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.
“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.”
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