by Kim Holden
There’s a shift in his features, a vein in his forehead begins pulsing and his eyes turn dark and intense. I know what’s coming. “What have you been taking?”
“Coke, pills, whatever she could get her hands on.”
He’s on his feet in a flash and flying toward the door of the bus. I surprise myself by jumping up after him, and soon it’s me holding him by the arm trying to keep him out of her bedroom. He’s a strong fucker when he’s angry. He doesn’t get angry like this often; I’ve only seen it once or twice in five years. He can be scary as hell when he's pissed like this. He isn’t budging. Clare is standing by the bed, wrapped in a thin robe. Her face is pale but unyielding. Franco’s screaming at her. “What have you done to him?” When she doesn’t answer and stands there defiantly with her arms crossed over her chest, he explodes again. Louder this time. She flinches. “I said, what have you fucking done to him?!”
A smirk emerges and her eyes shift to mine. “Nothing he didn’t want, right love?”
I have a grip on both of his biceps from behind now. His arms are shaking violently with rage. “You fucking lied to me!” I don’t know how he keeps getting louder, but he does.
No response.
He’s pointing at her. “Stay away from him, do you hear me? Stay the fuck away from him. You don’t give him anything. You don’t talk to him. You don’t even look at him.”
She looks at me and there’s fear behind the icy façade. I know she hasn’t been doing this job long, and she knows it could be in jeopardy. “Gustov is a grown man, Franco. I never forced him to do anything. He wanted it.”
I don’t like Clare, never have, but I have to admit I feel a little sorry for her right now. She’s in the direct path of hurricane Franco and it should be me. “She’s right, dude,” I huff. “She never forced me. If you’re gonna be pissed at anyone, it should be me.”
Franco turns, breaks my grip, and faces me. His eyes pierce me and I know I’m in for it. “Oh, I am pissed, Gus.” I can tell, because he rarely calls me Gus. “Fucking pissed. What in the hell were you thinking? Listen,” he pauses, glancing at Clare like he wishes she wasn’t within earshot. He turns back to me and continues, “I know everything is shit right now. I know that.” He lowers his voice. “We all miss her, dude. But this is no way to deal. Do you know how disappointed she’d be if she was standing here watching this whole goddamn debacle play out?”
She’d hate it. I fucking know that. “Well, she’s not here, is she?” I can’t have this conversation. I don’t need the reminder. I live it every second. “She’s fucking dead.” I’m not listening anymore. I walk away toward the mini-fridge and pull out a beer.
Franco turns back to Clare and points at me sitting at the table. “Stay the fuck away from him.” It’s a not-so-subtle reminder. Then he looks and me and points at Clare. “Same goes for you. Stay away from her. Find a new fuck buddy.”
Clare closes the door to her bedroom. She’s on the inside and I feel some relief having the buffer.
Franco slides into the seat across from me. He looks spent and has calmed down. “Sorry, dipshit. I shouldn’t have brought up Kate in front of her.”
I throw back half the can before I come up for air. “The cat was already out of the bag, dude. Sounds like I did a stellar job of that last night.” I run my fingers through my hair and hold it back in a ponytail. “I can’t believe I did that.”
He raps his knuckles on the table. “You pretended the person you were with was the person you wish you were with instead. We’ve all fantasized. No shame.”
I look him in the eye. “You don’t fantasize about dead people.”
“You were higher than a fucking kite.” He exhales and stares at me for a while, his eyes begging for honesty. “You loved her, I know you did. Don’t play the ‘best friends’ card with me, man. Do I blame you? Hell no. Kate was the most incredible woman I’ve ever met. All of us sorry fucks will be lucky if we end up with someone who’s half the person she was.”
I nod and sit back and finish my beer.
Franco lets me.
End of discussion.
Monday, March 27
(Gus)
As the plane hits the tarmac at San Diego International Airport I let out a sigh of relief. I feel like I’ve been holding my breath for two months. I know it’s totally irrational to think that geography will change what’s going on in my head, but being so far from home and everything that's familiar didn’t help matters. The European leg of the tour wrapped up last night in Paris. I’m tired as hell and all I want to do is sleep for the next three weeks straight before the US tour starts up again.
