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  They found themselves at a crummy dive bar on Hollywood Boulevard called The Frolic Room, not far from Justine’s old apartment. It didn’t look like anyone had frolicked in The Frolic Room since around 1965. Nobody raised an eyebrow at the four of them, dressed in black, lined up at the bar with shots of whiskey at 2 p.m.

  Rocky raised a glass first. “Ash was one brilliant motherfucker. Equal parts brilliant and motherfucker.”

  “Amen,” JD said and they all slammed it back. Dillon snagged the bottle, which they’d asked the bartender to leave behind, and refilled their glasses.

  “The world has never seen someone like Ash,” Justine said, “And never will again.” The boys murmured their assent and downed another drink.

  “He was good people.” JD said. “When you could find him underneath all the other bullshit.”

  Another shot of whiskey disappeared.

  Dillon refilled, his glass nearly sloshing over. His eyes were blank, his face slack and emotionless. “He was my brother,” he murmured. Justine swallowed what felt like endless tears and raised her glass.

  Hours later, Rocky and JD were gone and she was helping Dillon out of a cab and into his house on her own. Justine was still buzzed, but Dillon was way worse off than her, since he’d kept drinking long after she’d stopped.

  He’d never gotten around to fully furnishing his house. There was still only a couch in the living room and a lamp on the floor. She used to find it kind of charming, the idea of Dillon too overwhelmed by fame to manage buying furniture on his own. Now she thought about Emily and her mother, helping her pick things and coming to turn her house into a home when she was too busy to do it herself, and her heart hurt for Dillon. He didn’t have anyone in his life to do that for him. He really was so alone. And now Ash…she could barely stand to think about it.

  Dillon headed straight to the kitchen, snatching a half-empty bottle of scotch off the counter and wrenching the cap off. He took a long swig straight from the bottle and winced as it went down.

  “Dillon, slow down.”

  He cast her a wary glance out of the corner of his eye. “Justine,” he said evenly. “I plan on getting so drunk I can’t see, feel, think or remember. If you don’t want to see it, you should go home now.”

  “This isn’t the way to deal with this.”

  He stopped, gripping the edge of the counter and dropping his head. “I know that. I know it. But right now…Jesus, I can’t. I can’t face it. I need to… not be here. I need to not know this for a night. I swear I’ll be better tomorrow. But tonight, I can’t.”

  Everything about him was so wrecked, so defeated, so fragile, she couldn’t say a thing. Who was she to judge how he dealt with this? She couldn’t imagine what she’d do if anything ever happened to Emily. She’d probably want to erase herself for a while, too.

  “Okay,” she finally said. “Do you want me to stay?”

  He turned his head slightly, managing a small smile that never reached his eyes. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

  “Dillon—”

  He pushed off the bar and came towards her. Pulling her into a tight hug, he pressed a kiss to her hair. “Just give me tonight. I have to— I gotta say goodbye to him in my own way.”

  She nodded.

  He held onto her for another moment, breathing into the crook of her neck, one hand stroking her hair. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Don’t think about it because it’s not going to happen. I’m leaving now, but I’ll call. And I’ll be back. Okay?”

  He nodded. “I know you will.”

  January, 2011

  Justine pounded on the door four more times. Still nothing from inside. Calling him on the phone was pointless. She’d been doing that ever since last night, when she played The Greek and he’d failed to come backstage after the show like they’d arranged. At first she’d been hurt. Then she got mad. Now she was worried, but mad was still waiting in the wings, ready to take over again when he proved to be alive.

  Half a dozen more blows to the door and she was officially scared. Where was he? Why wasn’t he answering the phone or coming to the door? She knew he’d been in a bad place since Ash died. He rarely answered his phone, but the few times he did, he told her he was “managing.” She suspected he was placating her, but now suspicion was growing that things were worse than he’d let on.

