Always

by Amanda Weaver

  “It had it’s moments,” she finally acknowledged. “But yes, you’re right. Failsafe was all wrong for me. I was just too scared to make the move. Solo is scary.”

  He smiled ruefully. “I can’t imagine you being afraid of anything.”

  “I get just as scared as the next person. I had just as much self-doubt. Wait—is this the interview or are we just talking?”

  He smiled easily and surprisingly, she felt that glowing smile in her toes and a lot of other interesting places in between. “Let’s be friends right now. The interview can wait.”

  She gave him her own best smile in return, watching his blue eyes shift as he responded to it. The air was charged again, but not with nerves or awkwardness. No, this was a much more entertaining kind of energy. She was glad she’d met Ian before her life started blowing up. New people always had to be held at a distance because she never quite knew what they were there for. But Ian knew her before, when she was nobody. He’d wanted her then. She felt like she could trust the look in his eye, the energy he was giving off, far more than she could trust it from anyone else around her now, because his interest pre-dated her fame.

  “Friends?”

  Ian’s face lit up with interest and amusement. “Unless there’s something more on the table?”

  Justine shrugged. The gesture was off-handed, but her smile wasn’t.

  Ian leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “What do you say we forget the interview for now? I’d rather talk to you. I always liked talking to you, Justine.”

  She thought about their brief encounter two years ago. In the intervening time, she’d mainly remembered the sex, but it was true they’d talked a lot before that. And they’d kept talking for a while afterward. Ian had kept track of where she was on tour, always asking about the city she was in, and always getting it right. It had touched her then and it touched her now. She’d definitely been unfair to him.

  “Talking sounds good. We can always do the interview tomorrow.”

  He raised an eyebrow in interest. “Tomorrow?”

  It was a loaded word, implying everything they might do between now and then. None of that seemed like a bad idea at the moment.

  “Tomorrow,” she confirmed.

  June, 2010

  The bar was insane tonight— crowded and the music volume was mind-numbing. Just thinking it made Dillon feel like a cranky old man. He was only twenty-six. When did he start feeling so old? But he was still partly hung over from the night before and he wasn’t yet drunk enough to stop caring, so right now, the bass made his eardrums pound. Plus the song sucked. He hadn’t even wanted to come out tonight, but Ash wanted to and these days, he hated to let him out of his sight.

  The tour was over and when they limped back to LA trailed by poor ticket sales and a lackluster album, Dillon hoped that Ash might back off a little. But he seemed too far down the destructive road he was on to stop simply because the band needed a serious re-boot.

  Last time they’d come off the road, Dillon had already written loads of songs for the next album. They’d gone straight into the studio to start recording. This time, he had nothing. The only thing of note he’d written in months had been for Justine. His tank was on empty for Outlaw Rovers. The rest of the band seemed to be running on fumes as well. JD and Rocky both planned lengthy vacations as soon as the tour wrapped without even discussing it with management or him. They needed a break, Dillon knew that. But it left him feeling, once again, that things were slipping through his fingers and he had no idea how to stop it.

  With no set plans to head back into the studio, no gigs to prepare for, and no appearances or promotional stuff to do, they were at loose ends. Unlimited free time was turning out to be a bad idea for Ash. On the surface, he looked like he was having the time of his life. As Dillon watched him from across the room, Ash leaned on the bar, smiling and laughing as he chatted up a small group of college girls he’d met. He’d gone for fresh drinks twenty minutes ago but hadn’t come back. Dillon waved down a waitress and ordered his own scotch, tired of waiting for Ash to return with one.

  Once his scotch was delivered, he leaned back in the booth, trying to sip it instead of just slamming it back. The TV was on over the bar with the sound turned down, VH1 or Fuse or something. It looked like some sort of weekly countdown. The skinny girl hosting finished her intro and the next thing he knew, Justine was all over the screen. He felt the shock of it in his chest, one of many startling new reactions he had to her these days.

