The Girl of Diamonds and Rust (The Half Shell Series Book 3) (18 page)

Crap.

He places a light kiss on my lips, his hands holding my face with his thumbs lightly stroking at the edges of my mouth.

“I don’t give a shit what anyone says. Not about you. Not about me. And you’re going to hear shit. Lots of shit, Chrissie. That’s the road. Ignore it. Don’t let it hurt you. Whatever you hear, be honest with me and we’ll be OK. Don’t let it hurt us.”

I nod, but there is something in the way Neil’s eyes fix intensely on mine that makes me wonder if there is something he is worried I might hear.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I lie on my stomach on the cold stage floor, stare at my journal, and then write the date.
September 14th, 1993
. Have I really been on tour with Neil for three months?

I turn my head to look up at Neil sitting in the last row of the stadium. Sound check ended an hour ago and he’s just been sitting there, staring off into space. But that’s Neil. Only a stupid girl would try to change him at this point. Whatever this ritual is, it works for him. The performances only get more spectacular. The crowds larger. His fans nearly outnumber Scream’s at every gig.

Still, I wonder what he thinks about while he sits there. I shake my head and focus back on my journal. I start to write. Blah. Not very good. I scribble a giant X through it. I flip through the pages, looking for something not dreadful, and stop.
Parts of me have been quieted, new parts of me stirred awake, parts of me I leave behind, and parts of me I take.

I sit up, grabbing the Gibson acoustic guitar lying next me. I close my eyes and start to play. I pause to write in the journal. I play.

My concentration is shattered by the sound of boots stomping on metal steps. I stop playing and slap my journal closed just as Delmo and his entourage take over the stage.

“Nancy Drew, did anyone say you could fucking touch our stuff?” snaps Rex Dillard as he hovers above me, staring at the guitar.

I have to fight not to make a face at him. Why does he always have to give me such shit? Rex Dillard may be one of the world’s greatest guitarist, but he’s an absolute prick.

“Sod off,” Delmo interjects before I can rally words to defend myself. “The girl can touch anything of mine she wants to.”

He gives me a roguish smile and a wink. I roll my eyes and meet him stare for stare as he crosses the stage toward me.

“You’re so obnoxious,” I say, shaking my head at him. “If you stopped pretending to be an asshole, I might start to actually like you.”

Vincent Delmo laughs, settling on the stage next to me. I bite back a smile. I do sort of like him, but I don’t want him to know it. He’s so conceited. But the rest of his unappealing traits, I figured out on my first week on tour, are all show for the fans. The obnoxious behavior. The parties. The women. The booze. Nonsense for the fans.

As far as I know, he hasn’t stepped out once on Nicole, and we’d all know it, because it is impossible for that woman to say anything without everyone hearing it. And Vincent doesn’t drink. That one was a shocker. He’s a Twelver. That’s how he knows Jack. That’s how they became friends, another one of Jack’s strange circle of twelve-step buddies.

Delmo is sort of OK, but Nicole and the rest of the band are dreadful. I can tell by how the guys are moving on stage that they are more than a little drunk, and their obnoxious behavior is not show. They’re assholes. Total assholes every moment they are awake. But Delmo isn’t. Neil was right. He’s an OK guy.

He nods toward the back of the arena. “Is the kid all done here?”

I clip my pen to the cover of my journal. “They finished an hour ago.”

Rex snatches the Gibson out of my lap. The rest of them are tuning instruments. I need to get out of here quickly.

I look up to where Neil is, wondering if I should wait or go to him. I don’t really want to climb the stadium steps to the top. I resolve to wait.

Delmo’s eyes fix on me. “I can’t quite figure you and the Hardy boy out, Nancy Drew.”

I ignore the comment as if I’m annoyed with it—Vincent was the one who first called me Nancy Drew, prompted for some reason by me always scribbling in my journal as I wait on Neil, and the wretched thing has stuck with the band—but I am not annoyed. It’s amusing from him with his thick British accent and he doesn’t mean any disrespect. It’s just the way he talks. He hasn’t a mean bone in his body.

He studies my face. “So is it serious with him, or do I have a chance?”

God, he’s impossible. “I’ve already answered. Neil and me? Serious. You? No chance at all. Never.”

“You break my heart, love. But it’s probably for the best. Do you want to know what I think?”

