by Ivy M. Jones
"If you want to drive, I'm sure you could just follow him. You don't have to ride together if you don't want to," Mrs. Brown rushed out.
All of the pieces suddenly came together and struck me with heavy clarity. The rock god I'd been dry heaving in front of, the one who was offering to marry me in lieu of his deceased cousin, the one who was so hot that my panties were wet just looking at him, was none other than Justin Moreland of Dark Fire. I was sitting on a couch next to the chart-topping band's singer slash bassist.
It was all a little too much for me and my mind checked out, taking my body with it. I felt myself pitch forward and then the world went black.
Justin
I've seen fans swoon before. None of them have ever actually fainted. Most of the time the chick just wanted me to catch them so they could get a picture snapped. I really preferred catching panties, but catching swooning fans happened. So when the pussycat next to me started to pitch forward, I did what I always do. I turned her forward momentum to guide her into my chest, letting her rest there.
That, however, was the extent of my experience and I didn't know what to do with a girl who had actually fainted. Luckily, I remembered that I had someone on the phone who did know what to do.
"Aunt Georgie... I have a little problem here. She just fainted."
"Lordy Justin, I know this happens all the time around you, but could you turn it off or something when you're not on stage?" I heard her sniff and take a deep breath to focus.
Ironically, as the primary doctor in her own private practice, Aunt Georgie had to turn her own professionalism on and off all the time, especially in emergencies. I still hadn't figured out how to flip off the switch on being famous. Girls still swooned when they saw me at the grocery store‒ and in Tyler's old apartment, apparently.
"I wish," I muttered. "Now tell me what to do."
"Well, check her pulse so we know if we need to call an ambulance," she directed.
"How?"
"Justin, I'm going to call your mama and tell her that her son is a idiot savant. How did you get to be twenty-six without knowing basic first aid?"
"Because I spent all my formative years in the basement, making music that you and the family claimed made your ears bleed."
"No excuse..." She went on to walk me through checking Pussycat's pulse. I checked that her eyes weren't dilated and counted her breaths.
"You're short a blood pressure cuff, so you can't check that. But everything else is good," she muttered. "I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess you don't have any smelling salts. But I have an idea. You're going to hate it, but listen up."
A few minutes later, I had an ashtray in front of Pussycat's nose and dropped a match inside to light the hair I'd cut from my bangs. I could tell the second the hair burned. The smell nearly made me drop the ashtray, but I guess it did its job because pussycat was coming around too.
"Oh god, what is that smell?" She fought to open her eyes and focus. "Is something burning?" Finally focused, she saw my face and groaned. "Oh, wait. That would be Dark Fire. My mistake."
"Are you saying we stink?" I laughed.
"No, just trying to be funny," she mumbled.
"Justin, why don't you bring her over to the house now. She isn't going to want to show up at the hospital with you as her escort and I'd feel better knowing she's okay."
Aunt Georgie's voice surprised me. Speakerphone had been essential while she had walked me through the fainting episode and I realized I hadn't flipped it back.
"We'll leave as soon as we can, alright?" I looked over to Pussycat to judge her reaction. She merely nodded as though she was still a little shell-shocked and I said goodbye to my aunt and uncle before ending the call.
"You're Justin Moreland," the blonde Pussycat squeaked out.
"Since I was born," I quipped.
"Dark Fire's Justin Moreland."
"Umm, yeah. You're not going to faint again are you?" I didn't care about having to cut my hair again, but the smell of burning hair is bad enough that you really only need to experience it once.
"No, I don't think so." I nodded and let out a relieved breath before she continued. "I threw up in front of you. Dark Fire's Justin Moreland."
"Actually, you really didn't throw up so much as dry heave," I pointed out.
Her eyes narrowed and I silently cheered. A pissed off pussycat was better, in my mind, than a fainting one.
"Fine. Well, out of all the horrible things that have happened to me in the last week, I guess I can just add 'dry heaving in front of Dark Fire's Justin Moreland' and call the list complete."
