She giggles through her tears.
“You didn’t do anything wrong, Mel. You were human. Impressed by someone who was supposed to be fostering you professionally. He’s the one who was wrong, and you are not going to give up. We’re going to get my attorney on this and we’re going to fight it. If you have to retake the class, then so be it, but you will get that degree and be considered for the award you want, just like you should have been.”
“What?” Mel gasps as she leans back to take in my expression. “A lawyer?”
“Damn straight. My guy is going to come down on Seattle College so hard they won’t know what hit them. He’ll threaten them and that dick with exposure. They’ll be too terrified to look at you once we’re done with them. And if we have to, we’ll charge the asshole in civil court. I’m sure Patterson’s office can find ten different charges to file against him, and we’ll ask for punitive damages that are so high Mr. Ivory Tower will be quaking in his Birkenstocks.”
“Oh my God, Joss. You can’t be serious?” she asks, her eyes like huge saucers.
“Hell yes, I’m serious. No one treats my girl like that and gets away with it,” I growl.
Then, like I pressed some button, Mel starts bawling. Like flat-out ugly crying. I’m ruined, totally lost. I don’t know how to make her stop, and I don’t know why she started in the first place. I gingerly pull her closer as she continues to wail. Good God, how did I get myself into this? I rock with her gently, shushing her and hoping like crazy she cries herself out fast.
After a couple of minutes, she slows down and I whisper, “Was it something I said?”
She laughs through the tears and wipes at her eyes, her little nose tomato red and wet like a dog’s. I place a kiss on the end of it, because I just can’t help myself.
“I thought you’d hate me,” she finally says. “For being so naïve. For sleeping with some middle-aged jerk and ruining my future. I just never imagined you’d be on my side.”
If I didn’t have this whole rock-star tough-guy image to maintain, I might cry a little myself right now. I take her face in my hands. “Mel,” I say, deathly serious, “I am always, always, on your side. You didn’t ruin your future. If anyone’s going to be ruined here, it’s him. I told you, I take care of what’s mine. You’re mine, Mel.”
I take a deep breath. “I won’t change my mind. I won’t give up on you. I’m always on your side.” I stop short of saying the three words I know I should and watch her eyes tell a mysterious story that I want to read forever. I pray to God that I’ll get at least a fraction of that time. “That’s all,” I say before I cover her lips with mine and fall into her again.
Chapter Thirty
Mel
The Deep South. Who knew they loved my boyfriend so much? Since we came south of the Mason-Dixon line a week ago, it’s been nonstop screaming women, hairspray, cleavage, and false eyelashes. Through Baltimore, Washington, D.C., Charleston, and Lexington, I’ve photographed them on the sidewalks in front of the hotels. They camp out overnight and bring battery-powered curling irons, bags of makeup, and crates of hairspray.
As much as Joss hates dealing with hysterical fans, he agreed to come out onto the sidewalk at the hotel in Raleigh so I could get shots of him with the crowds. He walked out, a smile on his face, waving to everyone. The roar that went up could probably be heard for blocks. When they saw him, the crowd surged so hard and so fast that, before the security guys could stop her, a woman at the front ran past their lineup, grabbed Joss, jumped up, threw her legs around his waist, and kissed him full on the lips. Afterwards, he said he was just glad she hadn’t been a very big woman because it would have really ruined his image if he’d collapsed under her weight.
It was at that moment I knew I had the best boyfriend in the world. He’d subjected himself to all that for me. And yes, I call him my boyfriend. Somehow the word doesn’t seem adequate for Joss Jamison, but in lieu of another, I use it. Just not in front of my sister.
As Joss and I have spent more and more time together, the crew and band have slowly adjusted, but we’re still careful not to flaunt it in front of Tammy and Walsh. Tammy and I have a tentative truce. When she and I sat down to dinner the night after she found out I’d slept with Joss, we agreed to disagree and decided we couldn’t talk about it anymore. But while that approach keeps actual arguments from erupting, it does nothing to dispel the awkwardness that’s descended between us like a thick glass wall. We can see each other but not really hear each other. These days, we only talk about things like where will be the easiest place for me to set up cameras and what the schedule for the day is.
