Always You (Dirtshine Book 2)

by Roxie Noir

  She’s fucking mesmerizing. Every single fucking time, all eyes on her for these few bars, and even though I know she doesn’t like being the center of attention it’s glorious when she is. The curve of her neck as she tosses her dark hair back, the line of her shoulders in her dress, her fingers on the bass.

  And her legs in that short dress, covered in ripped fishnets, wearing boots. Jesus Christ, man. One hundred percent pure rock chick, loud and careless and brash and don’t-give-a-fuck as hell.

  I’m gonna be honest: Darcy’s crazy hot all the time, but right now is when she’s the hottest. Right now’s the time when I wonder again what would happen if I finally stopped pretending that I don’t want her and just fucking did something about it.

  But then I join back into the song and the wild, nearly-uncontrollable urge fades back to its normal level, always there but under control. As I do she glances over at me, a little smile on her face like we’ve got some kind of secret, just the two of us, even across the space and the noise of the stage.

  I smile back because we do. We’ve got lots of secrets. Darcy knows things about me that no one else does, and vice-versa.

  We finish that song, and the momentum only builds. The crowd gets louder, stompier, and we move again into the third song without stopping. This one’s slower, not exactly a ballad but not as hard as the first two. I’m already sweating under the stage lights, playing a little slower, a little softer.

  It’s a lull, a respite, a brief meditation from the madness. I let the air buzz around me and find this quiet place, my hands on autopilot for a moment.

  And then there’s a bang.

  It’s loud as hell, behind us and way overhead where there shouldn’t be a bang and I flinch, then whirl around wondering what the fuck that was.

  Then there’s a second bang, the fizzle and flash of a lone firework.

  I keep playing on autopilot, but my stomach turns uneasily because Dirtshine doesn’t have fireworks.

  There shouldn’t be fucking unannounced pyrotechnics, I think, glancing toward the side of the stage. Is that left over from the band before us, or did someone fucking forget to tell—

  The bass line cuts out in a jumble. I jerk my head over.

  She’s on fire.

  Her hair and the back of her dress are ablaze and I’m already running before I even know what’s happening, tearing my guitar off over my head and throwing it somewhere else with a horrible clang.

  I tackle her, pushing her roughly to the floor and beating at the fire with my hands. Darcy is screaming, and I feel like the sound is tearing me in half but the fire won’t go out, it’s not enough, it’s not working and she’s screaming in pain and holy fuck I have to do something I have to do something.

  I pull off my shirt and throw myself down on top of her. I’m praying that it works, that someone fucking gets here with a fire extinguisher.

  That please God stop make it stop I don’t know what else I can do.

  And then the fire’s out. It takes me a second to realize that it’s gone, that it’s just me awkwardly on top of Darcy and she’s half-gasping, half-sobbing but she’s breathing, alive, hurt but alive and I think I might fucking cry with relief.

  Instead I get blasted in the face with thick white foam that gets into my mouth and stings my eyes. I inhale some of it by accident and nearly choke, and when it’s finally over I’m on my side on the floor next to Darcy, water streaming from my burning eyes, both of us totally covered in fire extinguisher foam.

  “Are you okay?” someone shouts, and I don’t even fucking answer.

  Darcy’s moving her hands underneath herself, like she’s trying to push herself off the floor, her breathing still shallow and fast, but it’s slippery and she fails with a pained gasp.

  Everyone is running, shouting stupid bullshit like what happened and is she okay and I don’t fucking know the answer to either so I just take her hand in mine.

  Darcy looks at me, her blue eyes wide and terrified, bright with tears, her breathing ragged and shallow.

  “You’re okay,” I tell her, getting slowly to my elbows and knees. “You’re fine. You’re gonna be fine. Take a deep breath.”

  “Darcy,” Gavin shouts, sliding to his knees in the foam front of her. “Trent, Jesus fucking Christ what the bloody fucking—”

  I shoot Gavin a shut the fuck up please look and he falls quiet. After a moment, he takes her other hand in his.

