Gus (6 page)

"I know, big man." No judgment.

I'm thankful it's Franco here with me because he knows how to talk to me. I couldn't do this with anyone else right now. Not even Ma.

"I don't know how to be Gus without her, dude. I'm fucking lost as shit."

"I know."

I rise up on my knees and look at him.

He hesitates like he was going to say something and thought better of it. And then he says it anyway, "Listen, I know it's none of my business, man. If you're into Clare that's on you, but—"

I interrupt. "I'm not. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing with her."

He raises his eyebrows. He's calling me out.

"Okay," I huff, "I know what I'm doing with her. I'm fucking her. Using her. She's a meaningless distraction. That's it."

"But she's been helping you with your meds, too."
 

That was way too casual for Franco. "Is that what you call it? Meds?"

His eyes narrow. "Yeah," he says cautiously. "I talked to her a few weeks back about you. I didn't go into personal specifics, but told her I thought you needed to see a doctor. She told me a few days later that she'd arranged for a doctor to come by the venue while the rest of us were at dinner and that you got a prescription for anxiety and sleep meds."

"Doctor? I didn't realize Clare had a fucking license to practice?" I don't like the fact that she's been keeping Franco in the dark. But the truth is that I've been lying to him, too.

There's a shift in his features, a vein in his forehead begins pulsing and his eyes turn dark and intense. I know what's coming. "What have you been taking?"

"Coke, pills, whatever she could get her hands on."

He's on his feet in a flash and flying toward the door of the bus. I surprise myself by jumping up after him, and soon it's me holding him by the arm trying to keep him out of her bedroom. He's a strong fucker when he's angry. He doesn't get angry like this often; I've only seen it once or twice in five years. He can be scary as hell when he's pissed like this. He isn't budging. Clare is standing by the bed, wrapped in a thin robe. Her face is pale but unyielding. Franco's screaming at her. "What have you done to him?" When she doesn't answer and stands there defiantly with her arms crossed over her chest, he explodes again. Louder this time. She flinches. "I said,
what have you fucking done to him?!"

A smirk emerges and her eyes shift to mine. "Nothing he didn't want, right love?"

I have a grip on both of his biceps from behind now. His arms are shaking violently with rage. "You
fucking
lied to me!" I don't know how he keeps getting louder, but he does.

No response.

He's pointing at her. "Stay away from him, do you hear me? Stay
the fuck
away from him. You don't give him anything. You don't talk to him. You don't even look at him."

She looks at me and there's fear behind the icy façade. I know she hasn't been doing this job long, and she knows it could be in jeopardy. "Gustov is a grown man, Franco. I never forced him to do anything. He wanted it."

I don't like Clare, never have, but I have to admit I feel a little sorry for her right now. She's in the direct path of hurricane Franco and it should be me. "She's right, dude," I huff. "She never forced me. If you're gonna be pissed at anyone, it should be me."
 

Franco turns, breaks my grip, and faces me. His eyes pierce me and I know I'm in for it. "Oh, I am pissed, Gus." I can tell, because he rarely calls me Gus. "
Fucking
pissed. What in the hell were you thinking? Listen," he pauses, glancing at Clare like he wishes she wasn't within earshot. He turns back to me and continues, "I know everything is shit right now.
I know that
." He lowers his voice. "We all miss her, dude. But this is no way to deal. Do you know how disappointed she'd be if she was standing here watching this whole goddamn debacle play out?"

She'd hate it. I fucking know that. "Well, she's not here, is she?" I can't have this conversation. I don't need the reminder. I live it every second. "She's fucking dead." I'm not listening anymore. I walk away toward the mini-fridge and pull out a beer.
 

Franco turns back to Clare and points at me sitting at the table. "Stay the fuck away from him." It's a not-so-subtle reminder. Then he looks and me and points at Clare. "Same goes for you. Stay away from her. Find a new fuck buddy."

Clare closes the door to her bedroom. She's on the inside and I feel some relief having the buffer.

Franco slides into the seat across from me. He looks spent and has calmed down. "Sorry, dipshit. I shouldn't have brought up Kate in front of her."