Today it’s a conversation about some pictures I need of Walsh.
“Will he let us shoot him while he’s setting up?” I ask as Tammy and I share a limo from the hotel to the auditorium in Memphis. “I can’t believe I’ve never gotten shots of Walsh getting the drums out.”
“Yeah, he doesn’t mind. You know Walsh. It’s all good,” she answers dully.
“Tammy? There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about, but I wasn’t sure how to do it.”
She looks at me sharply, and I’m guessing she expects this to be about Joss.
“We haven’t addressed Walsh’s recovery at all in the pictures we have. It was all over the papers when it happened though, so it’s public knowledge. He goes to AA meetings in every town, talks to his sponsor on the phone every day, and says the devotional with the guy from the crew before the performances. Don’t you think we need to deal with it at some point?”
Tammy looks straight ahead, eyes glazed over as if she’s reliving something that happened far away in time or distance.
“I don’t want him exposed that way. Opened up to people’s cruelty. You can’t photograph the AA meetings anyway. What else would you use?”
I shift in my seat so I can face her better. “Well, I think we could maybe get some shots of him praying before the shows, and the outside of one of the buildings where they hold the AA meetings. I don’t think people will be cruel, Tammy. I think they’ll be impressed. He’s doing so well. He deserves to have people congratulate him.”
“And if he slips up? Then what? All those people who were so impressed abandon him. Criticize him. Say what a fraud he is. That he can’t be saved? No. He doesn’t deserve that.”
It’s the most emotion I’ve seen from Tammy in weeks. There’s a fire in her eyes that hasn’t been there in so long, but it’s almost too intense, even though her voice is calm.
“Can we at least ask him?” I say quietly.
She slumps against the seatback. “Yeah. It won’t make any difference anyway,” she whispers.
“What do you mean?”
I see a small tremor go through her. Then she clutches her hands together tightly, as if she’s trying to keep something from getting out, some emotion or thought. “Nothing. It’s fine. Ask him. It’s his recovery. He has to decide.” Her final response is rote, something she’s been told she needs to say and hopefully believes, but I can tell she doesn’t.
She presses a button next to her on the car door and rolls down the window, letting in hot, humid air and the noise of the expressway while also effectively ending any conversation between us.
When Tammy and I arrive at the venue, I stop off to talk to a couple of the crew guys who are helping me set up equipment, while Tammy heads onstage. A few minutes later, I walk down the aisle of the theater to climb the stairs to the stage. I can see Tammy and Walsh standing to one side, having what looks like a serious conversation. Walsh is gesturing to the wings and then his watch while Tammy listens, her head down, eyes on the floor. Mike is observing, his eyes moving from Tammy and Walsh to something offstage that I can’t see. Colin is sitting on an amp, his head in his hands.
I climb the stairs until I’m also onstage. Mike sees me and moves my direction. That’s when I get a clear view to the wings on the opposite side. I’m surprised to see Dave standing there with Joss. Dave’s only been to one of the shows all summer, although I know he talks to Joss and Tammy on the phone regularly about local press ops and other promo stuff his office has set up. I’ve emailed him once or twice with some questions about my project, but other than that I haven’t talked to him since we signed the contracts for my job.
Mike strides over, taking his guitar off at the same time. “Hey, Mel,” he says, still darting glances behind him to Joss and Dave. “You want me to buy you a cup of coffee? They’ve got a Starbucks inside the auditorium here and they opened it early just for me.” He winks and puts his hand on my elbow as he tries to move me back to the stairs.
That’s when I hear Joss’s voice. “No. You may think you’ve got the right to weigh in on this but you don’t!” he shouts as he stomps back on stage, a very pissed Dave following close behind him.
“Look, there are serious legalities involved here, Joss. As your manager, it’s my job to warn you when I see a fucking train wreck about to happen.”