  “Dillon!” she shouted up at the bedroom windows. Well, she thought they were the bedroom windows. She’d never actually made it as far as Dillon’s bedroom, but she thought that’s where it was. “Your car is here so I know you’re home! Come answer the door!”

  Finally, she heard a thump from somewhere deep in the house. There was only silence after that, and she was on the verge of dialing 911 when she heard muffled thuds, maybe footsteps on the stairs. A moment later, the door swung open and Dillon, completely wrecked and disheveled, squinted at the bright midday sun. Her momentary relief at finding him alive fled when she registered how awful he looked. His hair was too long, tangled and unwashed. His t-shirt was once white, but was now yellowed with wear and smudged with dirt. He hadn’t shaved in days, maybe weeks. And there was a large red scrape stretching from his temple to the hollow under his cheekbone on one side of his face. It was scabbed over and starting to bruise in the center.

  “Justine,” he rasped. “What’s wrong?”

  She reared back and stared at him. “What’s wrong?” she finally said. “Well, we can start with you standing me up at The Greek last night.”

  Dillon closed his eyes and groaned, muttering under his breath. “Shit.”

  “Yeah, let’s continue with shit, because that’s what you look like. What the hell is going on with you, Dillon? What happened to your face?”

  Absently, he reached up to touch it and winced. “I, um… I fell.”

  She blew out a disgusted huff and shoved him back into the house. He staggered back and she followed him in, slamming the door behind her. He winced again. When she walked up to him, she caught the smell of stale liquor, strong enough to turn her stomach.

  “You’re hung over. Or are you still drunk? When was the last time you remember being conscious?”

  He shook his head. “Can we do this some other time? I have the flu.”

  Junkies lie. Dillon told her that before her last conversation with Ash, but it was turning out to be true of all addicts.

  “Bullshit,” she hissed. “Is this what you’ve been doing since Ash’s funeral? You said you needed a day to forget. Did you take the whole month? Have you even sobered up since that day?”

  “Back off, Justine! I’m not doing this with you today!” His outburst seemed to cost him all the strength he could muster and he sagged against the kitchen counter, closing his eyes.

  “No, but I’m doing this with you. I will not stand by and watch this happen all over again.”

  “Relax. I’m not that bad. I have this under control.”

  She gave him a bitter smile. “That’s exactly what Ash said.”

  “Leave him out of this.”

  “Why? It’s all about him, isn’t it? Dillon,” she moved forward and grabbed his hand. His knuckles were scraped raw. “This is me. Please talk to me.”

  He kept his eyes closed for a long time, a muscle in his jaw working as he gritted his teeth. Just when she thought he’d shut down and refuse, he opened his eyes and looked at her. The desolation of his expression nearly stopped her heart.

  “It’s my fault,” he whispered. “I can’t stand myself. I’m going crazy. It’s all my fault.”

  “Hey, stop it. What is?”

  “Ash. I was supposed to be looking out for him. I said I would. I promised that nothing would happen to him. Instead, I fucking walked away. And he died alone.”

  “Oh Dillon, no. You know it was more complicated than that. You tried. You tried harder than anyone.”

  “But I failed. And then I just cut him loose. How the fuck am I supposed to live wit
h that?”

  “You have to find a way. You need to talk to somebody. But first, you need to get sober. This has got to stop. I was willing to give you a pass when Ash died, give you time to deal with it your own way. But the way you’re dealing with it is going to kill you, and I can’t let that happen.”

  He shook his head wearily. “Just let me go, Justine. Get yourself clear of this mess once and for all.”

  “Shut up. I’m not doing that. You’re too important.”

  He let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, I’m so vital to the world.”

  Her hand shot out and she gripped his chin. “Hey, you’re vital to me. Do you remember when we met? New Year’s Eve? Do you know why I wanted to meet you that night?”

  He shook his head, looking so tired he might fade away in front of her eyes. She tightened her grip on his jaw, forcing his face to hers, making him meet her eyes.

  “Not because of Ash and not because of your stupid record on the charts. I wanted to meet you. I wanted to know the soul that wrote those songs. That’s who I was looking for.”