Franco elbows me when the aisle frees up enough to squeeze out into the flow. After retrieving my bag from the overhead compartment, I trudge through the airport to baggage claim. I’m following Franco. He’s not talking. I know he’s as beat down as I am from the clusterfuck of the past two months.
Though I haven’t done any drugs since that night shit went down with Clare, I haven’t been sober for the past sixty-something days. My blood’s been holding steady at 80 proof. It’s wearing me out if you want to know the truth. I did it to hide from life, but now I just feel buried alive.
Clare stayed on for the rest of the tour and finished her job. She didn’t talk to me after the big blowup. And I didn’t talk to her. With the distance came a newfound clarity—she might be even more fucked up than I am. I don’t know what made her the way she is, but there are definitely some issues behind her tailspin. If I had a guess, I'd say she’s going to crash. Hard.
Tuesday, March 28
(Gus)
MFDM got them to hold off on the album rerelease until today.
He knew I couldn’t deal with “Finish Me,” and playing it while we were on tour was out of the question.
I love the dude for fighting for us.
Wednesday, April 19
(Gus)
I’ve spent the past three weeks avoiding everything. Sleeping as much as possible. I eat dinner with Ma every night, but that’s the extent of my contact with the real world. It’s the only part of my day that I look forward to—time with Ma, even if we don’t talk much. It's comforting for both of us.
Thursday, April 20
(Gus)
I’m holding my phone in my hand looking at it like I have no idea where to begin. Or maybe I’m second-guessing making the call at all. I haven’t seen or talked to Bright Side’s boyfriend, Keller, since the funeral. But during the past few days I can’t stop thinking about him and his daughter, Stella. Wondering how they’re doing. He’s a good guy and Bright Side loved the hell out of him, so I hope he’s keeping his shit together better than I am.
I dial his number. Before it starts ringing, my heart is pounding so hard I feel like I’m going into cardiac arrest. I hang up.
I guess I’m not ready for this.
Friday, April 21
(Gus)
The tour starts tonight in Vegas. It’s early, eight o’clock in the morning, and Franco’s in the kitchen talking to Ma. We need to leave soon but I haven’t packed yet. I grab my duffle bag out of my closet and toss it unzipped on the bed. I throw in a few T-shirts, jeans, socks, and underwear, along with my laptop, toothbrush, toothpaste, and deodorant. I check my pockets for my wallet, phone, cigarettes, and lighter. Throwing the bag’s strap over my shoulder, I glance back at Bright Side’s laptop. It’s still sitting untouched on my dresser. Goddamn, I want to take it so bad. To open it up and dive in. Dig through everything she left behind. To have her back in my life again. But it’s not that easy and it’s so fucking intimate that it almost makes me cry thinking about it.
Instead, I snag my guitar cases from the corner and shut the door behind me. I shut the door on Bright Side. Again.
Ma and Franco are talking. I hear them from the hall. But when I step into the room there’s instantaneous silence. Coincidence? Nope.
“It’s okay, don’t let the fact that I’m actually standing in the room w
ith you stop you from talking about me.”
Harsh? Yeah.
Do I care? Yeah, with Ma and Franco I do.
Can I stop acting like an asshole? Nope.
Ma frowns and hugs me.
I hug her back. It’s an apology. “Morning, Ma.”
“Good morning, Gus.” She's forgiving me.
I love her to death for it, because she shouldn’t forgive me.
The flight is short and we've landed in no time. A cab drops us off in front of some monstrosity of a hotel on the strip. It’s eleven o’clock. I’m ready for a few stiff drinks and a nap, but Hitler met us at the door and wastes no time ushering us through the masses to an elevator.
It’s not until we’re tucked away inside a shiny elevator that he starts talking at us. “Jamie and Robbie arrived about a half hour ago. The two of you have … ” he pulls back the cuff of his dress shirt to get a look at his Rolex knock-off, “ … twenty minutes before the photo shoot begins.”
Jamie and Robbie have been in Vegas for a few days. A mini-vacation. Good for them.
