He reaches out to touch me and I step back, away from him. He blanches, and I see pain skitter across his perfect features.
“Don’t do this,” he says, his voice much softer now.
“I’m sorry. It’s just the way it has to be.”
“No, it doesn’t,” a voice says from behind me. Both Joss and I jerk and look to the source.
Walsh stands there, a pair of drumsticks in his hand. He shrugs and says, “Sorry. Forgot my sticks onstage.”
“It’s all right, man,” Joss answers unconvincingly, looking down at the floor and scuffing one of his boots.
“Look, it’s none of my business, except, well, since Tammy’s the one who set the wheels in motion—without my knowledge, I’ll add—I feel a certain amount of responsibility for all of it.”
I look at Joss, who almost imperceptibly shrugs, indicating that he doesn’t know what Walsh is referring to either.
“Mel,” Walsh says as he steps closer. “I heard what Dave said to you earlier. I was in the hallway outside. Tammy’s the one who called him and told him about you two. She presented it to him in the worst possible light she could. I’ll admit that when I found out I was pretty pissed. I haven’t been real stoked about you two, but I respect your right to decide who the hell you’re going to date, and I have to admit, I’ve never seen Joss like this.” He looks at Joss briefly, something like regret passing over his features. “This is different for him. I can tell.”
Joss nods, darting a little look at me as if to say, I told you so.
“What Dave was saying, Mel? He thinks he’s responsible for holding the band together, but that’s only on us.”
He looks at Joss again, and this time I see their gazes meet, a silent conversation ping-ponging between them.
“It’s up to us to make it or not,” Walsh continues. “The fans can’t do that, our girlfriends can’t do it, and neither can Dave. This band is about four guys and some music. Until it isn’t. And then no one can help us. Don’t let Dave put that on you, Mel. No matter how strongly Joss feels about you, it can’t ruin Lush. Only we can do that.” Then Walsh tips his chin to Joss. “See you on the flipside, brotha’,” he says quietly as he walks away.
“Walsh,” Joss calls out.
“Yeah,” Walsh answers without turning back.
“Thanks for the reminder.”
“Any time.”
Joss turns to me and gingerly takes my hands in his, obviously afraid of how I’ll react to his touch. “What did Dave say to you?”
I shiver, feeling like a bone in the midst of a pack of hounds. Tammy, Dave, Joss. Who’s going to win the right to chew me to pieces?
I sigh. “He pointed out that, if he’d thought I would do something so stupid as to date one of the band members, he would have made it clearer ahead of time that my job couldn’t survive the choice. “
“Baby,” he says, stepping closer to me as I feel my resolve of moments ago drift away like so many feathers in a stiff wind. “I told you that isn’t going to happen. He’s all bluster. He works for me too. Everyone here does. And no one is getting fired. Everyone needs to quit worrying about what might happen and do their jobs, and we’ll all be fine.”
“He also told me that he wouldn’t let anything or anyone get in the way of you becoming the ‘band of a generation.’” I wilt as Joss puts his hand into my hair and pulls my head to his lips, where I give in to him wholly, my brief fling with sanity now over. He kisses me gently on the cheek.
I want to resist him. He’s an overbearing ass and everyone I know hates me being involved with him, but when his lips touch my skin, I find it hard to breathe, much less think. I’m drawn to him in a primal way. It’s not conscious or planned or controlled. I’ve never been much of a game player with men, but with Joss, I couldn’t even if I tried. He gets close and I react—physically, emotionally, viscerally. It’s not something I decide, it just happens.
“None of it’s true, Mel. Whatever tape you have playing inside that beautiful head of yours. Repeating Dave’s words or Tammy’s or whatever. None of it’s true. What’s true is this,”—he lays his head next to my face and rubs his cheek on mine—“I love you, Mel.”
My heart skips at those seemingly simple words that change everything. “I love you too,” I answer softly.