  “What a fucking disappointment I've turned out to be, huh?”

  She shook her head fiercely. “Not to me. You'll never disappoint me. But you're about to disappoint yourself.”

  He snorted. “Already done. Best friend is dead, career is over. This is what the end of the line looks like.”

  She fisted a hand in the front of his t-shirt and her voice turned sharp. “You are nowhere near done, Dillon. Do you hear me? You’re going to get clean, get some help, and then you’re going to start over.”

  “I don’t know how to do any of that, Justine.”

  “So I’ll help. Will you do this? For me? Will you try? Please?”

  “There doesn’t seem to be any point.”

  “There’s me. You said you’d always look out for me. You’re my best friend, Dillon. You’re not going anywhere. Not yet. I need you too much.”

  “Have you turned on the radio lately, Justine? You’ve arrived. You’re there. You don’t need anyone anymore, and if you do, you’ve got a million people better than me who will happily volunteer.”

  “But none of them know me like you do. There’s only one you, and I still need him. Kind of a lot.”

  He sighed. “You put up with way too much from me.”

  Finally, she cracked a small smile. “Yeah, I do. Believe it or not, I think you’re worth it. So… rehab. You ready to go?”

  He looked alarmed and took a step back. “What, today?”

  “You want another few days to go on a bender? Nope, no time like the present. I’m not leaving your side until the nurse or counselor or whatever they have pries me away.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “I do. Dillon—” She reached up and took his face in her hands. His eyes softened and his body seemed to sag towards hers. “I’m not losing you. You need to come back for me.”

  Dillon blinked. Her hands on his face, just her presence, was enough to make him feel more hopeful than he had in months. Maybe she was right and things weren’t so hopeless. Hell, even if she wasn’t, she was the only person left on earth who genuinely cared about what happened to him. For that reason alone, it was worth trying to hang on, and claw himself back up. He was terrified, and had no idea where to start, so he’d start with the only thing he had left— Justine. He’d put his trust in her and he’d give it his best shot. She deserved at least that much. “For you. I’ll try for you.”

  PART 2

  March, 2011

  Dillon felt like utter shit for the first week. For a couple of days, he could barely move except to throw up. For endless hours, he was shaking and enduring non-stop cold sweats. He was nauseous far past when any ordinary hangover should have quit. His head pounded and everything hurt. Since he’d taken to knocking himself out every night with a bottle of scotch, sober sleep was hard to come by. It hardly mattered. He felt too awful to sleep.

  The staff at Vistas, the chic Malibu rehab facility Justine had checked him into, told him his physical addiction to alcohol wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t the worst they’d seen, anyway. It was the mental stuff that would be his biggest obstacle. And the way to deal with it was talking. A lot.

  His days kicked off with group therapy right after breakfast, followed by yoga, which he hated, then a late morning individual therapy session. Group sessions in sober living were after lunch, followed by a hike through the foothills, also considered therapy. He liked that better than the yoga. After dinner, there was yet another group session where they could share the progress they’d made for the day. For patients who needed it, and Dillon was one, there would sometimes be additional solo therapy sessions in the evening. Dillon, not terribly open by nature, found the therapy tantamount to mild torture at first. He’d have easily opted for another week of shakes and cold sweats over sharing stories from his childhood.

  He might not have made it through the full thirty days if not for Keith, his shrink. Dr. Keith Blanchard, Ph.D, was as big as a lumberjack, and dressed more like one than any doctor Dillon knew. Hand-in-hand with the mountain man beard and flannel shirts came a no-nonsense attitude and brutal honesty Dillon could respect, even if sometimes Keith’s truths were hard to hear.

  Keith forced him to come to terms with Ash and his endless guilt. When Dillon worried he’d never be rid of his guilt over Ash, Keith didn’t placate him with nonsense about “closure.” He simply shrugged and said “No, you won’t. And if you’re going to be carrying that burden for the rest of your life, you should probably figure out a way to do it so it doesn’t crush you, huh?”

