feel like hell. I don’t remember not feeling like hell. I’m wrung out and dried up and tired. So tired. Everything hurts. My hangover is permanent these days.
Annie’s been avoiding me since Indiana.
Lora left town.
My brother is dead. My grandfather is dead. My mother is dead.
Everyone leaves me in the end.
What if the pills do make me feel different? Better? Up to this point, drugs felt … I don’t know … too much. Too far. They crossed a line I haven’t been willing to cross. But Christ knows the booze doesn’t do anything anymore. I’m reminded of Annie that night a month ago in my hotel room. “I can still see them,” she said. “It’s not working.”
It’s not working.
Thinking of Annie fills me with an irrational anger. Lora’s reminder that Annie is eclipsing me was unnecessary. It’s not like I haven’t spent the summer with her. I’d have to be blind and stupid to not have seen what was happening. To be honest, I’ve been expecting it since I was recruited to get her signature all those months ago in Michigan.
But I still don’t have a contract, and Willows definitely went missing for a few hours two mornings ago. Fitz wouldn’t tell Trina where they were, which in and of itself was a shining, blinking fuck you to our blond road manager. She’s back to sneaking cigarettes and glaring at everyone.
I didn’t ask. Lora wouldn’t lie to me about Southern Belle homing in on Willows. The question is what I’m going to do about it. If Annie goes with Southern Belle, my label may never forgive me my transgressions. Suddenly, I’m back on the Ferris wheel feeling inadequate in the face of Annie’s drive and passion for music. These days, I’m finding it difficult to muster up much of anything.
I’m senseless and bored and, to be honest, pretty blitzed. The goddamn pills burn a hole in my conscience. Lora’s condescension recycles round and round in my brain. Annie’s unassuming talent. And grace. And beauty. And everything about her is irritating me right now because I’m not good enough for any of it. I thought I could be Jefferson, but Jefferson doesn’t get record deals.
And it shouldn’t matter. We weren’t anything more than kissing on a beach. I got more action from Lora this summer.
But somehow, it does matter, and fuck if I know why.
When we invite Willows onstage to perform with us, I go off script. I don’t bother checking in with Fitz. I already know how he’s going to react. He’s soft over Kacey and thinks I’m a better person than I am. He’s hopeful I’m taking after Danny. That my demons are a phase I’m about to conquer.
They aren’t, and I’m not. Not tonight anyway.
“We’ve got the lovely ladies from Under the Willows here tonight.” I laugh. “And Jason. I guess he’s good-looking if you like drummers.” A few cheers erupt, and Jason narrows his eyes at me. “I’m sure you’ve all realized by now just how talented Ms. Mathers is, but did you know she could shake it, too? Come on, Annie. Turn around and give the crowd a little shake.”
Annie’s chin juts so quickly, her bemused brown eyes jumping to mine, that her hair yanks out of its clasp. Kacey freezes next to her. Fitz grabs a mic. “Aw, Clay. Let’s just get to the song.”
“We will, we will,” I reassure him, proud my words sound crisp, not slurred. “Come on, Annie. Have some fun with us.”
Annie recovers herself and pastes a good effort at a smile on her face. “Oh, I don’t think so. These folks are here to see Clay Coolidge shake it. I’m just here to sing.” She turns to me, her eyes steely as a knife’s edge, her tone cool. “So let’s sing.”
Fitz starts to count us off for “Some Guys Do” as previously discussed, but I cut in with my guitar. “We’re gonna sing one of my favorites from my debut. Is that all right?”
The crowd cheers as the opening chords start. Annie grimaces and leans in. “What the hell, Jefferson? I don’t know this one.”
I know I told her to use that name, but tonight, right now, the reminder rankles. “Then I guess you’ll just have to shake it instead,” I say on mic.
Her lips press together, and she’s mutinous and gorgeous, and I know she’s weighing the damage she’d cause by walking off the stage. She’s the consummate professional, though, so she stays.
I can see Fitz fuming out of the corner of my eye, lifting his bow and dragging it across the strings with a furious screech. Jason is glaring daggers at me as someone hands him some prop sticks. He says something to Annie, who shakes her head, her smile still hitched in place. I laugh humorlessly at how much I’ve rattled them all. I’m the star, after all. I get to choose, and I choose this.
The backbeat begins, and Annie claps along as though everything is fine. This is one of my more popular songs, but it’s super sexist so I rarely sing it anymore. It was my breakout hit, and once I had some say, I dropped it. I haven’t played it once this tour because of Annie, and for some reason I don’t feel like examining, that pisses me off.
