Always (2 page)

“David,” Eddie interjected, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Back off. That’s not what she meant and you know it.”

David didn’t look at Eddie, he kept his eyes on Justine. Finally, he threw up his hands. “Whatever. Go be a fangirl and chase after Ash Thoren like all the other girls. Just be back here in time for our second set.”

Justine opened her mouth to ask when she’d ever showed up unprepared for a set, but David had already turned away, muttering to himself. In the end, it didn’t matter, so she let him go. Screw him and his determination to hate the world.

“Watch yourself, Justine,” Eddie said. She touched his shoulder as she passed him.

“Thanks, Eddie.”

As she made her way back through the warren of dim, narrow hallways leading to the front of the club, she tried to shake off the fight with David. It was nothing new, nothing they hadn’t butted heads over a million times before. Failsafe was David’s band. He’d formed it, he wrote all the music. Justine fronted it, but David never let anyone forget he was the one in charge. Whenever Eddie, or God forbid Justine, suggested a sound or a song, David always shut them down. When it came to the music, nobody questioned David.

So what if Justine sometimes felt disconnected from the music she was making? So what if the audience sometimes seemed to connect more to her than to the song? Failsafe seemed to be doing alright. The independent record they’d made last year had gotten some modest local notice and they stayed busy enough playing local gigs despite the friction. Eddie and Paolo had their issues with David, but he and Justine were the most toxic mix. Her looks attracted notice and she figured he resented her for it. Maybe once David realized the attention actually worked in their favor, he’d start listening to her and she’d get to sing what she wanted once in a while.

She slipped through the battered metal door separating the front of the club from backstage. A DJ had taken over in the break before Primal went on and the crowd was a mass of sweaty bodies swaying under the flashing blue and red lights. Sound Lounge was a bare bones venue, just a low-ceilinged basement with a small stage at one end and a long bar at the other. Justine pushed through the crowd, looking for Mick or anyone else she recognized. Twenty feet from the bar, she spotted a small group of girls and behind them stood Ash Thoren.

Ash Thoren was a rock god in the making. He was tall— nearly six four— with the rangy spare muscles of an athlete built for speed. His wavy blond hair brushed his shoulders, too long to be cool, but Ash was the kind of guy who made his own rules. He had pale skin and angular features inherited from his Swedish father, a modestly successful movie director, and clear blue eyes inherited from his Ukrainian mother, a former model. Those were the things about him any fan could learn from the Internet. While photos might capture his startlingly beautiful face or his tall, perfect body, it couldn’t quite convey the charisma that enthralled everyone in his orbit. It was something you could only feel when you shared space with him.

He was currently holding court at the bar, the rest of Outlaw Rovers, a few members of Primal and a handful of hopeful young girls hanging on every word he spoke and every smile he threw their way. Justine watched the girls flatter and fawn over him. It was the oldest rock and roll story in the world.

Then her eyes shifted to the man on Ash’s right, the one she’d
really
come to meet— Dillon Pierce. He was watching Ash and Mick talk, smiling slightly and swirling his drink. Ash might be the front man of Outlaw Rovers, and the one everybody paid attention to, but Dillon Pierce was its magic. He was the lead guitarist and songwriter for the band and responsible for their shift in sound that resulted in their first hit record. Rumor around L.A. was that when the band’s label debut album was stuck in the studio, falling apart at the hands of an inept producer, Dillon was the one who stepped in and saved the day. Someone else got producing credit, but the song currently climbing the charts was Dillon’s doing and everyone knew it.

Where Ash was all golden exuberance, Dillon was a dark mystery. Next to Ash he looked small, but he was easily six feet himself. Messy hair the color of black coffee framed a face that might have been almost ordinary if not for his eyes. They were the same dark brown, almost-black of his hair, shadowed with heavy lids that left him looking perpetually disinterested, sleepy or maybe turned on. The rest of him gave nothing away, so it was impossible to tell.

She was as close to Dillon as she’d ever been. Every time she’d seen one of their live shows, she’d been stuck way back in the crowd. He looked so much better up close. When she was just a few feet away, his eyes suddenly shifted away from Ash, locking with hers. At the same moment, Mick noticed her approach.