  For a few minutes, Dillon was speechless. It was the first thing he’d heard that made any sense, so when Keith asked questions, he answered, and when Keith gave him work to do, Dillon did his best to dig deep to do it. He figured if anybody could show him how to move on with his life, it was Keith.

  Under Keith’s guidance, he even revisited his childhood, his neglectful mother, the abusive boyfriends and step-fathers, even her death— all the stuff Dillon was sure he never wanted to think about, never mind discuss with anyone. Keith quietly, calmly walked him through it, and eventually Dillon knew why. He’d been a wreck long before he’d been seduced by fame and given in to addiction. He’d been walking through his life already hobbled by his disastrous childhood. He’d been using alcohol, drugs and sex to numb himself to a lot more than the stress of Ash’s self-destruction. He’d been numbing himself to his life as long as he’d been alive. And Keith was right— he’d never move on and get better until he woke up and faced it all. By the end of the month, he was actually looking forward to their daily sessions.

  He also looked forward to Justine’s phone calls, and she called every day. The time varied because her schedule was so difficult, but she never missed one, and being called to the phone over the intercom rapidly became the best part of his days.

  “Hey,” he greeted her, slightly breathless, since she’d caught him as he’d gotten back from the hike. It was the most physical activity he’d had since he was running away from street thugs as a teenager, and he liked it. Getting sweaty and exhausted did more to clear his head than hours of group therapy.

  “Hey!” she answered. “You sound all winded. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. I just got back from a hike.”

  She paused, then chuckled. “You? Hiking?”

  He gave a long-suffering sigh. “It’s part of my treatment, thank you very much. And I like it.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, bizarre, huh? The things you find out about yourself.”

  “So, are you still on track to finish at the end of the month?”

  “I’ll finish the residency, for sure. I’ll keep seeing Keith and I’ll come back for some group sessions for a while. Until I’m really back on my feet.”

  “You’re going to stay in therapy?”

  “Yeah. Keith is great. He’s really helped me get my head on straight. Well, straighter. It’s a
long road. Keith’s not shy about telling me I’ll be a fuck-up for life, but I’m working on being a high-functioning fuck-up.”

  She laughed out loud and the sound made his chest constrict. He missed her fiercely.

  “What about you? How’s the tour?”

  “Endless. I feel like I’ve seen every hotel room in the country. Or maybe it’s one hotel room and they keep moving it around on me. They all look the same so it’s hard to tell.”

  “Can’t wait until you’re back in LA,” he said, and he meant it. Being able to see Justine whenever he wanted was starting to feel like an unimaginable luxury.

  “Me either. We’ll hang out. It’ll be good.”

  “I’m holding you to that.”

  They didn’t talk much longer. The conversations were rarely lengthy, as she always had someplace to be. It didn’t matter to Dillon though. Her voice on the phone was the daily reminder he needed. Someone cared about him. It mattered to her that he get well and rejoin the land of the living. It was the best incentive he could ever have.

  Justine ended the call and sat up on the bed. Dillon sounded so good. Better than he had in months and months. Not just sober, but aware, alive. He never went into much detail about his therapy sessions, but she could tell by the way he talked about everything else they were having an effect on him. And the fact he was going to stay in therapy even after his thirty days meant he knew it, too. Finally, she felt like she could breathe again. He was going to be okay.

  It was such a shitty time to be away. She hadn’t been able to visit him in person even once in rehab. He insisted he preferred it that way, because what he was doing was best done on his own, but still, it bothered her. The tour schedule was brutal, though, and a flight back to LA was impossible to fit in.

  Pushing off the bed, she headed out to the front room of her suite. Ariana had some things for her to sign off on and she’d left Ian working out there when she went to call Dillon. Ian looked up from his laptop as she came into the room. She curled up next to him on the couch and his hand found her knee, squeezing gently.