Page 50 of The Comedown

Our part comes and goes without Julian so much as lifting his microphone. His heavy gaze trails me everywhere I go, following my every move across the stage, so returning to him, I straddle his thighs, serenading him alone to try to rouse him.

While toking from the joint between his lips, the mic remains firmly in his right palm though, nowhere near ready for use.

Shit, shit, shit.

My wild eyes find Axel’s, but he just gives a subtle shake of his head, keeping his drumsticks flying.

Arching backward, I press my own palm to the floor and do a slow backflip off Julian’s lap, landing in a crouch in front of him. His eyes lift to mine, the mild curiosity I just saw in them spiking significantly.

With a coy smile, I start backing up, careful to maintain eye contact. Luckily, he stirs and leans forward, bending down on a knee to track my retreat as he stalks toward me.

That’s it, little lamb. Follow me.

Still crawling in a slow game of cat and mouse, I bring my mic up between us, hoping he’ll take the bait when it’s time for our chorus, and with his forehead an inch from mine, he finally joins in, looking directly into my soul as we sing about the effort it takes to keep yourself detached from emotional connections.

The second we finish, he takes another hit and blows the smoke into my face knowing I’m sucking in lungfuls of air before it’s my turn again. As much as I want to drive my palm into his nose, the crowd roars in the background, reminding me of our audience, so all I can do is inhale as little as possible, ignoring the sting in my lungs with a smile playing on my lips and a fuck you in my eyes.

We manage to get through the rest of the song together—it’s sloppy, but we pull it off—then I practically sprint off the stage, completely forgoing a wave goodbye to the audience.

Unsurprisingly, Julian follows me, but I don’t even bother turning around when I say, “Do that again and I’m walking.”

Somehow he catches up to me, saying, “Do that again and you won’t be walking anywhere for at least a week.”

“Do what? Save your ass?”

He swings around in front of me, putting himself in my path, so I stop.

“The next time you climb on my lap, you won’t be leaving it unfucked. I can guaran-fucking-tee you that.”

A shot of adrenaline runs through me at his words. His guarantee.

“I remember a woman being on your lap last night and she walked away unfucked.”

“Did she? You know that for a fact?”

The adrenaline is burned off with something much more potent.

“You’re the one that made me go back inside. Wanted me to… What was it you said? To find someone that’ll stroke my cock? Remember that, Collette? And with an entire hotel full of empty rooms waiting for me…”

“Can’t say I’m all that surprised, but I am disappointed.”

“Because I fucked someone else?”

“No.” Kind of. “Because you took an order so fucking easily.” His smug smiles drops. “Like a little lamb to the slaughter, you’re happy to fall in line though, huh? Because at least then you have somebody else to blame for your demise.” And he is banking on a demise. His comments last night said as much.

“Then tell me, Collette. What do you want me to do?”

What do I want him to do? I…don’t know. What I do know, like the back of my fucking hand, is what we’re supposed to be doing, which is putting on a show that at the very least is worth the price of admission, and at the most, has the potential to change lives.

“Stop being a puppet,” I say like it’s easy. I’m still under just as much pressure as he is, but as an indie artist without a record company telling me who to be and how to be her, mine comes from other sources.

“You’re the fucking expert all of a sudden? How?”

I’m not. I’m not an expert at all. I’m just better at pretending to be. Julian’s a bad actor, he couldn’t act his way out of an open bag.

“For starters, you can go back out on that stage and prove to the fans you have what it takes to be up there.” That, at least, is real advice stemming from a very real place. He has what I haven’t been able to get ever since I walked away from Bodee—a record deal. Nobody would sign me after that, and even fourteen years later, they still won’t. He’s wasting an opportunity other people would kill to have.

I give his chest a push, saying, “Now.”