“Hey, it’s Jessica!” Mick called out, waving her over. She smiled in response but never looked away from Dillon, whose bored expression had snapped to full attention.

“It’s Justine, actually. Justine James.” she said, coming to a stop in front of them.

Ash hiked an eyebrow. “That’s your real name?”

She turned to face him. “Yeah, I’m afraid so. And save the jokes. I know it sounds like a stripper name.”

“Nah, that’s not a stripper name,” Ash said. “That’s a porn star name. But like, high end porn. You know, the kind with plots and good lighting?”

Justine blinked at him in surprise. “You’re one to talk. Where’d you come up with Ash Thoren? Your Lord of the Rings role playing game?”

Ash laughed. “It’s my real name. It’s Swedish! Or Swedish meets Hollywood. Anyway, it’s all me, I swear to God. Ask Dillon. Wait… you don’t know him. This is Dillon.”

Justine’s heart flipped over. Finally,
finally
, she was going to meet him. He’d talk to her. She kept her expression steady as she turned back to him. He was already extending a hand towards her. “I know who he is,” she murmured. Dillon looked intrigued as she took his hand.

“Then you’re one up on me,” he said. “Nice to meet you, Justine. You were really good up there.”

All of Justine’s intentions to stay calm and cool dissolved in the face of his compliment. Her insides melted and she smiled.

“You think so?”

“Yeah, absolutely.”

“Thanks.”

This close to him, the musician she’d idolized since she’d first heard their self-produced EP over a year ago, she found herself utterly overwhelmed. He was her hero and the first thing he said to her was that he’d liked her performance. It was almost too much to take in.

Then she realized Ash was still talking. That was probably a novel experience for him— a girl in a bar ignoring him. But he was trying to introduce her to the rest of the band, and she was a fan of them all, so reluctantly she pulled her attention away from Dillon.

“Justine James, of the awesome porn star name and the killer voice, this is Rocky and over there’s JD.”

Rocky was leaning on the bar behind Ash, chatting up one of the girls. He was a stocky wall of solid-packed, tattooed muscle. The forest of metal lining his ear cartilage, piercing his eyebrow, lip and nose, was forbidding, but the open, friendly grin he threw her was not.

“Nice name, Justine James,” he smirked.

JD, taller, soft-featured, with shaggy brown hair, was sipping his drink, talking to the same girl as Rocky, but he glanced up long enough to smile and nod at her in greeting.

Justine knew who they were already, of course. And while Rocky looked like a fascinating individual and JD was no doubt a talented bassist, there was only one person she’d come out here to meet and that was Dillon.

Ignoring Ash’s mildly leering grin, she turned back to Dillon. “I’m really glad you caught the show tonight.”

“I am, too. Like I said, you kicked ass.” He gestured to her empty hands. “You need a drink?”

Justine smiled and nodded, stepping up to the bar into the space between Ash and Dillon. He turned to face her just as Ash turned back towards Rocky and JD and then it was just the two of them. The bartender showed up much faster for friends of Ash Thoren than he ever had for her and in moments, she had her water and he had his beer. There was so much she wanted to say and now she finally had her chance, she didn’t know where to start. Taking a deep breath, she decided to jump into the deep end.

“Can I say something without sounding like a creepy fangirl?”

“I’m pretty sure it would be impossible for you to sound like a fangirl. Shoot.”

“I loved this last album. I liked your first one, too, but this last one, it was good on a whole new level.
Soul of Rust
? That song... it was brilliant.”

Dillon looked at her with mild surprise. “Thanks. That song was my favorite, actually, but most people know—“

“
Heartbreak Tonight
. Yeah, it’s good and I’m so glad it’s charting. You guys deserve it. But I don’t know…
Soul of Rust
really got to me. The lyrics, the sound. You produced it, right?”

He shifted awkwardly and rubbed his palm across the back of his neck. “I just tweaked some stuff.”

“There’s what the credits say and there’s what everybody knows, and everybody knows you’re the one who
really
produced that album. It’s amazing.”

Dillon gave a nod, acknowledging her compliment. “So how long have you been with… sorry, is it Failsafe?”