He whispers, “Thank God,” then he breathes me in and tenderly licks my earlobe, making me sigh and press closer to him. “This is real, baby, you and me. We’re the realest thing I’ve ever known. The way I feel when I see you across a room, the way you taste when I lick your skin, the way you sound when you gasp my name. That’s what’s real. That’s all that matters.”
I moan as his hand reaches under my shirt and finds my breast, stroking my nipple that hardens instantly.
My neck arches as he continues his exploration of my ear and neck, nipping, licking, kissing. I feel my core begin to ache, and I know any ideas of doing the mature, responsible thing are dead. I won’t be taking Dave’s very pointed suggestion. I won’t be doing what my sister is desperate for me to do. I won’t be leaving Joss today. And really, I’m not sure if I ever will.
As much time as Joss and I spend together, there are two things we never talk about—my sister and his father. That’s why I’m surprised when he walks into our hotel room in Atlanta as I’m packing for the plane trip we’ll be taking later in the day and asks, “You didn’t happen to get a phone number for my dad when he came to the show in Denver, did you?”
I turn and look at him for a minute before I can compute what he’s asked. He doesn’t seem to notice my shock as he shuffles through messages on his iPhone.
“Actually, I’ve got his address and phone number. He gave them to me when I walked him out that night, but it didn’t seem like you wanted them right then, and after that…”
He looks up and smirks. “Yeah, I recall things got a little distracting after he left.” He winks. Cocky rock star.
I move to my phone and scroll through the address book until I find Joseph Senior’s contact info. Then I text it to Joss’s phone.
“There. Should be in your inbox,” I tell him. “Are you going to get ahold of him?”
“I don’t know, but a radio station in Denver is asking me to do a show next week. I don’t know…” He runs a hand through his hair. “I thought about letting him know so he could listen. Not sure though.”
It’s typical of Joss that he’s been thinking about his dad since we left Denver but hasn’t let anyone know, not even me. My guess is there are a few future Lush songs on his iPad that are about lost fathers too. It’s the way he works through things, analyzes them, considers his options. It may seem like this conversation came out of thin air, but knowing Joss, it’s probably been a long time coming.
I sit on the big king-sized bed and watch as he slouches into an armchair, tossing his phone on the table next to him.
“You going to tell me about it?” I ask.
He inhales and releases the breath slowly. “He pissed me off. I mean, he’s been pissing me off most of my life, but specifically he pissed me off in Denver.”
I nod, feeling the plush carpet under my bare feet as I wiggle my toes in empathetic agitation for Joss.
“I think it made me angry when he told me he didn’t want me to be like him. I mean, it was kind of like he was denying me the right to care about him—again. Sort of saying he’s such a bastard that I’m not even allowed to like him. Fuck that. I might hate him, but I might not, and I want to make that choice, not have him make it for me. He’s been making my choices for me my whole damn life. I’m sick of that crap.”
Suddenly, like a bright light shining in a small dark space, it all makes sense. Joss’s need to be in charge, to control, to be the head of everything and everyone around him. The super hot, super talented rock star spends his days trying to feel like he has control over his empire because the only thing he ever really wanted to control—his father’s love—he couldn’t.
“Maybe you could tell him that?” I suggest cautiously.
Joss looks out the window, his eyes contemplative. “Maybe. But first I think I just want him to prove he’s actually going to be interested in me for more than five minutes. Maybe he can start by listening to me on a radio show.”
“From what he told me, he’s been doing more than that for a while now. He’s followed the band, read all your interviews. I think he knows as much about you as any fan could.”
“Well, he’s not a fan, he’s my fucking father. He ought to know a lot more than that.”
“I understand. So what are you going to do?”
He walks over to me, standing in between my knees. He slides his hands over my hair. “I’m going to tell him to listen to me on the radio, and then maybe I’m going to tell him to email me. You think the old man can operate a computer?” He chuckles.
I smile. “I think he’s your dad, and you should get to know him before you jump to any conclusions one way or another.”