by Ashley Grace
"Joey!" I said. "Hey, Joey!"
His face looked dark and swollen, almost purple, with the veins standing out in his neck. He was making grunting noises deep in his throat, and thick drool slopped out the side of his mouth. One of his feet jerked out, banging into a cabinet door. Sergio and I turned him so that it wouldn't happen again.
I looked up at the people standing around us. Becca's eyes looked huge and horrified, her hands clutched over her mouth. Anne stood beside her, holding her—she looked frightened too, but not as panicked as Becca. Sergio's cousin Angel had his jaw clenched, his hands held out in front of him as if he wanted to help, but didn't know how.
"Angel," I said. "Go get Bernstein. He's in room 1245, just up the hall."
He was gone in a flash.
I looked back at Joey. He was starting to come out of it. His eyes had rolled back down so they didn't look all white, but they still looked glazed and glassy, the pupils totally dilated. An unpleasant noise from his jaw meant he was grinding his teeth.
I looked up at Anne and Becca.
"I think he's coming out of it," I said. "Sometimes he flails a bit when he does, so don't get too close."
She nodded, pulling Becca tight against her side and stepping back.
And then Micah appeared, looking furious.
"Shit," he said. "It's been years since Joey's had a fit. Swear to god, I'm going to kick that little bartender's ass!"
"Getting punched in the face probably didn't help," I said, "but I don't think we can blame it all on the bartender. Joey's been snorting coke all night, and that's set him off before."
"It's been years, though," Sergio said. "Think we should call 911? Get an ambulance?"
"Don't know if that's such a good idea," Micah said. "Nine-one-one brings the cops. There's a ton of drugs in here, man, and half of it belongs to Joey."
I looked up again, hoping to see Anne. A group of folks had gathered just outside of the kitchenette, looking down at Joey, but Anne and her friend weren't in the crowd. Had they left all together?
I felt a twinge of sadness at the thought.
Joey always partied hard. In the ten years that Belletrists had been world-famous he'd attained a sort of legendary status, following in the footsteps of Keith Moon and John Bonham and all the other hard-partying drummers that came before him. And despite the half dozen seizures I'd seen, I still thought of Joey as the rock that served as the band's foundation. We all depended on him. It was his emotional and physical stability that kept the rest of the band from falling apart.
But Anne was new, my relationship with her unknown and uncertain. There was something about her that made me feel a passion greater than anything I'd felt in a long time. The thought of her luscious curves, her gorgeous eyes, her soft lips—I wanted her desperately. And the way she'd looked at me, the way she'd sounded when she told me to take her back to the room—it made me feel sure she wanted me just as much.
My thoughts were interrupted by Joey starting to move again. He tried to brace his arm against the floor, to push himself up to a seated position. He gasped for breath, his body lurching like he couldn't find his balance. We held him so he wouldn't fall, and moved him back until he was leaning against the wall.
A moment later, Bernstein came in, hustling his pot belly through the crowd. His comb-over flopped the wrong way, over his ear instead of over his shining scalp.
"I called a doctor friend of mine," he said. "He's in the area and he oughta be here in just a few minutes."
He got down on one knee, his belly spilling over his belt, and put a hand on Joey's shoulder.
"You alright, Joey? You back with us?"
Joey looked at him blankly, his eyes confused and vaguely sullen. He didn't answer.
Bernstein glanced up at us. "What's he on tonight, boys? The usual booze and coke?"
"Yeah," Micah said, "and I split a tab of X with him before the show."
"Geezus, Micah," I said. "You did X tonight, and you still wanted to cut that dumb kid open?"
"Thizzin or not, I can't abide violent assholes," he said.
The hypocrisy was so staggering that I couldn't even summon the energy to point it out.
I heard a groan, and looked back at Joey. His eyes blinked, his head rocked side to side. He closed his mouth and his Adam's apple dipped in his throat.
"Joey," Bernstein said. "You alright, Joey?"