I throw back half the can before I come up for air. "The cat was already out of the bag, dude. Sounds like I did a stellar job of that last night." I run my fingers through my hair and hold it back in a ponytail. "I can't believe I did that."

He raps his knuckles on the table. "You pretended the person you were with was the person you wish you were with instead. We've all fantasized. No shame."

I look him in the eye. "You don't fantasize about dead people."

"You were higher than a fucking kite." He exhales and stares at me for a while, his eyes begging for honesty. "You loved her, I know you did. Don't play the 'best friends' card with me, man. Do I blame you?
Hell no.
Kate was the most incredible woman I've ever met. All of us sorry fucks will be lucky if we end up with someone who's half the person she was."

I nod and sit back and finish my beer.

Franco lets me.

End of discussion.

Monday, March 27

(Gus)

As the plane hits the tarmac at San Diego International Airport I let out a sigh of relief. I feel like I've been holding my breath for two months. I know it's totally irrational to think that geography will change what's going on in my head, but being so far from home and everything that's familiar didn't help matters. The European leg of the tour wrapped up last night in Paris. I'm tired as hell and all I want to do is sleep for the next three weeks straight before the US tour starts up again.
 

Franco elbows me when the aisle frees up enough to squeeze out into the flow. After retrieving my bag from the overhead compartment, I trudge through the airport to baggage claim. I'm following Franco. He's not talking. I know he's as beat down as I am from the clusterfuck of the past two months.
 

Though I haven't done any drugs since that night shit went down with Clare, I haven't been sober for the past sixty-something days. My blood's been holding steady at 80 proof. It's wearing me out if you want to know the truth. I did it to hide from life, but now I just feel buried alive.
 

Clare stayed on for the rest of the tour and finished her job. She didn't talk to me after the big blowup. And I didn't talk to her. With the distance came a newfound clarity—she might be even more fucked up than I am. I don't know what made her the way she is, but there are definitely some issues behind her tailspin. If I had a guess, I'd say she's going to crash. Hard.

Tuesday, March 28

(Gus)

MFDM got them to hold off on the album rerelease until today.
 

He knew I couldn't deal with "Finish Me," and playing it while we were on tour was out of the question.

I love the dude for fighting for us.

Wednesday, April 19

(Gus)

I've spent the past three weeks avoiding everything. Sleeping as much as possible. I eat dinner with Ma every night, but that's the extent of my contact with the real world. It's the only part of my day that I look forward to—time with Ma, even if we don't talk much. It's comforting for both of us.

Thursday, April 20

(Gus)

I'm holding my phone in my hand looking at it like I have no idea where to begin. Or maybe I'm second-guessing making the call at all. I haven't seen or talked to Bright Side's boyfriend, Keller, since the funeral. But during the past few days I can't stop thinking about him and his daughter, Stella. Wondering how they're doing. He's a good guy and Bright Side loved the hell out of him, so I hope he's keeping his shit together better than I am.
 

I dial his number. Before it starts ringing, my heart is pounding so hard I feel like I'm going into cardiac arrest. I hang up.

I guess I'm not ready for this.

Friday, April 21

(Gus)

The tour starts tonight in Vegas. It's early, eight o'clock in the morning, and Franco's in the kitchen talking to Ma. We need to leave soon but I haven't packed yet. I grab my duffle bag out of my closet and toss it unzipped on the bed. I throw in a few T-shirts, jeans, socks, and underwear, along with my laptop, toothbrush, toothpaste, and deodorant. I check my pockets for my wallet, phone, cigarettes, and lighter. Throwing the bag's strap over my shoulder, I glance back at Bright Side's laptop. It's still sitting untouched on my dresser.
Goddamn,
I want to take it so bad. To open it up and dive in. Dig through everything she left behind. To have her back in my life again. But it's not that easy and it's so fucking intimate that it almost makes me cry thinking about it.

Instead, I snag my guitar cases from the corner and shut the door behind me. I shut the door on Bright Side. Again.

Ma and Franco are talking. I hear them from the hall. But when I step into the room there's instantaneous silence. Coincidence? Nope.