  Number one. Her new video was at number one, for something like the fifth week in a row. Not surprising, considering the song was absolutely everywhere right now. It was the ubiquitous catchy song of the summer, all over the radio, playing in stores, sung by teenage girls in the streets… he even heard it in the background of a Coke commercial. The third single had just been released and was already climbing the charts, even though the second one was still lodged firmly in the number one slot and the first was still on the charts, too.

  It was no wonder she had blown up like she had. Watching her on TV, it became apparent that amongst her other talents, Justine was a natural for television. As she strutted and charmed her way through the video, Dillon could almost hear America falling at her feet in adoration. She was the whole package— beautiful, charismatic, and a killer voice to give her credibility.

  Throughout her rapid climb to the top, she made it clear she still considered him one of her closest friends. He’d half-expected to lose her to fame. It would have been understandable to see her vanish behind the curtain of her new pop star persona. But aside from changing her cell phone number, not much had changed about Justine in the wake of her elevation to super-star status. She still texted and called him as she always had. She emailed him with snippets of lyrics and songs she’d heard that she wanted him to know about. He hung onto that like a lifeline. Sometimes she felt like the only sane thing in his life, which was an odd thing to consider, since she now looked more fantasy than real.

  Glancing down to Ash below the TV, he noticed the college girls were gone, replaced by a different woman. She looked a lot harder and more aggressive. Thin as a whippet and pale, in haphazardly body-conscious clothes and hair too messy to be considered intentional. After the last six months on the road with Ash, he could spot these girls at fifty yards. Any second now she would lean up to whisper in his ear. A minute after that, Ash would disappear into a bathroom or a back room with her. And before the night was over, Dillon would be throwing away used hypodermic needles and desperately trying to shove a semi-conscious Ash into a cab. If he was lucky, no vomit would be involved.

  With a sigh, he looked back at the TV. Watching Justine was infinitely preferable to watching Ash slowly self-destruct. He’d tried. They all had. He’d talked to Ash several times on his own and the band had approached him all together. Every time, Ash promised with absolute sincerity that he’d clean up and quit the hard stuff. And every time, they were cleaning him up off the floor a week later. That’s when he learned another hard lesson—junkies lie.

  When he glanced back at the bar seconds later, Ash was gone and so was the wasted girl. Dillon cursed under his breath and pushed out of the booth to track him down. He had to pay for their drinks first. The bartender insisted, since the girl had been charging to their tab and he knew her well enough not to trust her. Bad sign.

  Once that was done, he headed to the back of the bar, looking for the darkest, dirtiest corner, since that’s where Ash seemed to gravitate these days. He finally found them in the men’s room, locked in a stall.

  Pounding on the door, he shouted, “Ash, get the fuck out of there.”

  “Fuck off, Dillon. We’re busy.”

  “Busy,” he snorted in disgust. “Look, I really don’t want to clean up your vomit or carry you home tonight, so why don’t you just lay off for one night? Come back to the table and we’ll order some food. You need to eat something.”

  The door unlocked and slid open a few inches. Ash wa
s white and clammy. His eyes were wide and red-rimmed. “Just gimme a minute, okay? I need a little bump to calm me down and then I swear I’ll come out and we’ll hang, like I promised.”

  Dillon stared at him for a long moment, his jaw working. “A little bump, huh? You need it?”

  Ash looked slightly remorseful, maybe a little ashamed, but he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t.

  “What’s your problem?” The girl interjected. “I’m just having a little fun with Ash.”

  She ran a hand over his shoulder in a sickening show of familiarity. Sickening because Dillon finally realized Ash would pick this wasted strung-out girl he’d known for half an hour over him, the man he considered his brother, all because she was the one with the drugs. And the drugs always won in Ash’s new reality. It trumped everything. Friendship, loyalty, brotherhood. Whatever loyalty Ash had to Dillon, the loyalty that guided both of them through an adolescence that could have chewed them up and spit them out, was null and void when challenged by the drugs.