  Darcy squeezes my hand but she doesn’t take the deep breath, just keeps gasping shallowly. Something black and twisted, ugly beyond belief unfurls in my chest and I swallow, trying to keep it down.

  “Darce,” I say, forcing my voice calm even though she was just on fire and now everyone’s running around like chickens with their heads cut off. “I need you to take a deep breath before you hyperventilate and faint. Come on.”

  She looks at me steadily, and I hold her hand tighter in mine. After a few more moments of gasping she finally takes a deep, shuddering breath, her eyes going closed as they leak tears. Then she takes another, and another.

  I’m going to fucking murder that fireworks clown. I don’t mean that figuratively. I’m going to find him backstage and I’m going to beat the living fuck out of him for doing this to her, and then I’m going to take his broken, lifeless body and I’m going to—

  “I wouldn’t mind fainting,” Darcy whispers, still shuddering with each breath but at least breathing normally. “Sounds okay.”

  Now I’m on my knees, and I lace my fingers through hers, holding her hand so tightly in both of mine I’m afraid I’ll hurt her more. I don’t think she even notices.

  “It’s really more trouble than it’s worth,” I say, just to say something, keep her calm.

  Two paramedics are at the edge of the stage now, and they run toward the three of us. From the corner of my eye, I see Eddie hovering somewhere, but he’s not really important right now.

  “If you faint it’ll be whole fucking production,” I go on.

  “Well, I wouldn’t want that,” Darcy says, her voice still weak and quavering, and relief floods through me, at the sarcastic edge in her voice.

  The paramedics reach us. I whisper that I’m still there, and I let her hand go so they can do their jobs, standing off to the side with Gavin. We don’t talk, just watch as they ask her questions, cut her clothes away, cut her bass strap off her.

  After a few moments, they lift her and she gasps, the sound so filled with anguish and pain that I take an involuntary step forward before Gavin grabs my arm.

  “They’ve got to get her to the ambulance somehow,” he points out.

  They lift her onto a stretcher, still on her stomach, and we follow a few feet behind as they wheel her toward the vehicle, red lights blazing.

  I follow. Just before they hoist her in, I grab her hand one more time. I don’t say anything, just squeeze, and she squeezes back. Her eyes are going hazy because I think they’ve already given her something for the pain.

  The door shuts. The paramedics climb into the front and hit the sirens a few times before lumbering off across the muddy field, the crowd gawking, the loud whoop whoop whoop lost in the wide-open space as it drives away.

  I watch it go and take a deep breath. Then I take another one, and another one, but all the fucking breathing exercises in the world aren’t going to help because the anger’s already there, buried in my chest, coiling and writhing and ready to strike.

  I turn around and start walking back toward the outdoor stage. There are probably hundreds of people watching me right now — when stray fireworks light someone on fire it’s fairly noteworthy — but I don’t see any of them.

  I just see Darcy, terrified and in pain and hyperventilating, lying on the stage and squeezing my hand.

  “Trent!” calls Gavin, and he jogs up to me, a hand on my shoulder.

  I shrug it off, jerking away from him.

  “Mate—”

  “I gotta take a leak,” I say. My voice comes out f
lat and affectless.

  “A leak.”

  “It’s American for piss,” I say, still walking fast through the squishy grass. We’re turning heads as we half-walk and half-argue, onlookers with wide eyes and mouths shaped like O’s just goggling at us.

  “I fucking know what — goddamn it, Trent,” he says, as we reach the stage. “Don’t be fucking stupid.”

  I clench my jaw, already thinking of the sweet crunch of that kid’s face against my knuckles.

  Do I know better than to find this guy and kick his ass? Fuck yeah.

  Do I give half a shit about that right now? Fuck no.

  “Gavin, fuck off,” I growl. “Unless you’d like to come hold it for me at the urinal?”

  I turn away, still walking fast and angry, and this time he doesn’t follow. Good.

  I head toward the VIP porta-potties, but after fifty feet I veer away, opening a door to the back of the stage and shoving through a line of black curtains.