"It's okay, don't let the fact that I'm actually standing in the room with you stop you from talking about me."
 

Harsh? Yeah.
 

Do I care? Yeah, with Ma and Franco I do.
 

Can I stop acting like an asshole? Nope.
 

Ma frowns and hugs me.
 

I hug her back. It's an apology. "Morning, Ma."

"Good morning, Gus." She's forgiving me.

I love her to death for it, because she shouldn't forgive me.
 

The flight is short and we've landed in no time. A cab drops us off in front of some monstrosity of a hotel on the strip. It's eleven o'clock. I'm ready for a few stiff drinks and a nap, but Hitler met us at the door and wastes no time ushering us through the masses to an elevator.
 

It's not until we're tucked away inside a shiny elevator that he starts talking at us. "Jamie and Robbie arrived about a half hour ago. The two of you have ... " he pulls back the cuff of his dress shirt to get a look at his Rolex knock-off, " ... twenty minutes before the photo shoot begins."

Jamie and Robbie have been in Vegas for a few days. A mini-vacation. Good for them.

I look at myself in the mirrored wall in front of me. My clothes look like I slept in them. Come to think of it, maybe I did. My hair hasn't been washed in a couple of days and it's pulled back in a ponytail. It's getting long again. I'm thankful for the sunglasses because I can't see my tired, bloodshot eyes staring back at me. Admonishing me.

Hitler doesn't say anything else.
 

Neither do we.

The elevator stops on the fifteenth floor, and when the doors open we follow him out. Everything in Vegas is opulent and over-the-top. I've always hated it. It's pretentious and fake, just a lot of smoke and mirrors. Hitler stops a few doors down and opens the door to what we soon discover is a suite, like a house inside a hotel. The furniture has been cleared from one end of the living room and a crew is setting up backdrops, lighting, and cameras.
 

Franco and I drop our bags and Franco walks over to sit on one of the numerous leather sofas with Robbie and Jamie. I walk over to the bar and pour myself a glass of whiskey. Three gulps and the glass is drained. I fill it up again and take it with me to sit with the guys.

I must have started to drift off, because minutes later I'm roused from near sleep by a cute blond in tight jeans and a black tank top. "Come with me, Gustov." Her voice is hypnotic. Or maybe it's her ass. Or her small but unbelievably perfect breasts.

"Gladly," I respond. And just like that the two of us are behind closed doors and she's pulling my clothes off.

"We don't have much time," she says.

Damn right we don't. I need you right fucking now.
 

She hands me a pair of black jeans. "Put these on."

I'm confused. "Wait. You want me to put these on?"
 

She blinks her doe-like brown eyes at me. "That's what I said. Hurry up, we need to do something with your hair before they come in to do your makeup."

Dammit. She really does want me to get dressed. I thought shit was about to go down. Now I'm standing here in my underwear, hard, and she wants to fix my hair.

I don't miss the fact that her eyes flit down to my manhood standing at full attention before she turns her back on me to sort through a pile of shirts on the bed.

I slip into the jeans. They fit well, despite the bulge.

"I'm Lindsey, by the way," she says as she turns toward me again. She shakes my hand before handing me a shirt.

Now I feel like an idiot because she seems pretty cool. "And I'm an asshole, by the way."

She laughs at my admission.
 

"Sorry about that." I wouldn't usually apologize for something like this, because she didn't seem offended and I still have the feeling that we might hook up later, but she just seems ... nice.

"No worries. I've done this job for ten years. I've heard and seen it all." She looks older than I am, but I never would've guessed that she's been doing this job for a whole decade.
 

It's my turn to laugh and it feels like a weight's been lifted off my chest. I shrug on the shirt.
 

"Sit here, please," she says, gesturing toward a chair. After tugging the elastic band out of my hair, she rakes her fingers through it a few times. It's tangled.
 

"Hmm." She's thinking.

I look back at her over my shoulder. "It's a fucking rat's nest. I didn't know a photo shoot was in the plans today. Sorry." I'm apologizing again. I feel bad, like I'm making her job harder.