Page 3 of The Comedown

I smile broadly, telling him, “Mine.” He did not want to give me my own bus, but in the end, I won. Thank God, too, because there’s no way I’d be able to keep Holter with me this go-around if I hadn’t. I don’t even think I’d survive in this environment on a daily basis, not to mention when the sun goes down along with people’s inhibitions.

He scoffs, then focusing back on one of the lit-up screens in his hands, he says, “Julez will be up here in a minute if you want to take a seat.”

A seat? To wait? For an introduction? Like I’m a groupie? I was performing in sold-out stadiums while Julez was still in school, popping pimples and chasing girls that probably stuffed their bras.

First impressions are just that, impressions of what people want you to think of them, but after a while, everybody’s true colors come out. Some are full-on artists while others are the equivalent of cavemen using twigs to smear their own excrement. It just depends on what your tastes are and how much you’re willing to tolerate.

I no longer accept shit paintings. Life’s too short, too beautiful, and I demand kaleidoscopes now.

I don’t need to meet Julez face-to-face to get an impression of him—it’s pretty damn clear—so I curb a laugh, saying to no one in particular, “I don’t think so. He knows where to find me.” Before I can turn around though, the smoke parts to reveal another man.

Looking like he just rolled out of bed and grabbed the same pants he wore last night, Julez stumbles forward, holding a cup of red Jell-O in one hand. He’s shirtless, revealing more tattoos than skin, and his jeans are clinging to his slim hips like a sinner hanging on to their last shred of hope at being redeemed. As he leans down to take a wobbly bite, strands of longish blond hair flop over his forehead, showing the newly dyed cobalt-blue tips that are meant to match the jewel-tone aesthetic of the entire tour. His hair’s only long on the top though and it’s got a wave that gives him an almost innocent look as he peers at me from underneath it.

He’s colorful. Extremely colorful. Black, red, and green tattoos with purple, orange, and blue hues cover his entire torso like a vibrant mosaic of visible tokens. I can make out words, faces, sketches, even a wing. It’s broken and has drops of blood dripping from the split in a way that has my heart aching without even knowing the meaning behind it—assuming there is one.

He’s also got a double piercing below his bottom lip that I have to tear my gaze away from to meet his blue eyes. They’re red in every way, but still blue around the pupils. A hypnotizing blue, bordering on teal.

With a long lick off his spoon, Julez shrugs, saying, “She’ll do,” and I finally release my chuckle, but it’s nothing like the others now filling the bus. Theirs are amused with him. Mine’s amused at him.

This is ridiculous.

“Name’s Collette. And you’re right, I do a lot.” A whistle rings out that I ignore. “You’ll see for yourself soon enough.” If he actually makes it on a stage.

I give him an ironic wink and leave, descending the few stairs off the bus slowly so I can school my features before I hit the bottom in case there are any photogs lurking nearby. One must never tip off the press that anything’s amiss. Image, image, image.

“I know who you are,” that same deep voice rasps behind me, stopping me again.

When I turn around, Julez is taking up the stairs I just stepped away from, the cup of Jell-O still in his hand while the other’s above his head, holding on to the doorframe.

I stare at him, making sure I’ve got a grin in place that could pass as friendly, but then he says, “A has-been,” and I drop the act along with the smile.

In all the chatter regarding my age, nobody’s actually had the balls to call me a has-been. At least not to my face.

“I’d rather be a has-been than a never-was,” I tell him. “Blink and all this can be gone.” Like little lambs to the slaughter, they all fall in line in the beginning, happy to watch everything around them instead of where they’re going. Then, one day, it’s too late. The career they never really tried for is over before it even got a start.

If Julez keeps going like this, that’s exactly what could happen. I’ve seen it enough times myself to know.

How many one-hit wonders have jumped directly into the revolving door that is the music industry only to be spit back out just as quickly? More than those of us still standing, that’s for sure. Droves more.

The hand above his head drops by his side, revealing a tattoo of an auxiliary cable plugged into his veins in the crook of his elbow. Julez blinks, swaying a little when he does, and I frown even harder, studying his face.

Is he okay?

“Boss man,” Slade says, poking his head around the corner, but when Julez attempts to swing his attention over his shoulder, his body ends up falling forward, resulting in him landing face-first on the ground with the plastic cup crinkling beneath his weight.

All I can do is stare down at his limp body in the grass, my heart jumping into my throat.

What the hell?

I wait for Julez to laugh, or talk, or even just move, but he doesn’t. My gaze snaps to Slade, but he only shakes his head, sighing in annoyance.

Annoyance? Is he annoyed right now?

That can’t be right.

But then, nobody from the big bus rushes out to help and I think maybe it can be because nothing else happens. Nothing.

“Oh my God,” I croak, dropping down next to Julez, immediately placing my fingers on his throat.