  The way he was practically juggling those spent fireworks. Too fucking busy ogling Darcy, fucking flirting with her, to bother checking that there weren’t any live ones left on stage.

  He’s sitting on a back staircase to the stage, his face in his hands. I think he’s crying.

  Good. He should feel bad. He’ll feel fucking worse in a minute. There’s no one else around, and I flex my right hand, a righteous cocktail of fury and excitement and revenge all slithering through my veins.

  The guy looks up as I walk toward him, relief and recognition crossing his face.

  “Hey, you’re in the band too, right?” he says, his voice coming out high-pitched and eager. “Is she gonna be okay? Was it really a firework, or maybe an electrical—”

  My fist hits his face with a crunchy thump and the guy cries out, falling backward against the stairs. He puts up one arm like he can defend himself that way, but I’m fucking lit, rage sizzling over my skin, down every nerve.

  The next hit gets him in the solar plexus and knocks the wind out of him. He doubles over, eyes practically bugging out of his head, nose already swelling and trickling blood, not even making a sound as he slides to the ground.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind I know this isn’t a fair fight. I know it wouldn’t be a fair fight if he had a baseball bat.

  But you know what else wasn’t a fair fucking fight? Darcy versus fire.

  He looks up, face turning colors because he still can’t breathe, but I’m not a fucking patient man. I grab the front of his shirt and haul him up against the back of the stage so his toes are barely on the ground

  He finally gasps in a breath I slam him backwards.

  “She was on fire,” I growl. “You lazy fucking son of a bitch, you had—”

  An arm wraps itself around my neck, taking me by surprise, and I’m hauled backward off the kid, stumbling a few steps before I can fling my attacker away and spin around, ready for whoever the fuck this is.

  This is Gavin, standing a few feet away, hands up and palms out.

  “Trent,” he says, breathing hard. “Don’t fucking do this, mate, you’re not going to help Darcy by punching this arsehole—”

  I just turn back to the asshole in question, but I only get about two steps before Gavin full-on tackles me, throwing both of us to the ground.

  “Fuck!” I shout. “Get the fuck off me—”

  He’s got a knee in my back, but I throw him off and to the ground as he grabs my arm, yanking me off balance. It’s an ugly wrestling match, neither of us prepared for it, and as angry as I am I know it’s not Gavin I want to hurt.

  But I still knee him in the back by accident. He elbows me in the mouth, and after a few minutes he’s on his back and I’m on my hands and knees next to him feeling fresh bruises swell under my skin, my lip split, everything covered in grass and mud.

  I spit blood onto the dirt below. Gavin coughs, rolling over, his shirt torn in three places. I’m still not wearing a shirt, because I put Darcy out with the one I had on.

  The guy’s gone, clearly the right fucking choice for him. Instead, Eddie’s standing at the edge of the small space, back to a black curtain, eyeing Gavin and I warily.

  “Everything cool?” he asks.

  Gavin and I both look up at him, and a long moment of silence stretches out in between the three of us before Gavin finally speaks up.

  “Yeah, mate,” he says, sitting up on the ground, covered in mud and bruises. “Everything’s totally fucking cool.”

  Eddie nods once, then disappears through the curtain. Fine with me. He’s been wary of Gavin ever since Gavin punched him last year — long story — so it’s just as well he doesn’t get involved.

  I heave myself to my feet, then hold my hand out to Gavin. I’m still angry, furious, but the deep black edge is off it, the void that I fell into for a minute there has gone for now.

  He takes it and I haul him up, and for a moment, we just look at each other. I swallow, the taste of copper in my mouth.

  “Thanks, man,” I say softly. I don’t know how Gavin Lockwood, Noted Junkie, has somehow become more reasonable and responsible than me in the past year, but it’s happened. Sobering up and falling in love probably had something to do with it.

  He puts his hand on my shoulder again and squeezes.

  “I know the feeling,” he says simply. “But I couldn’t have you breaking a hand or something, right?”

  I flex both my hands in response, just checking. Not broken.

  “Right.”

