Dalton’s face loses all color and his eyes get glassy. The change over something that should be happy shocks me. Suddenly, his wine glass goes flying, slamming into the mirror—glass shattering into tiny pieces at our feet as the red wine splatters.
“Dalton!”
His eyes turn to mine, all hope gone. His voice is hollow when he says, “Cory was in a plane crash. There are no survivors.”
“How can you be a star when you live beneath them? There’s an amazing freedom that comes with perspective of your place in the universe.” ~Johnny Outlaw
After hearing the news of Cory’s death, the record label arranges a private jet. Dalton, Tommy, Dex, and I fly back together. There’s something going on with the three of them… something other than Cory’s death. I can sense it, but I’m kept out of the loop.
I don’t deal well with death, but no one does I guess. I’ve also developed a sudden fear of flying, or crashing rather, but I suspect they have too by the silence. We keep to ourselves for the most part until Dex tries to be funny. “At least I can’t be blamed for the tour being cancelled.”
Bracing myself for their reaction, I grip the arm rests tightly, and hope Dalton and Tommy will just let it slide.
“What the fuck did you just say?” Dalton pushes up from his chair beside me and stands over him.
Oh no. I unfasten my seatbelt and rush to his side, placing my hand on his wrist, and taking hold. “Hey—”
Dex stands, unafraid, making me even more nervous than the reality that they’re about to throw down on this plane. I have a feeling this isn’t the first time they’ve gotten into a fight, but I hope it doesn’t happen again. “You heard me,” Dex says, sneering. “I know you would’ve blamed me and now you can’t.”
Tommy stands. With his arms between them, he says, “Everyone needs to calm the fuck down. We shouldn’t be fighting right now.”
“So fucking typical,” Dalton says, pushing Dex. “You’re a motherfucking selfish bastard. It’s not about Cory dying, but about you feeling you dodged a bullet of blame.”
Dex comes back, spewing his anger forth, “Fuck you! I know how the great Johnny Outlaw works. You would be nailing me with all the tour troubles. You play the altar boy, but you’re not so fucking innocent. Well, guess what, your past will catch up with you, then see if you’re so high and mighty.” He walks past Dalton, hitting him with his shoulder as he passes, going into one of the two back bedrooms.
Dalton stares at the place where Dex stood, then without a word goes into the other bedroom and slams the door. Tommy and I are left there, confused to what really just happened. From Cory’s death to Dalton’s past, the conversation was shrouded in underlying secrets and threats.
“It’s probably best they’re separated,” Tommy says. “They haven’t been getting along lately.”
I just spent the last twenty-four hours traveling with only a few hours in Paris before getting right back on another plane. I’m tired and upset, but Dalton needs me, so I say, “I’ll check on him.”
After knocking three times, I turn the handle. It’s unlocked, so I walk in quietly and lay down next to him on the bed. The room only has one small light on the wall, keeping the room dim. Sliding my hand over until I touch his hand, I place my pinky over his.
“He may be an asshole, but he’s right,” he says. “My past will catch up with me unless I deal with it.”
“How bad is it?”
He drapes his arm over his eyes, covering up, but it feels more like he’s hiding from me. “I don’t think the drugs and partying I’ve done is gonna surprise anyone or make headlines. Kind of expected of musicians.”
“Then what will make headlines?” I ask hesitantly.
His laugh is deep, hardened and cynical when he says, “A father of a famous musician who calls him a slacker sucking off society.”
Our fingers entwine, the desire to cover him with my body, to protect him from the world takes over. I move to my side and slide my leg over his, my arm across his chest. The intensity his body showed to Dex minutes before is gone. His arm slips under me, bringing me closer.
I still feel the need to tiptoe with my words, not wanting to upset him, so I whisper, “Your Dad thinks he knows the kid you once were, but I don’t think he ever knew you.”
“I don’t think he ever will.” There’s a defensive edge, maybe even some anger in there. “It’s funny how when you grow up in small town America, you think Hollywood’s red carpets and hanging with celebrities.”