I look at myself in the mirrored wall in front of me. My clothes look like I slept in them. Come to think of it, maybe I did. My hair hasn’t been washed in a couple of days and it’s pulled back in a ponytail. It’s getting long again. I’m thankful for the sunglasses because I can’t see my tired, bloodshot eyes staring back at me. Admonishing me.
Hitler doesn’t say anything else.
Neither do we.
The elevator stops on the fifteenth floor, and when the doors open we follow him out. Everything in Vegas is opulent and over-the-top. I’ve always hated it. It’s pretentious and fake, just a lot of smoke and mirrors. Hitler stops a few doors down and opens the door to what we soon discover is a suite, like a house inside a hotel. The furniture has been cleared from one end of the living room and a crew is setting up backdrops, lighting, and cameras.
Franco and I drop our bags and Franco walks over to sit on one of the numerous leather sofas with Robbie and Jamie. I walk over to the bar and pour myself a glass of whiskey. Three gulps and the glass is drained. I fill it up again and take it with me to sit with the guys.
I must have started to drift off, because minutes later I’m roused from near sleep by a cute blond in tight jeans and a black tank top. “Come with me, Gustov.” Her voice is hypnotic. Or maybe it’s her ass. Or her small but unbelievably perfect breasts.
“Gladly,” I respond. And just like that the two of us are behind closed doors and she’s pulling my clothes off.
“We don’t have much time,” she says.
Damn right we don’t. I need you right fucking now.
She hands me a pair of black jeans. “Put these on.”
I’m confused. “Wait. You want me to put these on?”
She blinks her doe-like brown eyes at me. “That’s what I said. Hurry up, we need to do something with your hair before they come in to do your makeup.”
Dammit. She really does want me to get dressed. I thought shit was about to go down. Now I’m standing here in my underwear, hard, and she wants to fix my hair.
I don’t miss the fact that her eyes flit down to my manhood standing at full attention before she turns her back on me to sort through a pile of shirts on the bed.
I slip into the jeans. They fit well, despite the bulge.
“I’m Lindsey, by the way,” she says as she turns toward me again. She shakes my hand before handing me a shirt.
Now I feel like an idiot because she seems pretty cool. “And I’m an asshole, by the way.”
She laughs at my admission.
“Sorry about that.” I wouldn’t usually apologize for something like this, because she didn’t seem offended and I still have the feeling that we might hook up later, but she just seems … nice.
“No worries. I’ve done this job for ten years. I’ve heard and seen it all.” She looks older than I am, but I never would’ve guessed that she’s been doing this job for a whole decade.
It’s my turn to laugh and it feels like a weight’s been lifted off my chest. I shrug on the shirt.
“Sit here, please,” she says, gesturing toward a chair. After tugging the elastic band out of my hair, she rakes her fingers through it a few times. It’s tangled.
“Hmm.” She’s thinking.
I look back at her over my shoulder. “It’s a fucking rat’s nest. I didn’t know a photo shoot was in the plans today. Sorry.” I’m apologizing again. I feel bad, like I’m making her job harder.
She smiles and it’s friendly. It makes me want to stay in this room forever. “Never doubt me,” she says. “There’s a product for everything.” She starts finger combing my hair again. “Even this.”
Five minutes later, my hair looks better than it has in months. I guess I shouldn’t have doubted her.
Lindsey hangs up the shirts and folds the jeans that weren’t used while someone applies makeup to my face. Usually I hate it when they put this shit on me, but I’m not paying attention because I can’t take my eyes off Lindsey.
When the makeup artist (I didn’t look to see if it was a man or woman) leaves the room, I blurt out, “Are you going to our show tonight?”
She laughs again and it’s like music to my ears. “No. Though I’ve heard some of your songs on the radio. You’re good.”
“You should come. I can get you in.” I sound ridiculous. And desperate. Of course I can get her in; I’m in the fucking band.
“I can’t. Have to catch a flight back to Seattle tonight. Thanks anyway, Gustov.”