  He smiles faintly, then claps my shoulder once before letting it go.

  “Come on. Let’s get you a shirt and go see Darcy in the hospital, yeah?”

  I just nod in agreement.

  Chapter Four

  Darcy

  I’m on something. I don’t know what. Feels opioid, maybe, because I’ve got the sensation that the pain’s not gone, just far away, but not so far that I can’t see it. Just within vision.

  I think I used to do this for fun, sometimes, back in the dark ages that were also the fun times, when Gavin and Liam were usually high and the four of us drove around the country in a van playing shitty little venues until suddenly we were playing huge venues, our album cover everywhere, and women’s magazines were asking what my favorite lip gloss was.

  I never fucking knew. It was the one in my bag already, probably vaseline or chapstick, but if I ran an interview saying that every lip gloss company on the fucking planet would send me actual dump trucks filled with lip gloss, more lip gloss than one person could possibly use in her whole entire life, and what was I...

  “Miss,” a woman is saying, crouching down, her face right in front of mine. I blink. “Your complete first and last name.”

  I stare at her. I think this might not be the first time she’s asked.

  “Miss,” she says again, and I clear my throat. I swear I mean to say my name.

  “Why are you being such a bitch?” I ask, my voice coming out weak and whispery, like I’m about to cry.

  Wait. What?

  The woman sighs.

  At the hospital, they give me a sedative on top of whatever I’m already on, and then I may as well just not fucking be there. I’m dimly aware that I’m on some sort of gurney, still lying on my stomach, and there’s a bright light behind me and people in masks talking about fibers and particles and degrees and scarring and damage, and I couldn’t care less. Taped to the side of a cart are lovely pictures of a forest, a waterfall, a place I’m fairly sure is Yosemite Valley, the Grand Canyon.

  My mind wanders while doctors do something to my back, and I keep getting everything jumbled up. Trent on the floor, next to me. Trent’s hand in mine as he told me to quit making a production, the one person who knew exactly what to do.

  Then Trent and I lying in the grass in Yosemite Valley, under the trees, my hand still in his, Trent saying just breathe and there’s a campfire somewhere behind me. Somewhere in the back of my mind I’m unsettled but Trent is right there. Holding my hand. />
  And I float right the fuck away into the landscape.

  Chapter Five

  Trent

  I stare at the flowers for sale in the hospital gift shop, arms crossed. There’s a huge hole in my jeans, and they’re still stained with grass and mud from my little tussle earlier with Gavin, not to mention whatever’s in fire extinguisher foam, but it’s too fucking bad. I washed my face. That’s good enough.

  All these flowers are bullshit. They’re stupid, ugly carnations dyed in weird colors, or they’re half-dead lilies, or they’re multi-colored daisies. I don’t know flower names. I just know I hate these.

  There’s also an entire section of roses, but I can’t even look at roses. The smell alone makes me sweaty and nauseous. Fuck roses.

  Fuck hospitals. Just being in one, just that hospital scent brings everything back. The terror, the shame, the guilt. That feeling of complete and total powerlessness.

  Ever lied your face off to a doctor? I have. Dozens of times, starting when I was barely old enough to talk. Even then I understood what the alternative was.

  They didn’t believe me. I could see it in their faces, but I never cracked, no matter how many kindly nurses and gentle-faced CPS workers they sent in.

  I never told them shit. It’s fucked up, and it’s probably even more fucked up that I’m a little proud of how I never cracked, but there it is.

  I take a deep breath, ignoring the rose scent, and I just grab the biggest fucking flower display they’ve got. It includes a teddy bear and everything, and even though Darcy is anything but the teddy bear type, maybe she’ll get a kick out of how dumb it is.

  The girl behind the counter smiles up at me as I set the flowers down, rifling through my pockets.

  “Will this be all?” she asks, batting her eyelashes a little.

  I think she might recognize me, but it’s hard to tell, and my face is kinda dinged up at the moment. And frankly, I’m out of patience for flirting, chit-chat, social niceties, or anything that isn’t getting out of here and seeing Darcy already.