“Not particularly.”

“Ah, but I’m going to tell you,” he announces.

I laugh in spite of my efforts not to and Delmo smiles.

“I don’t understand these kids they keep putting on the road with me. More talent than they know what to do with, but they live like Quakers. They don’t live the life. But that’s a good thing. The kid is smarter than I was at his age. Keeps his feet planted on the ground and stays out of the mix.”

“Neil doesn’t buy into the hype. He never will. He’s not that kind of guy. What you see is what you get with Neil.”

“Smart.” Vincent’s expression changes and he looks almost wistful. “Here’s the other thing, which you probably don’t want to know. You and the kid have a good thing going on. You’re the only two in this fucking madhouse who have it right. I have only one thing to say about that.”

There is silence between us for a moment.

I arch a brow, since his long dramatic pauses are so irritating.

“Don’t fuck it up,” he says slowly.

He makes a face at me and I swat at him.

“Jerk. You’ve been talking to my dad again.”

He explodes into laughter, lying back on the floor. His eyes open. “That one was for Neil. You’re going to have to delivery it for me. I’m not climbing the fucking stadium steps to do it.”

We both laugh.

“God, my dad is unbelievable,” I murmur under my breath.

“Did I ever tell you he’s the one that got me sober? He still calls every month to check in on me. No matter where I am, I take a call from Jack. That’s how it is, love, with your father. Oh, and I almost forgot to ask. Are you doing all right? Do you have everything you need?”

Oh yuck. Even more embarrassing.
“Jeez, I can’t believe Jack asked you to check up on me. I’m an adult. He still treats me like a little girl.”

The way Delmo’s gaze suddenly intensifies is strangely unnerving, sort of like Rene’s scalpel-like examinations of me. Odd, but that’s how it looks to me, though I don’t know why it should.

“It wasn’t Jack who asked me to make sure you were OK, love,” he says quietly.

I try to ignore that one, since figuring out Delmo conversationally is impossible. “No?”

“No.”

He stares at me and I grow agitated, but I don’t know why. An odd sense of impending awfulness swirls in my stomach and it feels like wherever Delmo is going with the conversation isn’t going to be good for me. Strange, but that’s how I feel. An instinctive warning to walk away now. Maybe it’s because of how oddly he is watching me.

More minutes of silence pass, with him lying there, studying my face. It looks almost like he’s debating with himself over whether he should say something.

“Manny called last week,” Vincent murmurs softly.

My heart drops to the floor and I fight to keep all reaction from my face, but my emotions are in full free-fall and everything is running frantically through me.

I shrug. “I didn’t realize you were friends.”

“We talk from time to time, but I wouldn’t call us friends. He asked about you.”

I lower my gaze and stare at my hands.
I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know
.

“It’s not like Manny to take an interest in the rearview mirror.” He pauses a moment. “He had quite a bit to say about you, love.”

I cringe as the memory of how Alan and I parted refuses to stay put in the lockboxes. No, I definitely don’t want to know this.

I force a smile. “I don’t really care what Alan Manzone had to say. I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell me.”

“And I wouldn’t tell you, love. Not even if you asked me. He was drunk out of his mind and rambling. Said more to me in that one phone call than he has the entire time I’ve known him. Probably a lot he doesn’t remember and would regret if he did.”

My face colors profusely. I can’t stop it—
a lot he doesn’t remember and would regret if he did
. Crap, Alan, after eight months why do you have to pop up and fuck with my life here? Things are finally going good with Neil and me. The way I want them. The way Neil deserves them to be.

I spring to my feet. “I’ll get out of your way.”

Vincent stares up at me. “Are you OK, Chrissie? I wasn’t sure if I should tell you. I don’t think I should have.”

“I’m fine.”

Only I’m not. I can feel it…
fuck
… Alan has turned me into a shaky, shadowy mess by simply asking about me, and Vincent Delmo can see it.
How awful is this?

“When Neil comes down from there, will you tell him I went back to the hotel? I’m tired. I probably won’t be back for the show.”

“Sure, love.” He makes a face. “Consider me one giant answering service for the Parker family.”