I make it worse out of spite. Anger and alcohol race through my veins and fuel my adrenaline. The rush of self-destruction. I belt out lyrics about legs and hips and dropping low and feeling high
and curves and bedroom eyes. Lips and little cutoffs and sexy boots and every awful word is made all the worse when I step close behind Annie and grind my hips into her back. She wiggles seductively for a second before turning to face me. The hurt in her eyes catches in my throat. She pushes me lightly, all showmanship gone and replaced with something else.
I’m furious. She wanted this. Earlier in the summer, she was throwing herself at me. All that kissing we did in dark places. I was plenty good enough for her in secret. Then she saw how damaged I was, and she decided I wasn’t worth it. Her career skyrocketed, and she left me behind. Now she has the nerve to look like I’ve disappointed her? I step back and finish the song as if nothing happened. The crowd loves the show. They think we’re acting, and I let them believe it. We wrap up with a slower song, and I exit the stage with a wave and flick of my guitar pick, following the rest of my bandmates.
Fitz doesn’t bother to wait for me. Annie is waiting backstage, standing next to Trina. She drags my arm and pulls me farther into darkened wings.
“What was that, Jefferson?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The hell you don’t!” Annie has both of her small hands pressed to her temples.
“It’s one of my biggest hits, and I haven’t played it all summer,” I say.
Annie raises her eyes, searching mine for truth. “Maybe. But why would you set me up like that?”
“I don’t know what you think happened, Annie. I played one of my hits. It’s my tour; I can do that. If you can’t keep up—”
“Can’t keep up? Jefferson—”
I snap. “Don’t call me that.”
She looks like I’ve slapped her.
I feel like I’ve slapped her. I swallow it back. “What?”
I brush past her. I can’t look at her face right now. See the pain there. I don’t regret putting this distance between us. I don’t.
She did it first.
22
Annie
sunday, july 28
cleveland, ohio
That night, after the show, Fitz and Kacey walk me back to my hotel room, and Fitz says he’s still planning to throw a small party in his room for Kacey’s nineteenth birthday. I want to turn in early but decide I won’t let Jefferson—sorry, Clay—take me away from my best friend’s party. He humiliated me in front of thousands of people, and I can’t even begin to unravel why. I don’t know what he’s gained from objectifying me. Maybe it’s a delayed sense of retribution after introducing “Coattails.” Maybe Lora got under his skin and he’s taking it out on me. Maybe I misread things between us. Part of me wants to get my guitar and write a revenge song.
But the thought of writing something about him reminds me I’ve gotten confirmation from the label that “You’d Be Mine” made the cut and will be featured first for radio play. The timing couldn’t be more ludicrous or devastating, and I’m just too overwrought over Jefferson Clay Coolidge to see the tree for the forest in front of me.
So I beg off to my suite to get cleaned up and shower off the stage sweat and the feel of Jefferson on my skin. I’m the last to arrive. Fitz answers the door at my knock, his face so pale his freckles stand out like tiny polka dots across the bridge of his nose.
“Ah,” he says, not bothering to open the door all the way.
“Do I have the wrong room? I thought this was a birthday party,” I tease, peeking curiously over his shoulder. He closes the door farther, but not before I hear shouting.
I push past. “What the hell? Is that Jason?”
To his credit, Fitz doesn’t fight me as I press through. Tiny Kacey has a bottle in one hand and another straining against Jason’s chest as he’s shouting. He’s red-faced and snarling, veins throbbing in his neck. On the floor, across from him, blood dripping down his face, is Jefferson.
I scramble in but stop short of the two men, my loyalties painfully torn. Not like Jason notices, his fury laser-focused on Jefferson.
“What’s going on?”
Jason still refuses to look at me, but he shakes off Kacey’s hands, straightening his shirt. “Ask Jefferson,” he says in a mocking tone.
A humorless chuckle rumbles from the floor as Jefferson gets to his knees, still bent over. It takes him two tries, as he’s intoxicated beyond belief. Eventually, he crawls over to the pullout sofa and collapses there.
“I’m waiting.”
“Never mind,” Jason spits. “He’s high as a fucking kite. He can’t talk.”
My breath ices over in my chest. I turn to Fitz for confirmation. “Is that true?”
He winces. “I swear I have no idea where he got the pills or how long he’s been taking them.”
“Jes tah-day,” Jefferson slurs slowly.
I’m at his side in a flash. “How many did you take? Where are they? What are they? Holy shit, Jefferson. What were you thinking?”
