Page 6 of The Comedown

The door’s already open for me, so I take the stairs two at a time, clapping my man, Antonio, on the back in a hug. He was my driver last tour and he’s a good guy actually. Really good. Naturally good.

Last Thanksgiving, he invited me to his house to eat dinner with his entire family. I didn’t even have to sign a single autograph or fight for my own seat or give out a loan. I was just a regular person again, and for like a fucking millisecond, I felt like part of a family.

Not that I know what an actual family feels like, but…

Anyway, of course I gave him to Collette.

“What’s up, boss man? Miss me already?” Antonio asks, and I give him a real smile, wishing I could tell him the truth. That I do miss him. Him and that feeling I’ve only ever felt at his house, around his family.

Instead, I say, “Just wanted to meet The Collette.”

I swear his eyebrows crinkle but those things are like furry caterpillars, so it’s hard to tell. He doesn’t say anything, and I don’t bother asking as I make my way past, immediately noticing how different everything feels over here. While similar in style, Collette’s bus is the opposite of mine in damn near every other way. For starters, it’s silent, like graveyard-at-dusk silent. Not in a creepy way though, in a peaceful, hopeful way that I didn’t even think existed.

And it smells good, too. Homey.

Or whatever. I don’t know. It smells like what I bet a real home smells like.

With flowers. Maybe.

Is that flowers?

I slow my steps by a table, eyeing the humidifier humming peacefully and the wide candle beside it. It’s not lit but the lid’s off, so I inhale, reading the label at the same time. Peonies.

Thankfully, Collette’s bus is free of passed-out passengers littering the fucking floor, making it a clear shot to the back bedroom.

The curtains to all eight bunks are drawn when I pass, but I’m not even sure they’re all full.

Where are all her friends? Does she even have any?

I reach the wood door sooner than anticipated, then stare at it. And stare at it.

And…stare at it.

Should I knock? Burst in and bounce on the bed?

What if someone’s in her bed with her though? And what if he’s making her bed bounce right now?

If it were anyone else—literally anyone else—I’d have already broken this fucker down and gone inside to raise absolute hell. My last opening act got sandwiches to the face on their first night. Crazy assholes ate them after they woke up, too.

That might’ve been the only good memory from that whole tour.

But I can’t do that to Collette. I mean I could. Hell, I’ve done worse. I just…don’t want to, I guess.

Standing here, questioning myself, I’m starting to feel something I don’t typically feel—embarrassment—only because I do whatever I have to just to outrun the accompanying shame it brings. Any time I even sense embarrassment creeping up, I down another shot or snort another line in hopes of fending it off that much longer.

Every one of my bones rattles inside my body with it now, and I mash my lips together, calling out my best ally to join me instead—anger. Shit, anger serves me so well I can’t believe it’s not on my payroll. Everyone else is.

I gave this woman the bus, the room, the driver, the entire fucking tour, and what? I’m not allowed to have a little fun? Because she used to be a big deal a decade ago?

She was a big deal before that.

And after, too. Not even I can lie about that. Collette has that thing people in show business spend years and millions of dollars trying to replicate but can’t because it’s that fucking rare. She’s fucking rare.

All at once the anger leaves my body, making my chin drop. This was stupid. Leave rare-fucking-Collette to her beauty sleep so she can keep being—

“Touch that handle and I’ll carve out your fucking pancreas,” a soft voice threatens behind me.

My mind screams at me to pull away, but the door half an inch from my face prevents any movement. Oh, and the knife tip pressing into my back just under my rib cage.