The Moments We Share

by Barbara C. Doyle

  Right after the meeting, I opted to go back to my room. Taking out a notebook that I keep hidden in my bags, I looked through old lyrics that I’d written over the years. I hadn’t told anybody because the lyrics were something that I kept buried for a reason.

  Not everybody likes to bare their soul to the world. Sometimes it’s easier to keep that side locked away, because world would only see what they have to gain when you lose it all.

  I’m going to make something of myself.

  Nobody is going deter me from everything I deserve. The people who think they can change how I see myself will only see how much damage I can really do. Compared to me, they’re nothing. And I have no problem showing them that.

  Going through my music, I marked some of the lyrics that I could draw inspiration from. I had no intention of showing them to Ashton or the guys, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to prove to them that I could write like Ian or Ash.

  It’s the people you don’t expect the world from that can bring it down in one instance. It’s why I don’t keep high expectations of people, because there’s less disappointment when they fail to reach them.

  Maybe that’s why Tom looks at me like I’m risking everything for fun. He doesn’t understand that I’ve earned this, that I’m just taking what I deserve. Proving a point. Instead, he sees a promise in ink that helps pay his bills—a contract that controls my every move and thought. If I’m not perfect, he doesn’t get paid. Of course he’s disappointed that I don’t conform to the usual kiss-ass rockstar like the guys are.

  Ian knocks his knee against mine, sipping on his own drink. “So want to tell us what the fuck that was back in the conference room earlier?”

  I roll my eyes, leaning back on the couch. “I was just testing the waters. Had to make sure that Boots was strong enough to work with us. Do you really want to spend time with someone who cries when somebody calls them a name? Plays a prank?”

  Bash chuckles. “Really? You’re going with that? It doesn’t matter if she is that type of girl, the contract is final. You can’t change that, and I don’t think it’s a good idea to poke the bear.”

  “Which one is the bear? Tom or Ashton?” Ian muses, and both he and Bash laugh.

  The idea of poking Ashton in any way makes my cock twitch in my jeans. “Well I’m not really known for poking men, but I’d happily poke Ashton.”

  Ian punches my shoulder, and it’s no love tap. Based on the way his brows pinch together, and eyes glower at me, I can tell I’m about to get a world-famous warning.

  He usually gives me tiny lectures every now and again.

  Keep your hands to yourself.

  Don’t get into fights.

  Stop putting your dick in random chicks.

  It’s all the same whenever we travel. But since none of them want to live up what we’ve been given, I have to live it up for them.

  “She’s off limits,” he all but growls.

  “Ian, come on. She’s—”

  “Not one of your play things,” he cuts me off.

  Even Bash nods. “Yeah, dude. We’re working with Ashton, and she seems pretty cool. It’ll ruin the whole thing if you try sleeping with her.”

  “And what whole thing would that be?” I pry suspiciously. “The part where we’re working with Boots to get good publicity, or the part where you’re surrounding me with goody-two-shoes in hopes I’ll change?”

  “Stop being dramatic,” Bash chortles. “And stop avoiding the subject. Promise you won’t screw Ashton over. We need her, not just you. As much as you want to fit the stereotypical rockstar, the band doesn’t revolve around you.”

  I don’t reply, because I know he’s right.

  Back when we first started, Ian was the only one who would match my antics. We’d party together, dance with women, drink until we were numb and stupid. We’d do dumb things that should have gotten us into more trouble had we been as well known as we are now.

  But something in him shifted when the press started hanging around and our shows began filling up and selling out. Everything about what we did for fun became business for Ian. He stopped wanting to go out. To drink. To hook up with random chicks.

  I lost my closest friend, but gained a fandom. The tradeoff seemed better than I could have expected, a majority better than a minority.

  Yet, out of everybody who acted like they cared, only a few of them kept dealing with my shit. And it wasn’t the majority who helped drag my numb body into hotel rooms when I had too much to drink, or covered up my stupid decisions in fucking clingy women who didn’t understand their part in a casual hookup.