“How about dinner? Before you leave?” Goddamn, it’s almost embarrassing how hard I’m trying here. And it’s not even about the potential of sex with her that’s got me so wound up. It’s just … her.
She blinks a few times and I already know she’s going to turn me down. “Gustov, I’m flattered. Truly.” She smiles to soften the rejection, I suppose. “And you’re not an asshole,” she adds quickly. “But I have a boyfriend.”
I nod. Understood. And if it’s possible, I have even more respect for her. I don’t get in the middle of other people’s relationships. End of story.
Someone clears her throat behind us. I turn and there’s a woman standing just inside the doorway. Her stance tells me she’d rather be anywhere but here. For the most part, her attention is focused on the doorframe in front of her. I can only see the left side of her face, and it looks tight, not friendly. I wonder how long she’s been standing there. Judging by her posture, it’s been a while. She shifts her weight to her right side, and she's holding a legal pad of paper tightly in her hand. She looks impatient. Impatient, like it’s her middle name. Like she eats, sleeps, and breathes impatience. I already don’t like her.
“Gustov, if you’re done here … ” Her voice is quiet, and her eyes flit in our direction without turning to face us. The hasty eye contact tells me she heard everything. She’s judging me. “They’re ready for you.” The tone of her voice is total annoyance.
Without taking my eyes off Lindsey, I hold up a finger in Impatient’s direction asking her to give us a minute. She turns and quickly disappears.
Closing the gap between me and Lindsey, I offer my hand again. I’m nervous. I hate being nervous.
She shakes it. She’s calm. The calm bleeds in through the contact and I welcome it.
Meeting her eyes, I say, “He’s a lucky man, Lindsey.” I mean it.
Smiling, she nods and winks. “Thanks Gustov. And just so you know, if I wasn’t completely, madly in love with the guy, I would’ve said yes to dinner.”
I smile like a schoolgirl, release her hand, and walk out the door.
The photo shoot, an event I usually loath, isn’t as miserable as I expected. And I’m not even drunk. The photographer, Jack, isn’t the type we’ve worked with in the past. They usually take themselves too seriously and wear the title, artist, like it somehow elevates them to a state incapable of communicating with the lowly “talent.” Jack has a sense of humor and humi
lity. It’s a nice pairing, one of my favorites. He gets all of us to loosen up and act natural. Hell, I don’t know what natural is anymore, but I’m doing it.
By the time I get out of the shower and change into some clean clothes from my bag after the shoot, Lindsey’s gone. I kinda wanted to see her again, but I know that’s a little too stalker for my style. It just felt good to be attracted to someone so normal, but she’s taken and that means it’s time to put her out of my mind.
I’m startled back to the present by the sound of Hitler barking at me from the living room. “Gustov, join us. We’ve got a few things to go over before soundcheck.” He says it like he’s involved in soundcheck. I’d be surprised if he’s ever touched an instrument in his life. I walk to the bar and fill a glass with whiskey before taking a seat on the sofa next to Franco. My ass barely hits the cushion when I realize I can’t listen to Hitler sober. So immediately I rise again, grab the bottle from the bar, and set it on the coffee table in front of me before settling in.
He gives me one of his looks. It’s the degrading, I-don’t-get-paid-enough-to-tolerate-your-shit stare. “Anything else you need before we get started?” Pure sarcasm.
Which of course I meet with a little of my own, because I can’t keep my mouth shut. “Lunch and a hooker? We are in Vegas, you know.”
He shakes his head in disgust. He’s so over me it’s not even funny.
Shrugging, I take a swig from my glass. “Had to try.”
Franco shoots me a warning look to shut up, but his smile is seeping through. The smile’s winning.
Hitler ignores my retort and clears his throat. “As you know, I’ll be with you for the duration of the tour. And though Europe was successful, despite a few rescheduled shows,” he says, glaring in my direction, “a lot is at stake with your return to the United States. The US tour last year was good, but your album is really taking off in the states now. ‘Finish Me’ is in the top ten on the alternative charts this week. You can’t afford any mistakes now.” He’s staring at me as though he's waiting for an answer to a question he didn't ask. When I don’t respond, he continues, “Management has a few requests.”
