Page 49 of The Comedown

“You ever heard of The Twenty-Seven Club?”

“Yeah. I think everybody has.”

It’s not an actual club, it’s an urban legend regarding all the celebrities that died at only twenty-seven years old. It absolutely reeks of conspiracy theories, and constantly has different numerology rumors clinging to it, but it boils down to an unfortunate string of coincidences. There are all kinds of artists on the list, from athletes to actors, but none more so than musicians. The celebrities on it, a lot of them led similar lifestyles riddled with addiction and depression. Which is no coincidence at all when you’ve seen it firsthand, the toll this lifestyle takes. Those are just the sad yet painfully accurate statistics of being a performer in this industry.

Without another word, Julian turns and leaves, going back inside like I told him to. I wait until he’s out of sight to open my internet browser for a quick search.

Twenty-seven. Julian’s twenty-seven years old.

I scroll until I find his birthdate. August fifteenth. That’s next month. We’ll still be on tour together.

“I just wanted to see you while I still could.”

As much strife and disappointment as this lifestyle holds, there’s good to be found, too. So much good. You just have to look for it, cultivate it, demand it outweighs the bad. Julian doesn’t know how to do that yet. He could, and I could be the one to teach him. Not if he joins the Twenty-Seven Club though.

He thought I was a scrapper before, but he hasn’t seen anything yet because if I’m not going anywhere, neither is Julian.

Collette

After reuniting with Holter and Mary the next morning, we spend the day on the road, my dancers and I practicing a couple routines in the aisle of my bus, and we end up arriving into Sacramento just in time for one final run-through as well as a sound check. Julian shows up physically, but mentally…he’s quiet and withdrawn during the whole thing, barely acknowledging me at all.

Just before I go out to kick the show off myself, he disappears entirely and it’s not until after my set, my dancers rushing past me as I stand offstage while the stylist fixes my hair, that I let myself ask where he might be. I held off on asking because I didn’t want my worry for him to derail my own performance. Julian can tank his career, but he’s not taking mine down with him.

Bruce shakes his head, his jaw grinding back and forth on its hinges.

Our song is next and nobody can find Julian.

“Somebody should put a fucking bell around his neck,” I say, accepting my stainless steel bottle full of water from Irelynn. “Maybe then you won’t lose the headliner,” I tell Bruce before taking a drink and handing it back to my assistant.

“He’s not my—”

“Yes, he is your responsibility, Bruce. You should be looking out for him because without him, there are no shows. And without shows, you don’t get paid.” I’ve been on enough tours to know exactly how they work. Bruce won’t even see a dime until at least halfway through this tour.

It’s so fucking sad that even with money on the line, he still doesn’t care. None of them do.

I rip my earpiece out, spinning around to ask, “Where the fuck is Julian?” My voice cracks on his name. He better not be dead.

“There. He’s there.” Irelynn points, and from the other side of the stage, Julian strolls out, going straight over to his mic stand. From the way he drags his feet to the way his glossed-over eyes skim the coliseum haphazardly, I know exactly where he’s been—getting high.

I’m glad he’s not dead…because I might just kill him myself.

Instead of greeting the fans, he opens with “Got anything to smoke?” and the crowd erupts into ear-splitting cheers. Dropping to sit at the edge of the stage, Julian reaches out and grabs a joint from someone in the front row, pausing to take a hit before blowing a cloud of white smoke above his head. He then proceeds to launch into an entire monologue about how much he appreciates the legalization of marijuana.

I rub my temples, trying to think of something to bring this back on track.

“Are there any chairs I can use?” I ask a passing roadie, and he pauses to consider it before scurrying off to see what he can find. A moment later he reappears with a fold-up chair and a shrug to his shoulders that says it’s the best he could come up with.

Yeah, we’re all compromising right now.

I have him run it out to the place marker I point out, then ask the stylist if any of my flats are close by.

Removing my sheer cover-up so I’m down to my studded push-up bra, I quickly change into the pair of knee-high flats she hands me. They’re higher up my legs than I was hoping for, but they accentuate my booty shorts nicely, so I walk out with both my ass and attitude matching, and immediately start humming the opening notes of our song into my mic, effectively cutting off Julian’s rambling speech.

At first, he doesn’t react, then slowly shuffling to his feet, he turns to pin me with a glare. It’s a glassy glare that does exactly nothing to intimidate me, and I crook a finger at him, sending a wink over to Axel already poised behind his drums. Start the damn song.

Unable to resist, Julian staggers toward me, and I grab the buckle on his belt as soon as he’s within reach, leading him over to the chair.

With one strategic push, I get him into the plastic chair just as the beat kicks in, then I seduce the arena with my verse about needing someone who understands the assignment—get in, get it in, get out. Basically, what I was looking for with Victor last night, but that Julian ruined.