I watched as she rearranged her cross-body bag on her shoulder and slowly stood, her hand out in case she got dizzy. She walked to the door, then turned to see me still sitting on the couch.
"Aren't we going to go meet your Aunt Georgie?" she snapped.
"I thought you might want to make a stop in the bathroom first," I said, trying to politely draw her attention to her running makeup.
"The having-to-pee-all-the-time thing doesn't happen until later. I'm fine."
"Yeah, but your makeup is a little messed up and you got some on your shirt." A few drops of inky tears had run down her face, dropping onto her mint green t-shirt. They had left little trails and the affect was sort of neat, but I had a hunch she wouldn't be as appreciative of the affect as I was.
She looked down at her shirt and her hand came up to her cheek, a look of terror overcoming her face.
"Where's the bathroom?" she moaned. I pointed and as she darted away I heard her grumble,
"Okay, now the list is complete."
Justin
I've walked down the street and seen people wearing Dark Fire shirts. It always gave me a little jolt of pride because Cy, Zach, Griffin and I worked really hard to get where we were. But when pussycat came out of the bathroom wearing the first shirt we'd ever had printed, I wanted to drop to my knees and kiss her feet. We'd only had men's shirts printed and the result was that it was tight over her curves.
"Did you go to that concert?" I asked, trying to appear nonchalant. We'd had small venues when we were just getting our name out there, but they were all local. So if she had that particular shirt, chances were good she'd gotten it at one of those shows.
"No." I know I didn't do a good job hiding my disappointment, because her lips quirked up. "Before you went international, I went to all of them."
I probably could have lit up the whole fucking city with my smile and she laughed.
"But you didn't recognize me until a minute ago," I pointed out.
"Seriously? I kind of had something else on my mind. Oh, and I wasn't exactly expecting to see Dark Fire's Justin Moreland in Tyler's living room."
"You say you weren't expecting me here, yet you had that shirt with you," I countered wryly.
"Yeah, I told you I've been sick a lot lately. I always carry an extra shirt with me in case of emergencies."
"Suuuuure... " I knew I was baiting her, being an ass, but she looked so much more alive when she was pissed off. So much more alive than the defeated pussycat who'd knocked on Tyler's door. And I didn't want that defeated expression to come back. I'd gladly be the asshole who kept that look off her face.
"Don't be an asshole to the pregnant chick," she said. Oh my god, she could read my mind.
I laughed and she smiled in return.
"There isn't much toilet paper left in the bathroom," she noted.
"Yeah," I explained. "I'm here to pack up the rest of Tyler's stuff." It was getting easier to talk about him. Not easy, but easier.
"When did he... How long since the accident?" I could see a flicker of that same defeat in her eyes again, so I did the only thing I could. Slowly, so I didn't freak her out, my hand came up to cup her shoulder, then continued around to pull her shoulders forward. She stepped into the hug and wrapped her arms around my back, bringing her hair up to my nose. I could smell a hint of citrus‒ her shampoo maybe?‒ and something that co
uld only be explained as her.
I held her for a moment before I answered. "August thirty-first."
Her entire body stiffened and I heard her cry out. I did the math and realized it would have been within a week or so of her getting pregnant. No wonder she was so upset. She wouldn't even have known she was pregnant by the night of the accident.
"You said he was drunk?" Her voice was so quiet, I could barely hear her.
"Yeah. Completely hammered according to the report. He shouldn't have been driving. He wrapped his car around a tree at the corner of Willow and Grant." Some of the anger I felt had come out when I answered her, but I knew she would understand why. I felt her arms tighten a bit more, then she let go and took a step back.
"I'm really sorry," she said.
"Yeah. Me too, pussycat."
I opened the door and gestured for her go first, but she just stood there, that look of defeat back in her eyes. Finally she turned and stepped out into the hallway. I closed and locked the door and we started walking toward the elevators.
"Why is it that no one came to clear out his apartment until now?" Her voice bounced off the elevator interior, so even though she wasn't facing me, I could still hear her.