"My head…" Joey said. "Fuck." His voice sounded weak and unusually hoarse.
He made to stand up, putting a hand down on the ground, tilting his head forward until his chin touched his chest. A look of pain flashed across his face, and he fell back against the wall.
He groaned again. "Shit."
"Don't try to move just yet," Bernstein said. "Give your body a chance to get some blood back into your brain."
"How long… was it?" Joey murmured.
"Just a few minutes," I said. I listened for a moment. "The song on the stereo hasn't even changed yet."
"Bummer," Joey said. "Can't stand… Skrillex… shit."
I almost laughed at that.
"Let's try to get him back to his room in a few minutes, guys," Bernstein said, "so my doctor friend can look him over somewhere that isn't completely mishegas. Trace, you seem the least inebriated of the crowd, and therefore the least likely to accidentally drop this klutz on his head again. Help me carry him, why don't you?"
"Okay," I said. "Just give me one second first. I gotta check up on somebody."
He nodded. "We'll give Joey another minute to get himself together."
I stood up and stepped away from the kitchenette, looking for Anne.
She wasn't in the common room area of the suite. I felt another cutting flare of worry. Had she left?
And then I saw that the front door was ajar. I walked to it quickly, pulling it open.
Anne was in the hallway, trying to comfort her friend.
"Excuse me, ladies," I said. "Sorry to interrupt."
"Is Joey okay?" Anne asked. Her friend looked at me with tearful eyes, mascara running down her cheeks.
"I think so. He opened his eyes and started talking again. This isn't the first time this has happened, but Bernstein's got a doctor on the way to take a look at him."
I took a step toward Anne.
"I just wanted to let you know I'm gonna help them get Joey to his room."
"You're leaving?" Anne said.
"Just for a few minutes," I said. "Ten or fifteen, tops. Will you stay? Will you wait for me?"
"I…" Her beautiful eyes met mine, and then looked away. "I'm not sure. I don't know if we should."
It felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over my shoulders. Had I lost my chance with her already? Just hours after meeting her?
Tonight I'd felt alive, excited, for the first time in far too long. I didn't want it to be over already. I took a step forward, lifted her chin with my finger, looked into her beautiful eyes.
"What if I said please?"
Her eyes met mine. I saw fear there, and worry. But I also saw a yearning desire, burning like a flame. I recognized it because I felt it, too.
I brought my lips near hers, just an inch away, so close I could practically taste her sweet breath.
"Please don't leave, Anne," I whispered.
Her eyes met mine again, so close that she swam in my vision. And then she closed her eyes and brought her lips to mine, closing the tiny distance between us.
"I'll stay," she whispered. "For a little while, at least."
A little rush of hope went through me. I kissed her again, quickly.
"Thank you, Anne," I said, hurrying toward the door. "I'll be back soon, I promise."
And then I stepped through the door, and went to help with Joey.
Chapter 5
Anne
I watched Trace turn and head back through that door, the sound of the music and chaos blaring loud as the door opened, and then dying down again when it shut. My lips still seemed to tin
gle from his kiss, my heart beating hard in my chest, my face flushed with heat.
God, this night was turning into an emotional rollercoaster. One moment I was soaring high, ecstatic and thrilled. The next I was plunging into terror and panic. I wasn't sure how much more I could take.
I looked over at Becca. She'd been on a similar ride, maybe even with a few extra leaps and plunges. She'd already been intimate with one boy tonight, and then had started things moving with another, and then the first boy had smashed into the second in a pretty terrible and spectacular wreck. One ended up with a knife to his throat, the other in convulsions on the floor. Not exactly a walk in the park.
But that might have been true of her life in general. On a typical night I was in our dorm room with my books and my writing, and Becca was out in the city, having adventures. She lived closer to the edge than I did, and she'd probably seen higher highs and lower lows than me. She was wilder than me, too, more impulsive, more prone to exhilaration and melodrama, and more expressive of both.
