Always Read online

  The second half of the tour had been even more debauched than the first half. The band that replaced Failsafe was loaded with assholes. They were all full of themselves because they had a song chart just four weeks after their first album was released and they acted like they were doing everybody a huge favor by showing up on the tour. Dillon suspected they had a stick up their collective asses because they’d been bumped from the first half of the tour in favor of Failsafe. Nobody liked them, and it created a tension that hadn’t been there before. Dillon missed Failsafe for the way they balanced out Outlaw Rovers. And he missed Justine for himself. He wasn’t sure just when she’d become so enmeshed in his life. Nothing was as much fun once she was gone.

  Without the guys from Failsafe to keep things chill, and without Justine there to guilt Ash into reining it in a little, every night turned into a bender. Everybody stayed drunk all the time and Ash was the worst.

  The turning point came during a four day break in New York. Dillon and Ash made huge plans for all the stuff they’d finally have time to do there. Then, on the first night, Ash met this chick, Miranda. He disappeared with her, which wasn’t unusual. But he stayed gone for the whole four days. He even missed the band flight to the next tour stop. When Eric, the road manager, finally found him, he was holed up in a crummy apartment on the Lower East Side with Miranda, wasted out of his mind with no cash and a dead cell phone.

  He hadn’t been the same since. In the past he’d contented himself with drinking, weed, and a little coke, drawing a line at the really hardcore stuff. After that trip, he’d seem fucked up in a whole new way, and Dillon had a bad feeling he knew what it was. His suspicions grew stronger when the tour wrapped. They came back to LA and headed straight into the studio to record their second album for the label. Ash was never a stickler for punctuality, but he’d always had some vague sense of responsibility. Now showing up hours late for a recording session was the new normal. Half the time, when he finally showed up, he looked like he hadn’t been home at all. It was starting to show in his performance, too. His voice was ragged with exhaustion and he made no meaningful creative contributions.

  Dillon was overwhelmed, his personal worry about Ash at war with his professional worry about the band. It seemed like both things were his problem to solve and he didn’t know what to do about either one.

  His phone rang and he hit send, sure it was Ash saying he was on his way.

  “Dillon?”

  He suppressed a groan. Jon Verlaine. He’d mostly been able to dodge Jon’s calls, since he knew Jon was only calling to check up on them and there was no good news to give him.

  “Hey, Jon.”

  “Just calling to see how the day’s recording is going.”

  Dillon glanced around the room. Rocky was texting someone. JD was smoking. The two session musicians were killing time in the corner, chatting. Evan, the engineer, was messing with something in the control booth.

  “Fine. You know, just working through some stuff.”

  “When do you think you’ll have some tracks for us to listen to?”

  Dillon closed his eyes and fisted his hair. Fucking Ash. “Um, soon. Real soon. Nothing’s locked in yet.”

  Jon was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was lower, all the easy friendliness gone. “Dillon, you know I went to the mat with the label to get you exclusively producing this album.”

  “I know that, Jon. And I appreciate it.”

  “And you know I think you guys are brilliant.”

  Dillon was ready for him to cut to whatever point he was making. “What are you getting to, Jon?”

  “You need to get Ash under control.”

  “He’s not—”

  “He’s not there, is he? He’s not showing up, he’s not recording the tracks. And without your lead singer, you’re not much of a band.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “It’s just a fact. We’re paying for the studio time and the musicians, but we expect a record to get made. One that’ll earn that money back and then some. When our investment is in trouble, we worry.”

  Dillon bit back the surly response that was on the tip of his tongue. Last winter, riding high on their hit single, they could issue demands and the label listened. But it had been nine months since that hit, a lifetime in the record industry. Dillon began to understand that in the label’s eyes, they didn’t wield the power of a diva rock band anymore. Any power they possessed lay in the album they had yet to make. He was panic-stricken.

  “Dillon, the songs you wrote on the road are good, and you have great instincts as a producer. But none of that is going to mean shit if you can’t get this record made.”

  “I get it, Jon.”

  “Do you?”

  “Loud and clear. Look, I think Ash just walked in,” he lied, desperate to get off the phone. “We’ll have a track for you by the end of the week, I promise.”

  “Sounds good. Pull this together, Dillon.”

  He ended the call and let out a low stream of curses. Fucking Jon. Where was that friendly guy who used to go with him to clubs to listen to music? Where was the guy who told them how much he believed in the Outlaw Rovers sound? Now he sounded just the same as that Mark Bennett asshole.

  As mad as he was at Jon and the label, they were right. The album needed to get made and apparently it was all on him to make it happen. Dillon was ill-equipped to handle this complicated mess. The business side of it was absolutely foreign to him. All he could do was play and write songs. Rocky and JD were great musicians, but between them, they didn’t have a lick of sense about management and neither was any good at corralling Ash.

  As far as their actual management went— that was the worst fail of all. Once upon a time, in the early, indie days, Mac managed them. Mac was from the Hollywood streets, just like Ash and Dillon. He knew the LA club scene from the inside out, and he was the one to wrangle a cut rate on studio time so they could record their first independent EP. Then Nightfall happened. There was corporate money and an A&R guy, and a lot of people who seemed to know better were telling them that Mac just wouldn’t be able to handle managing an act as big as Outlaw Rovers was about to become. They listened. And when the label nudged them towards Clearview Artist Management, they jumped. They cut Mac loose. Dillon looked back on that as one of the worst decisions they’d ever made as a band.