  None of the majority who wanted to be in my life would offer me help when I made a bad choice. They’d take pictures. Sell the story to the press. Anything for a quick buck.

  It’s when you get sold out by the people you crave attention from that makes you realize how much easier it is to have a small group of people close to you. Smaller groups mean less betrayal.

  But when the betrayal does happen, it makes it that much harder to deal with.

  At least being consumed in the fans meant not feeling anything. Not trusting. Drowning in meaningless relationships was better than trusting somebody so much that it would destroy a person if they ever broke it.

  It’s funny how lonely being surrounded by hundreds of people can be when they’re just empty shells with greedy intentions.

  “I still think it’s a stupid pairing,” I prompt, shifting the conversation. “Tom could have reached out to any number of people with good reps. Somebody in our genre.”

  “Ashton has a lot of press on her with the breakup,” Ian says. “She could benefit from this just as much as we can.”

  “All I’m saying is that it’d be cool to work with somebody who isn’t the polar opposite of us.”

  Ian shifts, beer resting on his thigh. “Maybe we’re talking about two different people. We all saw Ashton give it right back to you earlier. She’s a lot like us. She’s tough. Strong-willed. She’s not afraid to dish it back and call it like she sees it. Just because her main genre is country doesn’t mean her music means any less than ours. All music holds a different kind of truth—bares pieces of every person’s soul. That makes us pretty similar, Dylan.”

  “Find an outlet, Dylan. Find something that doesn’t just speak to your soul. But bares it. Opens it. Heals it.”

  Staring at the counselor with cool eyes, jaw clenched, I answer, “How the fuck do you expect me to do that?”

  Her brow arches. “What did I say about language, Mr. Hilton?”

  Crossing my arms on my chest, I shift on the uncomfortably hard couch. “Thought you wanted me to express myself, Doc. Can’t do that without dropping a few fucks now and again. Just be lucky that’s all I’ve said.”

  “To answer your question,” she replies, ignoring my statement, “I want you to start doing something that calms you.”

  An evil grin creeps on my face. Leaning forward, eyes trained on her double-D chest, I whisper, “I can think of something really fun that would calm us both.”

  She closes her notebook, and stands up. Her dark eyes tell me she isn’t fond of the idea.

  Must be a lesbian.

  It’s the only reason she wouldn’t accept the offer. And I’d made it before, in much less casual ways. Maybe it’s the because she’s a school counselor and I’m a student. Or that she’s older than me by at least ten years. But she’s hot, her tits are big, and her face isn’t repulsive to look at.

  “You play the guitar,” she says, walking to her desk and busying herself by tidying up the pile of papers.

  “Your point?”

  “You and your friends talked about starting a band. Would you play the guitar?”

  At sixteen, the expectations of ever accomplishing something like becoming a successful band seemed distant. Untouchable. Just a dream that four dudes made to think there was a chance at escaping this shit town.

  “Maybe.”

  “Does play
ing make you happy?”

  I shrug.

  “Do you write music?” she presses.

  I glare at her.

  “Dylan, you need an outlet that isn’t sex. You’re young. You’ve got a lot of potential. Don’t waste it because of one bad night. Don’t live in the past. Create your future.”

  One bad night, I scoff to myself.

  A bad night is forgetting your wallet when you get to the restaurant. Or running out of gas halfway to your destination.

  It’s not getting beaten half to death over pocket change.

  “Music can’t save me, Doc. Nothing can.”

  “It can if you let it. Let somebody.”

  I snort. “You want to be that person?”

  “I want to believe there’s somebody out there worth your time and effort,” she counters casually, eyes locking with mine.

  “Music tells a thousand different stories, invoking thousands of different feelings. If there isn’t already a song that you can relate to, then write one. You don’t have to show it to anybody. Just do it for yourself.”