His voice is teasing, but it’s a crappy joke, and it doesn’t work to take the edge from my mood, instead nearly bringing me to tears. I can feel Vincent watching me as I rush off the stage.

~~~

I lie in bed, fighting with myself to stay focused on the TV, but it doesn’t work. My gaze shifts to my mobile phone sitting beside me. Since I returned to the hotel, the urge has been overpowering to call Alan. Worse, I want to call him when I don’t want to know what Alan said about me to Vincent Delmo, and paradoxically the desperation to know is bordering on obsessive.

Why did Alan inquire about me, after all this time? What did he say? What did he ask? Stupid. I shouldn’t want to know. Not now. Not ever.

I should never have fallen in love with Alan. He’s a like a cruel, unrelenting drug. Put a drug before a recovered addict and they’ll crave it. Mention Alan to me and I become a mess. It doesn’t matter how good my life is with Neil, how much I love him, how much he loves me; enter Alan and everything inside me sharply adjusts.

Fuck, why can’t I shove him into a lockbox and leave him there? Why does he have such power over me? Is it because he was my first and my first love? That’s what Rene says. Or is it because our history together is significant and there are parts of it that will always be part of me. Or is it him?

Fuck, I hear his name, I fall apart, and I am lost in the hold of him again. He is in my head. He is in my flesh. Even now. No matter what he does to me. No matter what I do. A stupid, drunken phone call with Delmo. Alan mentions me—
probably not even kindly
, I remind myself—I know I’m in his thoughts, and I am consumed by memories I don’t want; the touch, the taste, the feel of him. And I want him.

It’s fucking insane. Thank God I don’t know how to reach Alan by phone. I don’t doubt I would sink to a new Chrissie low and call him.

The hotel room door opens and I quickly drop my phone in my black case beside the bed. I don’t want Neil to see me in our bed with my phone. I feel guilty, like I’ve cheated on Neil again, lying here all night staring at my mobile and trying to figure out how to call Alan.

Lame, Chrissie, lame.

I follow Neil with my gaze as he moves around the room, trying to read his mood. I shut off the TV and sit up in bed. The clock on the night table says 11 p.m. Neil didn’t stay for the entire show. He cut out after his set. Not good, Chrissie. Not good.

He tosses off his jacket and sinks into a chair on the far side of the room. He starts to unlace his boots.

“Was the show good?” I ask cautiously.

He shakes his head. “I was off tonight. Flat. My routine out of whack. It didn’t feel the same without you there. I couldn’t get my rhythm.”

He doesn’t look up at me.

“I’m sure you were amazing.”

He sits back in his chair, pulls his cigarettes from his pocket and lights one. “No. I kept thinking about you.” His eyes lock on mine. “What’s going on, Chrissie?”

Betraying color floods my cheeks. 

“Nothing.”

I say it too quickly, and something flashes in his eyes. I take in a deep breath. I need to reorganize. Neil is clearly fuming over something. The way he looks warns me to defuse whatever this is I’m seeing on his face quickly.

“I’m just tired, Neil. The road is so exhausting. I felt like I needed a night in. Didn’t Vincent tell you I was tired and wouldn’t be at the show tonight?”

Shit, that sounded overplayed and rambling.

He takes a long drag of his cigarette. “Yep, he told me.”

He takes the bottle of JD from the table, unscrews the top and takes a long swallow. My brows hitch up, the gesture not like Neil. He hardly ever drinks. My internal distress kicks up another level.

“You’re not to talk to Vincent Delmo without me ever again,” he snaps unexpectedly and I jump.

I stare at him is disbelief. Did he actually just order me?

“I’ll talk to whoever I want,” I counter, hardly dismissive.

He takes another long swallow. The tic in his cheek twitches. “I saw you two together, huddled up in one of your chats. And then you ran off stage and didn’t come back.”

Oh crap, Delmo, did you babble to Neil about Alan?
I can’t tell what he knows, but I don’t like his mood and I don’t like this.

I lift my chin, a smidge haughty. “Don’t tell me what to do, Neil. And when you get things wrong, you get them wrong. I didn’t run off stage. I left because I was tired. I’ve been at every show for three months. Don’t make a big deal out of me wanting a night alone for a change.”

His eyes sharpen on my face.

“What did Vincent say to you, Chrissie? I thought we’d agreed. Whatever bullshit we hear on the road, we’d talk about it with each other. Not let it hurt us.”