  Although Dillon knew how addiction worked, it didn’t hurt him any less to realize that he’d lost. He lashed out with anger, the only thing he had left.

  Grabbing the girl’s arm, he hauled her roughly out of the stall.

  “Hey!” she shrieked, stumbling in her high heels.

  “Dillon—”

  He stabbed a finger at Ash. “Shut up.” Then he turned back to the girl, shoving her towards the door. “You. Get the fuck out of here and take whatever it is you’re selling with you.”

  She took an unsteady step towards him. “Fuck off! You can’t tell me what to do. Ash can talk to whoever he wants.”

  Dillon let out a humorless laugh. “Talk. Right. Because he’s here for the talking. Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart. You’ve got drugs. That’s the only thing about you that he’s remotely interested in.”

  “You asshole!”

  She lurched at him, but he fended her off with another shove towards the door. “Now get the fuck out of here before I call the cops. The bartender said you’ve skipped out on your tab before. I’m sure the cops would love to talk to you about that.”

  She fumed silently, but she had no reply.

  “Dillon—” Ash started again, but Dillon held up a hand to stop him.

  “Not. Now.” Then to the girl. “Get out.”

  She spun and slammed the door open, stomping off down the hallway. When the door swung shut behind her, Dillon finally rounded on Ash.

  “Dillon—” Ash said one more time.

  “I’m done, Ash.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re a wreck. I’ve tried. The band has tried. Nothing we’ve said gets through to you. You promised me you’d quit and a week later I’m cleaning you up off the bathroom floor again. How long am I supposed to keep doing this? Until you find some junkie girlfriend to do it for you? Or until you’re dead?”

  Ash rolled his eyes. “You’re over-reacting. So I’ve been a little out of control with the partying. It’s not like—”

  “You’re an addict.”

  “I’m not! I can handle this. You want me to stop? Okay, I’ll stop.”

  Dillon shook his head and sighed. “For how long? A day? Two? It’s too late for that. You need to be in rehab.”

  Ash reared back like he’d been struck. “Fuck that. I do not need rehab.”

  “This shit has wrecked the album and the tour. And now it’s wrecking us. What next?”

  In spite of his anger, Ash stopped and stared at him. “What are you saying, Dillon?”

  “I’m saying—” Dillon had to stop and swallow before he could spit the words out. “I’m saying we’re done. I can’t keep doing this with you.”

  “What do you mean, we’re done? We have the band.”

  Dillon let out a bitter laugh. “The band. While you were busy shooting up, I was actually looking at the sales figures. We barely have a band anymore, Ash. You blew it to pieces. And you’re doing it to us, too.”

  “C’mon, man,” Ash reached his hand out to Dillon. “Don’t say that. You’re my brother.”

  “And you keep picking the drugs over me. I’ve tried to help you. I keep trying, and nothing changes. You just keep getting worse.”

  “I’m not that bad.”

  “Have you seen yourself lately? You’re a skeleton. You don’t eat, you don’t clean up. You look like a corpse. Or a junkie.”

  “Quit calling me that.”

  “It’s all that fits now. I don’t even know you anymore.”

  “Dillon,” Ash looked wounded, as if Dillon’s words had finally hit home. “You know me better than anyone.”

  “I know who you were, not who you are. And to be honest? I don’t want to know this guy.”

  “So, what? You’re just walking away from me?”

  Dillon was silent, staring at Ash. All his golden glow was gone, leaving the pale, thin mess in front of him. He felt wrecked and disloyal, walking away from him now, but he hadn’t been lying when he said he couldn’t keep trying, especially when nothing he did seemed to change anything.

  “Yeah,” he finally said quietly, “I am.”

  He turned and left Ash standing alone in the bathroom with his syringe. Dillon knew on some level Ash was relieved to see him go, since it meant he could finally shoot up. Which was exactly why he had to leave. He couldn’t stop it, but he couldn’t watch it happen any more.