  She grabs something off her desk. A black composition notebook. Passing it to me, I flip through the blank pages.

  “There’s nothing in here,” I note dumbly.

  “It’s your job to fill it,” she tells me. She passes me a pen, as if I’m too poor to afford one on my own.

  I stare at the items in my hand, staying silent.

  She kneels in front of me, a soft smile dissipating the hardness of her eyes. “You’re only broken if you let yourself be, Dylan. Instead of letting yourself believe that you’re damaged, let yourself believe that you’re healing and rediscovering yourself.”

  Blinking past the memory, jaw clenched tightly, I stare into oblivion.

  You’re only broken if you let yourself be.

  She’s wrong.

  The broken will always be broken no matter how much they try to hide it. It’s no different than a shattered mirror. The more you try fixing it, the more hurt you’ll get. Just like the shards of glass will pierce your skin, the truth will puncture your soul—always reminding you that life has thousands of ways to beat you down, even at your lowest point.

  “Hey, where’d you go?” Ian asks, nudging me with the bottom of his cold beer.

  “Nowhere,” I murmur. “Were there ever any bands in the running to work with us? There are plenty of bands who need the media attention. What about Hollis’ band? The Wild?”

  Ian protests instantly, nearly choking on his beer. “No way in hell. Last time you and Hollis Wilder hung out, you almost got arrested.”

  I groan loudly. “How many times have I told you that it was all a misunderstanding?”

  “You kept trying to get the cop to take her clothes off, Dylan,” he deadpans.

  “We thought she was a stripper,” I reason. “It wasn’t too far-fetched in our defense. There was a strip club just down the road.”

  The look of doubt is strong on his face. “She was driving a police car when she saw you idiots stumbling over to Hollis’ motorcycle.”

  “She could have been very dedicated to the role,” I argue, shrugging. He rolls his eyes. “Plus, it’s not like we were going to take his bike out for a ride. It’s not our fault she made that assumption.”

  “I’m just saying you could have made the situation a little better by shutting your mouth for once,” he informs me. “If it wasn’t for the fight that broke out at the bar, she would have cuffed you both. Then both our bands would have been fucked.”

  I grin, remembering the moment when Rush Daniels, drummer of The Wild, caused that little scene. I still have no idea if it was to cause a diversion from our spat with the cop, or if he just wanted to throw a punch or two. Not that I knew Rush as well as Hollis, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it were the latter. He always did what he wanted, and could drink us all under the table and still walk out in a straight line with a woman at his side.

  “That was a good night,” I state, smiling at him. “We really need to catch up with them some time.”

  The only reason partying with Hollis worked out was because he and I never went after the same type of women despite us being eerily similar. Whenever we’d walk into a scene, it’s as if the girls flocked to the shaggy-haired, tatted up assholes, but the women he attracted were a little more adventurous, probably seeing what he drove up on. It’s like them seeing his motorcycle made them think of all the other kind of rides they could get.

  Ian doesn’t seem to like the idea. “They’re decent guys, but not somebody you should be hanging with right now. You’re already under enough shit. Take a break from the party scene for a while.”

  I make a disgruntled noise under my breath.

  Bash chooses then to intervene. “Anyway, Hollis’ band is doing their own thing right now. They have some good music out, but they’re still new. We wouldn’t have settled for collaborating when we started out either. We needed to build ourselves before we were associated with anyone else.”

  “It’s not like we’d damage them,” I defend.

  His eyes narrow. “Wouldn’t we? They’d be associated with a band who’s had a lot of problems lately. Fights. Drunk escapades. We’re a far cry from perfect. If they want to land on their own two feet, they need to do it far away from us.”

  Eye twitching, I ask, “You mean me? Since I’m the one who put us in the media that way?” I roll my eyes and let out a dry laugh. “And what does that mean about Ash? You’re not willing to put a fresh face in jeopardy, but you’re willing to risk her?”

  They’re both staring at me, surprise etched into their faces.