"Tyler and I were really close‒ both only children‒ and his parents wanted to make sure I got whatever I wanted to keep. So I had to wait until the Australian tour was over. I only got back about three days ago and I've been asleep since yesterday."
"Oh." Her voice came out small, but the elevator's acoustics carried the sound to me.
"Is there anything you'd like? Or maybe for his kid to have?"
"I really didn't know him. Maybe you should pick some stuff out for the baby."
"What about you? Is there anything you'd like?" The elevator dinged and the doors opened to the underground parking garage, the chill of a brisk New York October hitting us. "Do you have a coat, pussycat?"
"Not with me. It got colder since I left my apartment," she answered, her arms wrapping around themselves to keep her bare arms warm.
"I have a hoodie in my car," I said, gesturing to where it was parked.
Clicking the fob to unlock the doors, I turned and realized she wasn't walking with me.
"What?" She was staring at my car like it was a monkey in a hat.
"That's your car?"
"Yeahhhh?" I looked between her and the car a couple of times. Nothing wrong that I could see. "What's wrong with my car?"
"Nothing," she said, her mouth opening and closing a few times. "Just not what I expected."
"You figured me for a Mercedes kind of guy?" I laughed.
"Not Mercedes. But maybe something a little more... I don't know... Famous?"
I laughed. "This is New York. If I want to get anywhere without being mobbed, I need an inconspicuous ride. Besides," I opened the passenger door and helped her in. "This was the first car I ever bought on my own. It has special meaning." I closed the door for her and walked around my car.
My car. A 2004 Ford Escape my parents made me work my ass off to save up for. A lot of kids got handed a set of keys when they hit sixteen, but my parents made me get a job and earn it. The job? The guys and I got a gig playing a few nights a week in the city and soon enough, a legend was born.
So, in a manner of speaking, I owed my fame to my folks. Without them always pushing me to work hard and do my best ‒ and bust my ass to buy my own car ‒ I knew I wouldn't have gotten to where I was.
I pulled myself into the driver's seat and reached back to find the ragged gray hoodie I had tossed before locking the car up three days earlier. I covertly sniffed to make sure it wasn't vile. I'd slept in it on the plane ride back from Australia, driven directly to Aunt Georgie's house to get Tyler's keys, then trekked back to his apartment.
It didn't reek, so I held it out, silently offering to help pussycat put it on. She eyed me suspiciously, then sighed before pulling her cross-body bag over her head. The hem of her shirt lifted to expose a narrow strip of skin and against the black of the shirt, her skin looked almost pearlescent.
I swallowed, silently chastising myself for wondering what pearls tasted like, and helped her into the hoodie.
She snuggled into the material and I swear I saw her inhale deeply through her nose to appreciate the scent of the fabric. When a weak smile tilted her lips, I once more assured myself it didn't stink, and put the car in reverse, backing up and then driving out of the garage.
Andy
I'm really not sure what I expected Justin's car to be... He was what might be labeled "Mega-Famous". I'd once heard a co-worker say that Justin Moreland was the new Adam Levine. I didn't think Adam Levine was the hotness that she did, so I just ignored her. But in terms of renown, the scales almost tipped in favor of Justin.
So I guess I expected something more... Famous. Like I'd told him. Or at least newer. Maybe shinier? But as we got to the edge of the city and crossed the bridge, I realized that, not once at any of the stop lights or traffic jams did anyone point at the SUV and mouth the words Justin Moreland. He was inconspicuous. And by extension, so was I.
He turned to look at me and saw me smiling at him. "What's got you smiling, pussycat?"
"You're car is perfect," I answered.
"Thanks. I like it." He reached forward to pat the dash, like it was a good dog. "Lourdes and I have been through a lot. And she hauls the band's gear really well."
"Lourdes? As in, Lourdes Gets Me There?" I laughed, thinking of the irony between the car's name and the name of the Dark Fire song.
"Not as in. Exactly like," he grinned.