It occurred to me that there were two different paths being shown here, and that I was trying to comfort Becca for walking in a world, and dealing with its unique pitfalls and pleasures, when she knew that world a lot better than me.
I looked back at the door. Someone had twisted the deadbolt out while the door was still open, and now that deadbolt kept the door from being able to fully close. There was a little gap at the edge of the door, a half-inch strip of shadow. The rest of the hallway was quiet and bright.
In the suite it was noisy and raucous and sexy and wild. Out here in the hall it was sterile and lifeless. And safe.
Did I want to go back in there or not?
I looked back at Becca. She was wiping the tears from her cheeks, sniffling to clear her nose.
"You still don't think we're in over our heads, here?" I asked.
She turned her clear blue eyes to mine, and for a moment we just looked at each other.
And then she shook her head, and said "Maybe."
The door swung open, abruptly flooding the hall with the noise from the party—screaming laughter and blaring music. And then Bernstein and Trace came through with Joey, each of them holding one of his arms over their shoulders. He sagged between them, his head lolling down so that his hair fell over his face, his feet dragging on the floor like he was exhausted.
Trace met my eye as they passed. "I'll be right back," he said.
"Okay," I said. Despite my doubts, I felt a little rush of pleasure at the notion.
A few feet farther down the hall, Joey lifted his head and looked back over his shoulder. He had a rogue's smile on his face, and his hair fell over one eye, but even as they dragged him farther away, he called out to Becca.
"Becca!" he said. "After the doc checks me out, you should come by my room."
"No no no, my friend," Bernstein said. "You've had enough commotion for one night. At this point, what you need is to stay in bed."
Joey's head swiveled over toward him. "Who said anything about getting out of bed?"
The manager made some response, but by that point they'd moved too far down the hall for us to hear it.
I looked back at Becca. Despite the redness in her eyes from crying, an amused little smile had returned to her mouth.
"Gotta hand it to that guy," she said, "he doesn't let much sway him from his course."
"Seems like he might want to give it up for tonight, though," I said. "The way his eyes rolled back in his head when he collapsed—god, that scared the hell out of me."
"Me too," she said, her voice in a whisper.
I put my hands on her arms, squeezed her gently. "Becca, do you think we should get out of here? Do you want me to take you home?"
She cleared her throat and swallowed, took a big breath and let it back out.
"Didn't you just tell Trace you were going to stay?" she said.
"I did. I said I'd stay for a little while."
"And don't you want to?"
I thought of Trace's eyes again, looking into mine. I thought of the way he'd kissed me, the way he'd gone down on me. And just the thought of it made my hunger for him start to rise again.
"I want more time with Trace," I said. "But I think I've had my fill of all the rest of this scene."
"Not sure if you can get the rock star without the rock scene, Anne," Becca said.
"That's what I'm starting to worry about."
She looked at me. "Well, he said he'd be right back. You wanna go back in for a few minutes at least? Maybe have one more drink? I sure could use one."
"I guess I can handle one more drink," I said. "But if Ronnie shows up again, or if the guitarist tries to stab anybody else, I might just have to call it quits. Think I'm reaching my tolerance limit for crazy."
She smiled. "You're not the only one, Anne. You're not the only one."
We turned back toward the door. I reached for the handle and pushed it open, letting the noise and the booze-perfumed air wash over us.
-
We found two empty spots on the couch. I took a seat, and Becca went to get us something to drink.
For a few minutes I sat there, looking around, trying not to feel intimidated by the chaos around me. But it was far enough along in the night that there were plenty of examples of people who'd already crashed and burned.
On the couch beside me, a young couple had fallen asleep, the girl curled up in the guy's arms, her head on his chest. I felt a pang of longing when I looked at them, envious for the closeness they shared, the comfort they seemed to take in each other's company despite all the noise and commotion swirling around them. I wanted that sort of comfort, that sort of closeness. Could Trace and I have something like that? Or was it just a ridiculous dream?