  Ian puts his beer on the table. “Ash, huh? Well, unlike The Wild, Ash has already made a name for herself. She’s got plenty of fans—a good following. She won’t be at jeopardy like their band will.”

  The way he says her name makes my fists clench, like he’s accusing me of something. Like my body wants to lay claim and warn him to keep his distance. And as soon as that feeling rises in the pit of my stomach, I beat it down.

  I stand up and grab a drink from the mini fridge, popping it open and downing half of it. I can feel their stares on the back of my head, burning with acquisition. Ignoring them is easier; masking my contemplation means not letting them see my own doubt.

  Wiping my mouth off with the back of my wrist, I walk back over to them. “You guys should probably head out. I’ve got an early day with the country queen.”

  “Dylan—” Ian starts.

  “Relax,” I snap, smacking my bottle down a little harder than I meant to on the table. “My dick won’t accidentally fall into her during the session tomorrow, or any time for that matter.”

  Because when it happens, it won’t be an accident. She’ll want it just as bad as I do, and every touch, every kiss, every thrust of me inside of her will have a purpose.

  But I don’t say that, because as far as they know, Dylan Hilton isn’t the type of man capable of that kind of affection.

  Rough sex.

  Kinky sex.

  Hard fucking.

  That was the kind of actions that my battered soul was capable of. I’m fine with them assuming that I’m not more than that, because even with the smallest marble of hope, I don’t have much faith in myself either.

  But if they really think Ashton can change me, I’m willing to do anything to let them believe it.

  Use her. Break her. Just like I break myself.

  Ashton

  “You need to save me,” I plead through the phone, looking around the empty house.

  “Girl, you’re going to be fine,” Teagan promises, sounding exasperated over my distress. What kind of friend is she? First she promises to stick around while Dylan and I sit down to share ideas for the song, then she has last minute plans she miraculously remembered.

  “Teag, you told me you’d be home. Don’t make me remind you of the best friend contract we made in high school. We took an oath to never bail on each other when we needed it
.”

  She laughs. “We also promised to never give guys blowjobs, but look how quickly that changed. Oaths are meant to be broken under certain circumstances, my friend.”

  I lean my head against the couch cushion, groaning loudly. “I can’t believe you brought that up.”

  “I’m doing you a favor, babe.”

  “By ditching me for plans that don’t even exist?” I doubt, frowning at how whiny my voice is.

  Desperation is never a good look on anyone, but I’m wearing it like it’s in style, bold and flashy for the world to see.

  “Please, bitch,” she scoffs in offense. “I’m using this time productively. I’m getting a full wax, because since the movie stopped filming I’ve been neglecting downtown. Ain’t no taxi going to want to drive down there without me touching up the city scape, if you catch my drift.”

  I scrunch my face. “Thanks for the visual. Could have gone without it.”

  “Anytime, girl. And if you need a wax, I can set you up with the girl that does mine. She is amazing, and she doesn’t charge LA prices. I mean, have you seen what people charge just to make sure their vaginas aren’t hairy? And don’t get me started on anal bleaching—”

  “What?” I squeak, covering my face with a pillow. I take a moment to collect myself, but it’s hard to under the circumstances. “Teagan, how do you know about anal bleaching? Have you actually gotten that done?”

  “I had a sex scene to shoot, and I wanted to make sure everything was pretty for the camera. I’d never done anything like that before, so I was covering all my bases just in case.”

  I blink, too stunned to find something to say to that. I mean, what can I say to that? Ask how it turned out? If it was awkward? If you could go under a black light without risking your anus glowing?

  Luckily, she doesn’t give me a chance to ask anything. “Anyway, I only did it that once and have no plans to do it again. But enough about me. You need to put on something pretty, brush your hair, smack on some lipstick, and get ready for Dylan.”

  I peer down at my sweatpants and T-shirt, unsure of how she guessed I was still wearing them since she left.