His eyes are glassed over and dilated and nothing like him at all. Drunk Jefferson is one thing, but he’s stoned out of his mind. He slumps over, and my heart throbs painfully until he starts laughing again. It’s like watching a slow-motion version of him. Even his shaking shoulders look heavy. My nails dig tiny grooves into my palms. “Where are the pills, Jefferson?” I ask more slowly this time, each word dragged from my throat even as the walls seem to be closing in on me.
“I ate them all.”
My heart stutters. “How many were there?” I turn to Fitz, who’s even paler than before. He starts digging through the trash and ripping through the suitcases sitting by the door.
Kacey lifts an empty brown bottle. “Is this it? It says, Shit, you asshole, Clay.” She keeps muttering, and I snap.
“Focus, Kacey! Don’t you sleep, Jefferson,” I say, slapping at his face. “Just give me the bottle.” Kacey hands it to me. They’re pain pills, hydrocodone, but the name on them reads Lora Bradley. “Where’s Lora, Jefferson?”
He shrugs and smiles at me sleepily. “I sen’ her ’way.”
“Did she give these to you?” I ask, registering that Fitz is on the phone with someone, probably Trina, in the background.
“She didn’t like meh hillsss ssssong.”
Jesus Christ. “How many were there, Jefferson? I need to know if I need to call an ambulance.”
He holds up five fingers.
“Five?” I inhale deeply. That’s better than an entire bottle. Still, mixed with alcohol? I relay the information to Trina, who is going to contact the tour doctor. Within minutes, there’s a knock at the door. I relent my spot next to Jefferson to Fitz and slump against the wall in the hallway next to Jason.
“He doesn’t deserve you,” Jason says.
I sigh. “Not that it’s any of your business, but he doesn’t have me, Jason. We aren’t together. You know this.”
Jason shakes his head. “You forget, Annie, I know you. I heard your song. You can’t pull that with me.”
“Seriously? Because I wrote a song—”
“You love him, and he only loves himself.”
“You heard him, Jason. He’s a mess. Not only that, but you saw the shit he pulled with me tonight. Give me a little credit. I don’t need protecting.” He makes a noise that’s obviously disbelieving, and I slug his arm. “Why’d you punch him?”
“He said some things.”
My throat aches. “Like what?”
“Like things I won’t repeat, so don’t ask. Believe me. He deserved it.”
“About me?”
Jason shakes his head. “Not in the way you think. Just … don’t worry about that part.”
The thing is, that’s impossible. Everyone else heard. Maybe I’ll coax it out of Kacey later. The door opens, and the doctor is walking out.
“He’s fine. You can go in now. He’ll be asleep for some time.”
I release a slow breath and get to my feet, holding out a hand for Jason, who shakes his head. “I’m done for. I’m going to bed.”
I grab him up in a hug. “For wha
t it’s worth, thank you for being noble.”
Jason looks like he wants to say more, but I reach up and kiss his cheek and turn for the door before he can. I close the door behind me and wait to hear Jason’s door slam before stepping back out in to the hall. I call Trina and Connie first, and then home.
“Hey, Gran, it’s me. Change of plans. We’re coming back.”
* * *
Fitz is crouched against the couch, Kacey standing over him, both keeping vigil over a sleeping Jefferson. I walk over to them, placing a hand on Fitz’s shoulder. He doesn’t look at me; instead, he grabs my hand and squeezes. “I’m such an idiot. He said he needed help weeks ago, and I laughed at him. I didn’t take him seriously.”
“This?” I say. “This was half-hearted at best. He’s still working toward rock bottom, Fitz.”
“How can you be so calm?”
My shoulder lifts weakly even though none of them see it. “I’m not. Inside, I’m mad as hell. But anger isn’t going to help anyone but us. He needs love and friends, and most of all, Fitz, he needs to get the hell off this tour. I’ve already got a phone call in to Connie and Trina. We’re calling off Kentucky. Jefferson needs some time.”
I give Jefferson one more look. Lean down and kiss his bruised cheek. “I’m going to bed. Get packed. We’re going to Michigan in the morning. You boys are expected at the farm.”
Fitz’s head shoots up. “Annie, that’s—” He looks to Kacey, who smiles sadly. “You don’t have to do that. I know how you—I can take him out of here. We’ll go back to Indy.”
I grimace. “Wow. He must have said something pretty terrible about me.” I raise my hand as he opens his mouth. “Please. I thought I wanted to know, but I’ve changed my mind. It’s better I don’t. Just … I’m expecting you both. My gran is, too. Ride to the airport leaves at 8:00 A.M. sharp. Be there.”