  When Mac was there, he was the bad cop. He rode herd on Ash and the rest of the band. In the first flush of success, they had a Clearview manager assigned to them exclusively, although the dick seemed less competent than Mac at a lot of things. But even he’d disappeared lately. And now, when they could really use someone to manage the band, all they had was a nameless herd of middle management drones with no ability to get anything done.

  His first shot at producing an album and he could barely get everybody in the room at the same time, never mind turn out anything he was remotely proud of. It felt like he’d failed before he’d even gotten started. There was nobody to turn to for guidance, not even Jon, who he thought he could trust. In the end, Jon’s loyalty was clearly with the label, not the band.

  Since things in the studio had started going wrong, he was getting more fucked up than he should, just to cope with it. Every night after they finished at the studio, if they got anything done at all, he ended up out with Ash. He knew it was a stupid thing to do, but it seemed like maybe he could control what happened if he at least stayed by his side. But inevitably Ash would disappear into a VIP room or a bathroom and Dillon would get angry and start drinking. The next thing he knew, he was waking up hungover and exhausted, and not always in his own bed. Something had to change; he just didn’t know what.

  He heard voices in the control booth and looked up to see Ash had finally arrived. He was giving Evan a bleary, apologetic smile and waving a hand to explain something. There was some girl with him who Dillon had never seen before.

  Pushing to his feet, he opened the door to join them.

  “
Hey, D.”

  Dillon looked at Evan. “Can you give us a minute?”

  Evan nodded wordlessly and slid out of his seat. As he passed Ash, Evan snagged the girl by the elbow and towed her out of the room with him.

  “Where the hell have you been, Ash?”

  Ash looked startled at his tone, which just made Dillon madder. The asshole didn’t even realize how late he was.

  “I had some shit to take care of. What’s the problem?”

  Dillon shoved his hands in his hair and gripped hard, squeezing his eyes shut in frustration.

  “Ash,” he said, trying his best to calm down. “We’ve been waiting. We’ve all been waiting. For hours.”

  “Geez, I’m sorry,” Ash held up his hands. “I’ll buy everybody dinner to make up for it, okay?”

  “It’s not about an apology. It’s about money. All these people are getting paid to be here. We’re paying them to be here.”

  Ash finally seemed to sense that Dillon was serious. “Okay, I get it. Just tell me how much we blew and I’ll pay for it. It’s my screw up.”

  At least he’s acknowledging that much, Dillon thought. It was something. “I don’t even know, man. That’s the problem. The label is keeping track of this shit and I don’t even know what it’s costing us.”

  “Dillon, relax. When we release the album, we’ll make it up in sales.”

  “We will? Are you sure? Because I’m not. Nobody makes anything from sales these days. And we have to finish the album before we can release it. We’re three weeks behind schedule already.”

  Ash’s brow furrowed. “Where is this coming from, Dillon? What’s going on with you?”

  “Me? What’s going on with me? Ash, you’re the one wearing fucking long sleeves when it’s eighty-five degrees outside. What are you hiding? What the hell is going on with you?”

  Ash’s eyes cut away and he shifted uncomfortably. Bingo, Dillon thought. But the confirmation of his suspicions didn’t make him feel any better. Instead, a cold knot of fear settled into his stomach.

  “I’m fine, D. Everything’s fine. Just relax.”

  Dillon let out a weary laugh. “Relax. Yeah, I’ll relax when you show up to record. Otherwise we’re a band with no lead singer.”

  “I’m here!” Ash shouted.

  “Five hours late!”

  “Look, Dillon, I got this. I’m here. We’ll be fine. Right? You and me. We can handle this.”

  He knew Ash was extending the olive branch, trying to smooth things over between them again, but he wasn’t ready to stand down just yet, especially when nothing had been resolved.

  “How about you handle it for a while? I’m taking a break.”

  He pushed past Ash and out of the room. Down the hall in the break room, he found an open bottle of Jack on the counter. There was always something around to help take the sharp edges off, and Dillon was desperately in need of a little escape. Not even bothering with a glass, he took a long pull from the bottle. He winced as the fire slid down his throat and into his stomach, but he kept going. Three more slugs and the tension receded. Or maybe it didn’t. It was still there, hovering around the edges and threatening to eat him alive, but wrapped in the warm glow of a good buzz, he was at least able to ignore it. As he sat back on the couch and took another sip, he wondered how much longer that would work. This house of cards was bound to topple at some point. The only question was who might still be standing when it did.

  January, 2009

  Justine was exhausted. As she sat in her car in the dark, filthy alley behind the bar and laid her head back on the headrest, every inch of her felt worn out and wrung-dry. She was usually tired after a gig, but this was different, deeper; a soul-deep exhaustion.