  Ian was asleep on his stomach, his face turned to the side on the pillow and his gold hair falling across his forehead. He looked so much younger asleep. Justine perched gently on the edge of the mattress trying not to disturb him, even though she wanted to say goodbye in person. It was kinder to leave him a note and let him sleep, but she suspected that she’d be selfish in the end and wake him.

  While he slept, she drank him in—his broad shoulders and perfectly muscled back, the gorgeous gold hair, so soft, and tousled. Her fingers curled in against the impulse to brush it back off his forehead. He was so beautiful. She could look at him forever and not get tired of it. They’d kept things easy and casual since they’d started back up, but every time she saw him, she felt herself falling a little harder. It wasn’t easy, since her schedule and his kept them apart more than they were together. But for the odd two or three days they were able to connect in one city or another, they spent easy, fun nights holed up in her hotel suite, watching movies, ordering room service and talking. The rest of the time they talked on the phone. Each time they parted, she felt it a little more. And after every phone call, she found herself counting the days until she’d see him again.

  They hadn’t said the words, hadn’t made any promises or declarations, but it felt close, like their relationship was blossoming slowly into something real, something good.

  Unable to resist, Justine leaned down and pressed a kiss to his shoulder blade. He groaned, a low sexy sound deep in his throat.

  “Morning,” he muttered.

  “I have to go,” she whispered.

  “Already?” He rolled onto his side, blinking himself awake.

  “My flight’s at 9.”

  He sighed and reached a hand up to her face. “I’ll miss you.”

  It was so simply-said and so heartfelt. “I’ll miss you, too.” She could feel it like an ache in her chest already.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said, then cleared his throat of the rasp of sleep before continuing. “I have a couple of projects to finish up in New York and then I have a few quiet weeks. What would you think of me coming on the road with you for a bit?”

  She felt a smile blooming across her face until her cheeks hurt with the force of it. “I think I’d like that very much.”

  He reached for her hand, playing with her fingers. “As much as I’m enjoying our random hotel room encounters, I think I’m ready for…more.”

  He looked up at her uncertainly. She flipped her hand in his until she could squeeze it.

  “I’m ready for that, too.”

&nb
sp; He released her hand, reaching up to cup the back of her neck and pull her down for a kiss. “I’ll email you and we’ll figure out the dates.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “Go,” he sighed. “Before I pull you back into bed and make you miss your flight.”

  “I like that idea,” she murmured, running a hand up his bare chest.

  He groaned. “Until your tour manager calls you freaking out.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll hold that thought. You’d better hurry, though. I’m feeling greedy and I want you all to myself.”

  “When I get there, you can have as much as you want.”

  She smiled and kissed him one more time before leaving the bed and grabbing her shoulder bag. She backed to the door, pressing her fingers to her lips as he watched her go.

  Hours later, on the other side of the country, she was dozing in the back of the SUV as the driver made his way from the airport. Her phone buzzed and she smiled as she pulled it out, expecting a text from Ian. Instead, she saw it was Dillon calling.

  “Hey, there you are.”

  “Sorry I haven’t called. Things have been… crazy.”

  Justine felt a pang of guilt, since she hadn’t been the best about keeping in touch, either. She was so swamped with planning her solo tour, and her scant down time had been devoted to Ian. She was a lousy friend. “Everything okay?” she asked, resolving to do better by Dillon.

  “Not really. I, um…” He let out a humorless chuckle. “I broke up with Ash.”

  “What?”

  “I couldn’t deal with it anymore. The drugs… all of it. And I told him so.”

  She blinked into the middle distance, trying to absorb his words. “So— now what?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I haven’t seen or talked to him in a week. It feels like I cut off my own arm.”

  “Oh, Dillon. I’m so sorry.” She knew how he felt about Ash, a connection that went further than friendship or loyalty. They were family. It had to be bad for Dillon to take this step. Her heart hurt for him.

  “The ridiculous thing is, as mad as I am at him right now, I’m also worried sick about him. At least when I was there, I knew what was going on, as awful as it was. Now… I have no idea what’s happening and it’s driving me crazy.”