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35
Dylan
Evening.Gig. Jem avoids me. He’s in a drunken haze; I’m dosed up on benzos and the strongest flu medicine I can find. My head fucking hurts—the painkillers in the meds had better be strong. Tonight’s the second of two gigs in New York. When I arrive at Madison Square Garden, I burrow in and avoid the Green Room. Last night, the excited support band drowned the room with enthusiasm and questions for us. That environment isn’t for me right now.
I sit in my dressing room staring in the mirror trying to focus. A picture of Sky and me is tucked into one corner, a silly picture of us pulling faces taken one drunken night. I stuck the picture there last night before I went on stage. My heart squeezes as I remember the girl who’s holding onto my mind as I lose it. What will happen when we go on stage? The pills aren’t combatting the rising panic. I fluctuate between numb and scared. The crowd of media outside the venue meant we had to skirt around back to creep in through service doors to the venue. Will the fans bay for the blood of the rapist Dylan Morgan in the same way? I pull the picture from the mirror and touch her face, planning how to get back to Sky or how to get through the evening.
I refuse to leave the room pre-gig, not sure how I’ll react to anyone broaching the subject. Will I break down? Punch the hell out of someone?
To make things ten times fucking worse, Sky calls just before I go on stage, needing me because Tara is worse. Listening to the fear and despair in her voice steels me. I’m leaving for her—I don’t give a fuck if they arrest me. When the call ends, I go straight to the fridge and pull out a beer.
Liam attempts to talk to me, as did Bryn as we waited to go on stage, but I’m closed down.
Jem steers clear.
If I expected a negative reaction from the fans, I was wrong. The girls at the front are as numerous as ever, screaming and flashing their tits. Surely, the crowd knows by now. The media have screamed the news about my crime across the TV and internet. The fans’ behaviour makes it easier to switch off, to pull on the disguise of Dylan Morgan the Rock Star and blank my mind of everything but the facade.
I stumble offstage, dazed by the lights more than usual. Did anyone notice? Am I that well-oiled that I can perform for almost two hours and not be present in the room?
I fool everyone apart from the rest of the band. Bryn catches me as we leave after the encore, gripping my arm so I can’t walk away. His calm persona radiates as much as the heat from his body after the performance, the concern in his eyes clear.
“Steve told me. Fucking hell, man. What are you going to do?”
I gaze back with the drugs and alcohol blurring reality. “I’m heading to England. I’m done.”
“This isn’t the answer,” he says then purses his lips, studying me as I steady myself against the wall. “What are you taking? Same as Jem?”
“No. I’m fine, just drinking. Coping.”
Bryn puts a supportive arm around my shoulders. “I spoke to Steve. He’s postponing the rest of the tour for a couple of months while we sort this out.”
“How? This is beyond paying Lily off.”
“He’ll fix the situation, he always does.”
I shrug his arm off. “Do you believe that he can this time, Bryn?”
We walk down the wide hallway toward the Green Room, and he passes me one of the bottles of water he’s carrying. “But you’re right. We need a break. Jem needs out; you need… something to get you on track.”
“I need Sky. And some breathing space. You know that.” Unscrewing the cap, I drink deeply but I know I’ll replace this with beer as soon as I get my hands on a bottle.
“I need time too. A bit of ordinary,” he admits.
Thank fuck for that—finally someone on my side. “Then we tell him to postpone the tour for longer. Take back some control.”
Bryn side-glances me as he pushes open the heavy door to the room. “The thing is, you need Steve’s help right now. I wouldn’t rock the boat until this shit is sorted.”
Only Jem sits back here; Liam’s missing, presumably with Honey. He’s lying flat on the sofa with a beer bottle balanced on his chest. I’m surprised he’s not combing through the girls hanging around the stage door, searching for tonight’s companion. The fact he’s done this less over the last couple of weeks concerns me. Jem’s off sex? Things must be really bad.
Our gaze locks and behind his dull eyes, concern flickers before he shifts his look to Bryn. Bryn mutters under his breath, “Look at the fucking state he’s in.”
“What you saying?” demands Jem.
“Nothing, man. You know I’ve given up talking to you about how to sort your shit out.”
Jem stands and approaches. I will him to stand back, itching to grab him by his damp shirt and scream into his face, ‘this is your fault’.
“Nothing changes. Life goes on,” says Jem and glances at me, then back at the floor.