  The band was falling apart and her life felt like it was going with it. Tonight Paolo had dropped a bomb on them. He was leaving. His brother was starting a bike-repair shop in Boulder and he’d asked Paolo to come work for him. They had him for two more months and then he was gone. She could hardly blame him. It’s not like they were doing well enough to tempt him to stay.

  None of the momentum from getting the Outlaw Rovers tour seemed to pan out into anything meaningful. They came home with a little extra cash from ticket and merch sales. And while Dillon’s label had set them up with a limited distribution deal so they could sell Failsafe’s self-produced album at the gigs, they hadn’t seen much in the way of profits from that and the label didn’t seem inclined to actually sign them.

  Back in LA, they’d picked up right where they’d left off, playing all the same clubs they’d played before they left. In many ways, it felt like the tour had never happened. Except it had opened a rift in Failsafe that showed no sign of closing.

  Eddie and Paolo had spent a lot of time hanging around Outlaw Rovers. Whatever the problems were in that band, they were good guys and good musicians. It meant Eddie and Paolo were less tolerant of David’s musical dictatorship and bad attitude. Being questioned at every turn made David angrier than usual and it turned into a vicious circle of bitterness and resentment.

  Underneath it all was Justine’s new awareness of David’s feelings. Just as she’d feared, it tainted every interaction. Now that she knew, she could see it. In fact, she couldn’t believe she’d ever missed it. He must have known it was hopeless and so he turned his feelings into anger, calling her out on every mistake she made or choice he didn’t agree with. It was his way of controlling her the only way he knew how. At first she’d tried to let it go, reminding herself why he acted the way he did. But over time, she wound up throwing it right back at him, angry that he’d messed everything up.

  And now Paolo’s news. She didn’t know how they’d make it. People found new players all the time, but his defection felt like a mirror held up to the band. Look at us…we’re falling apart.

  She turned her phone over in her hand, knowing what she wanted to do but trying to talk herself out of it. She still spoke to Dillon frequently, more so since he’d come back to LA. But she was desperately trying to keep her distance and give herself time to get over him. She was better, but not there yet. Discipline was the answer. Don’t indulge in love that wouldn’t be returned. Don’t waste yourself on a guy who isn’t worth it, and doesn’t want it. She knew all of that. It was just a matter of time and space. However, she wasn’t willing to cut him out of her life completely and he didn’t seem to want to go. She wanted his friendship. The challenge, as always, was keeping it confined to that in her head and heart.

  In the end, she caved, scrolling to his name and hitting send. It was after one in the morning, but she wasn’t concerned about waking him. Dillon was always up. The only worry was disturbing him in the midst of something she’d rather not know about.

  He answered on the second ring, sounding relatively sober.

  “Hey, you. How’s it going?”

  She let out a sigh. “Paolo’s leaving the band.”

  “What? Did David kick him out or something?”

  “No, he’s just… done. Moving to Boulder with his brother.”

  “Hey, it’ll be fine. You guys will run an ad and audition some people. You’ll find another bass player in no time. Don’t sweat it.”

  She swallowed around a sudden rush of emotion, feeling near her breaking point. Dillon sensed it through the phone.

  “What’s really going on, Justine?”

  “I don’t know. It just feels like we’re falling apart and I don’t know what to do.”

  He paused before replying. “Where are you now?”

  “In my car behind The Palm. We just finished our gig.”

  “You’re by yourself? In that neighborhood? Get the hell out of there. Look, I’m at home. Just come over and we’ll talk.”

  Justine hesitated. It was tempting. Way too tempting. Alone with Dillon at his house. She’d avoided seeing him in those kinds of situations since they’d come home. They met up at bars or concerts, always in crowds. But she didn’t want to go home and she didn’t want t
o be alone, not tonight.

  “Okay.”

  Dillon’s house was almost as bare as it had been the first time she’d been there. There was a couch in the living room now, looking small and adrift in the cavernous room. He’d gotten a TV and it was mounted on the wall. The stereo still sat on the floor, as did that one lonely lamp, still struggling to light the room.

  “I like what you’ve done in here,” she quipped, dropping her bag on the bar.

  He chuckled. “It’s not that bad.”

  “Dillon, you still don’t have any furniture.”

  “I just moved in.”

  “You said that last time I was here and that was ages ago.”

  “Has it really been that long since you were here?”

  Justine did the math in her head. “It’s been a year.”

  “Jesus, really?” He smiled and raked a hand through his hair. “That was a great day, you know? That day you came over and we listened to music, just you and me.” He looked up at her again. “I missed you on the road. Nothing was the same after you left.”

  Justine inhaled, holding her fragile emotions at bay. Don’t read into it. He doesn’t mean it like that and he never has.

  “I missed being there,” she finally said, keeping her voice level. “I forgot how awful David could be one-on-one.”

  Dillon chuckled and turned away to the kitchen. He didn’t seem drunk or stoned, so she counted herself lucky. But he looked tired. His hair was too long and his eyes were bloodshot. He still looked good to her infatuated eyes. Too good. Five minutes in his house and all she wanted to do was touch him. With a sigh, she dragged her eyes away and focused on something else, anything else.

  Dillon rooted around in his kitchen. “Um… I have a beer. One beer. And I have a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Sorry.”