"Oh my god. You wrote that song about your car? I thought it was about a girl!" I laughed back, gently smacking my forehead.
"Song writers do it all the time. You write what you know. I love my car and I thought it fitting that everyone know it." His hand caressed the steering wheel and for a moment I imagined him caressing me with the same gentle adoration.
I blinked at the stray thought and dismissed it. He'd asked me to marry him because of Tyler Junior, not because he imagined an amazing life together.
"Actually, I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who knows that your song for Lourdes is about your love of an SUV. Every other girl out there thinks there's a hot chick with bright eyes and a whole lot going on in the back who has your heart." I laughed at his expression when I threw song lines at him and continued. "What about the other guys in the band? Do they have love songs devoted to inanimate objects?"
"Zach wrote Crushed about his parents' divorce. And Griffin wrote most of Decisions at Dawn when he was considering leaving the band to join the Marines. Cy's written a couple of things about his high school girlfriend which have gone into various songs. And don't tell anyone," his voice dropped conspiratorially. "But I wrote Blinded about King Lear and his daughter, Cordelia."
"Seriously? So the one who truly saw me was Lear's Cordelia?" I had always loved the way that song had touched me. I wanted someone to truly see me, not as my parents' daughter or some secondary identity like that, but for me. Someone who would see into my heart and cherish and protect me no matter how stupid they thought my decisions were.
Which is probably why I had clung to Paul. My first real boyfriend, I had naively clung to the belief that he was my everything. But after I caught him cheating and did some deep soul searching, I realized that he had only put on a show make me think that's who he was. My memories of our time together had been skewed by what I wanted to see and upon reflection, I found that he hadn't really ever been who I thought he was.
Which made the break-up a lot easier. And with a little encouragement from my co-worker Heather, I 'jumped back on the horse'. And got pregnant. Maybe I really was the whore my parents claimed I was. Getting back on the horse didn't have to mean literally. But that was the interpretation I chose to run with. Go figure.
"You don't like that song, pussycat?" I must have been scowling.
"Actually, I love that song. One of my favorites. It just remind
ed me of some of my own bad decisions."
"You mean sleeping with Tyler?" He quirked a brow.
"Among other things," I answered, purposefully vague.
He'd mentioned it earlier and I had done the math. I slept with Tyler Friday night and he left in the early morning hours of Saturday, the thirty-first. His car was found wrapped around a tree only a few blocks from my apartment.
If Tyler was drunk the night he died, then he died after he left my apartment. And while I offered to let him stay and sleep it off on my couch, he declined, claiming that he didn't want things to get complicated.
I had been grateful‒ fucking grateful‒ that he'd made a clean cut and wanted to leave right after. I remember thinking how brilliant my choice had been, picking him to bring home for a one night stand. Neither of us wanted more and we were both clear about that before we even left the club. My place had been closer which was the only reason we ended up there.
Justin was looking at me as though he expected me to explain. I couldn't, so I just shrugged and tossed out the also vague, "Stuff."
And there was another perfectly good reason why I couldn't marry Justin. I'd basically handed the keys to his drunk cousin, leading to his death. Not only was I a whore, but I was complicit in his cousin's death‒ a murderer.
My stomach tossed at the thought and I knew I was going to be sick again.
"Justin, pull over!" I choked out.
He did, and not a moment too soon. I barely had the door open when I started tossing up the water I'd had at Tyler's apartment, along with sick nothing from my stomach.
Justin waited for a break in traffic and opened his door, walking around to my side of the car. Reaching up, he used his hands to pull my hair out of my face and I squinted through tear-filled eyes to focus on him.
When I finally managed to breathe again, taking deep breaths through my mouth and holding down the remaining dry heaves, I felt Justin's hands fidget at my neck and he began to lightly rub my lower back.
My body melted, the pain and nausea subsiding to a low roll that Justin's hands were doing an incredible job of over-riding. The man could sing, write music, play a bass and save damsels. And now, I had proof that he could give a nearly Zen massage.