Justine nodded and took a sip of her drink before answering, giving Dillon a moment to watch her. He’d been intrigued the minute he’d seen her approaching them. To be fair, he’d been intrigued the minute she’d walked on stage. It was hard not to be intrigued by a girl who looked like Justine. Once she’d started singing, though, he’d been floored, and his attention hadn’t wavered for the entire thirty minute set.

“I’ve been singing with them for two years.”

The way she worded her answer piqued his curiosity. “It’s not your band? I mean, you didn’t start it?”

She shook her head. “David did. He plays guitar. They advertised for a lead singer and they found me.”

“Lucky for them,” Dillon said and she smiled. And it was their lucky day for sure. The band was utterly unremarkable, from their name—Failsafe? Really?—to their uninspiring, broody rock songs and their muddy arrangements. He couldn’t remember the chorus of a single thing they’d played tonight. The guys in the band were all of decent ability but completely forgettable. He couldn’t even remember how many of them there were. There was only one good thing about Failsafe and she was standing in front of him.

But Justine wasn’t just good, she was great. She was beautiful, her most obvious asset, with long, thick brown hair and wide eyes that dominated her face. Their color was somewhere between green and gold, edged by lashes so long they seemed to tangle with the thick fringe of her bangs every time she looked up at him. Her movie-star face lit up with animation every time she spoke, making her much more than just another pretty girl. Her killer body was on full display in an insanely hot pair of silver shorts and a top that was little more than a bra, but she wore it all with an easy confidence that was anything but slutty. The girl made hot pants look classy.

She had plenty of physical appeal, but hot girl singers were a dime a dozen. Justine changed the game when she opened her mouth and sang. Her voice was like whiskey, rich and rough, with a hell of a kick. Coupled with her immense stage presence, it made her one of the best performers he’d seen in recent memory.

And she liked his music. Dillon was trying not to preen under her admiration, but it was hard. He’d meant it when he said she could never be just some fangirl. Someone as talented as she had no business worshipping at anyone else’s altar, especially his.

“You guys signed?”

“We made an album last year on our own. You know, like you guys did. We got a few nibbles, but nothing’s panned out.”

Dillon wasn’t surprised. Even Justine’s appeal didn’t make up for what the rest of the band lacked.

“Hang in there. You’ll hit it eventually,” he said noncommittally.

“You think so? I don’t know…” Justine looked back over her shoulder towards the stage. “Sometimes I get a little frustrated. It feels like we’re spinning our wheels, singing the same damn songs week in and week out. They don’t become hits just by singing them more.”

“Who writes your stuff?”

She sighed, looking defeated. “David.”

Dillon made a noise in his throat. Justine looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “Just say whatever it is you’re thinking. I’m a big girl. You won’t hurt my feelings.”

“I’m not worried about your feelings. You’re great. The best part of your band, if I’m being completely honest.”

“I appreciate complete honesty. How about some more?”

“I’m just a guy in a band. I’m hardly an expert.”

Justine shifted to face him fully. “I’m venturing into creepy fangirl territory again, but I’ll say it anyway. I really admire you. Your songwriting, your playing, your producing. I would really like to know what you think. Your opinion probably matters more to me than anyone’s.”

Dillon gave her a long, appraising look. She seemed completely genuine. Plenty of people blew smoke up his ass, especially lately since they’d gotten a song on the charts, but that wasn’t what this felt like. This girl was telling the truth.

“Okay, honestly? The songs suck. Well, that’s harsh. They’re forgettable, which is kind of worse. I can’t tell when the verse stops and the chorus starts. I can’t remember a single bit of one the second you guys stop playing it. The only good part is you’re the one singing them.”

Justine was nodding her head slowly in understanding or agreement, he couldn’t tell which. He wondered if maybe he’d gone too far, despite her assurance that she could take the criticism. Maybe she was hurt or offended.

“Tell me you’re not going to cry or slap me or something.”

“Not at all. You’re totally right,” she said with candor. “I tell David the same thing all the time. Well, I’m nicer about it. But yeah, it’s like he’s allergic to a catchy chorus. It drives me crazy.”

Dillon shrugged and smiled. “Earnest and brooding is all well and good alone in your bedroom, but there’s nothing wrong with a decent pop hook. Too many people forget that, in my opinion.”