And then someone sat down on the couch beside me, opposite the sleeping couple. I turned, expecting it to me Becca.
It wasn't Becca. It was the Belletrist keyboard player, Sara Sounding.
Even though I'd been hanging out with the band all night, even though I'd already shared a private, intimate moment with the band's biggest star, I felt a rush of nerves when I realized who'd sat down beside me. Sara Sounding was sort of a cult hero amongst certain crowds. A rocker girl who played with one of the biggest bands in the world, an artist that not only thrived in the men's world of rock, but who also earned the respect of the music industry for her musicianship and public persona—she wasn't just a celebrity, she was a living legend to a lot of people.
And it wasn't just that, either. Earlier in the show, she'd shoved her keyboard over and ran off the stage in hysterics. And now that she'd sat down beside me, I could see the haunted look in her eyes, the startling prominence of her cheekbones in a face so thin it looked nearly emaciated. I could feel the shocking-thinness of her leg pressing against my own thick thigh.
I'd already had too much drama and craziness that night, and now I was worried that a whole heap of it had sat down right next to me.
So my surprise was even bigger when she met my eye, and gave me a warm smile.
"Hi," she said. "I'm Sara."
She stretched her hand out to me. I took it, feeling the delicate bones under my fingers.
"Um, hi," I said. "I'm Anne. I really, really like your band. Your music means a lot to me."
"Thank you, Anne. Is tonight the first night you've seen us play?"
I nodded. "It was an incredible show."
"It was," she said, her eyes going distant. "Honestly, it was the best show we've played in a long time. This was the fourth time we've played in the past two weeks—all of them secret little shows in small clubs. But tonight was the first time that playing didn't feel like a sad mistake."
Her eyes came back to mine.
"The band's been sort of in a bad place for the past year," she said, the haunted look coming back into her eyes. "Honestly, I was starting to think about quitting. But tonight… tonight gives me hope."
She put her hand on my bare knee. It felt as cold as i
ce.
"And I think you're the reason for it."
"M-me?" Suddenly my throat felt painfully dry. I licked my lips and swallowed, trying to moisten it. "Um, why?"
"Do you know what happened to the band a year ago?" she asked, leaning in a little. There was an eerie, intense look in her eyes, and she stared into me, unblinking.
I shook my head, feeling my heart start to accelerate. I'd been curious for ages, and part of me was desperate to know. But, suddenly, another part of me was terrified of what Sara Sounding might tell me.
"No," I whispered.
She leaned in just a little farther, her eyes boring into mine, still unblinking.
"My sister," she said, "Trace's girlfriend… she died of an overdose."
A sudden thought flashed into my mind: the reporter from the SF Chronicle, asking me how old I was, mentioning Trace's other girl.
"She was in bed with Trace when it happened," Sara said, her words slamming into me like quiet bombs. "He woke up next to her dead body. And then he tried to kill himself."
A sudden, whirling vertigo took hold of me, the room spinning. Sara's eyes were the only thing I could see, her low voice the only thing I could hear.
"He slit the artery in his wrist, the one you touch when you're checking someone's pulse." Her voice was nearly a whisper. "Every beat of his heart made him bleed, pumping more of his blood out through that cut. When the police got there, the bed was soaked with blood—both Trace and Lucy were covered in it. He almost bled to death."
The rumors I'd heard were true. And somehow—now that I'd shared a momentary intimacy with Trace, now that he'd lain in bed with me—it made it all more terrible.
"Trace loved my sister," Sara said. "And I thought that love would kill him. He hasn't admitted it, but all the music he's written in the past year, all the songs we've been playing, have been about Lucy. And every song is darker than the last. I felt sure that darkness would eventually overwhelm him, and then not only would my sister be dead, she'd be a murderer too."
For a moment her eyes seemed to shine, manic light glowing within them.
"But now you're here," she said, her hand clutching my leg. "And Trace has a light in the darkness. For the first time since Lucy died, he looks like he's got something to live for."
