A Lush Betrayal Read online

  “Are we in a hurry?” I ask Tammy as I jog to keep up.

  “I want to get out of here before someone recognizes Walsh. You have no idea what a nightmare that can become.”

  “Seriously? Things that intense now, Walsh?”

  “Yeah,” he answers blushing. “They can be.”

  “Well, let’s get this show on the road then. Can’t have a mob scene here at the airport.”

  NINETY MINUTES later, we pull up to the front doors of Portland Rose Recording Studios, home of the now famous Studio B. Tammy hustles me out of the car and into the building, where we walk through a small entry area with a receptionist who waves to us and gives an extra big smile to Walsh as we pass.

  We head down a narrow hallway until we reach a door with the big letter ‘B’ sticking out from the wall above it. The ‘B’ is lit up, but Tammy doesn’t even hesitate as she opens the door and steps in.

  The space inside is larger than I would have thought, with a sound technician’s setup to the left and a small lounge area to the right. There’s a sofa and several armchairs, a small fridge, a bar sink, and a counter top, and all along the wall opposite the door we’ve come in is glass—thick, soundproof glass—that divides our space from the recording space. But today, the speakers between the rooms are on, and inside the recording studio, Joss Jamison, Mike Owens, and Colin Douglas are currently listening to what must be a playback of something they recorded earlier.

  The sound technician is fiddling with some buttons and watching his laptop screen while they listen, but Tammy walks over and pulls his microphone toward her. He glances at her and keeps on making whatever adjustments he’s working on. It’s pretty obvious my sister is a regular here.

  “Hey, guys,” she sings into the mic. “Can you take a minute to come see my little sister?”

  The guys give her a thumbs up and I hear Mike say, “Awww, Little D is here.”

  Little D was my nickname all the way through high school—for Little DiLorenzo. When I stop and think about it, until I went to college in Seattle, being Tammy’s little sister was a huge part of my identity. I’d never experienced life as anything other than she who came after Tammy. Deep down inside, I feel a resistance bubble up. I love my older sister dearly, owe her many things in my life, but somehow the thought of being reduced to Little D again makes me want to turn and walk out the door I just entered.

  I hardly have time to complete that thought, however, before the guys are standing there in the lounge, all three staring at me as if I’ve grown two heads. I glance at Tammy, who is pursing her lips, and then at Walsh, who is scowling. Finally I give a little wave and say, “Hi, guys. Remember me?”

  Joss

  HOLY SHIT.

  Melanie fucking DiLorenzo.

  Holy Shit.

  Little D, we used to call her. And she was. Little. Tammy’s much younger sister. She had red hair, she was kind of cute, and she was a child for fuck’s sake.

  This person standing here looking at me like I’m a mental patient is not a child. No, this is one of the hottest women I’ve ever laid eyes on, and for the first time in my life, I am struck speechless.

  She’s wearing cut-off shorts and a plain black t-shirt with silver bracelets up one arm. Those cut-offs show me about a mile of perfectly formed legs that end with suede boots not many girls could pull off, but seem to suit this one perfectly. Her hair is a dark, auburn red and cut in this swingy, thick curtain that reaches her shoulders. One side sweeps down over her eyes, which are a deep, midnight blue. Her skin is lighter than Tammy’s, but darker than most redheads, and clear and smooth like polished marble.

  As if this picture weren’t enough, she also appears to be endowed with a set of breasts to rival her sister’s and an ass that is absolute perfection. I swallow and try to regain the power of speech as Mike steps forward and reels her in for a much longer than necessary hug.

  “Little D,” he says, sounding like a sleazy car salesman. “How the hell are you?”

  I try to stifle the growl I feel rising in my throat as I watch him put his hands on her. She smiles at him. Fuck. What did he do to warrant that?

  Colin comes over and gives her a high-five with a goofy look on his face as he starts in on some story about her when she was fifteen. They’re all laughing and then Tammy’s whispering to Walsh, who lifts his chin at me as he says, “Hey Joss, man, come say ‘hi’ to Mel before you give her a complex. Mel, don’t mind Joss. He’s the unfriendliest guy in rock and roll.”

  I narrow my eyes at him for a moment before I take the couple of steps forward to put out my hand. “Hey, Mel. It’s nice to see you. I guess we’re going to be working together.”

  She smiles at me, but it isn’t nearly the smile she gave Mike, and my chest hurts when I notice. What the fuck is the matter with me? I can’t take any more shit with DiLorenzo women. They’re goddamned deadly.

  “It looks that way,” she replies cheerfully as she shakes my hand. “How are you, Joss?”

  “Unfriendly as ever,” I mumble at her as I release her hand a moment later than I technically should have. It was soft and warm, and I’m an asshole who needs to pull it together.

  I glance over at Tammy, who’s looking at me sort of strangely, and I grit my teeth and turn away, the familiar nausea rolling around in my stomach.

  “So.” Tammy’s all business now, as usual. “We need to go over the itinerary for the next week.” She gestures to the lounge area, and everyone takes seats. I grab the sofa, hoping it’ll force Tammy and Walsh to sit separately so I won’t have to watch them paw each other for the next half hour. Amazingly, Walsh manages to thread his arm around Tammy and drag her down onto the chair with him. I have to hand it to her. How the hell she can run a business meeting while sitting on her fiancé’s lap is beyond me.

  Colin takes the other armchair and Mike flops down on the far end of the sofa. That leaves Mel with the middle seat, me on one side of her, Mike on the other. She sits down gingerly and crosses her legs. The world’s longest, smoothest legs from what I can see. Damn.

  “So you all know we leave on Sunday at nine a.m., right?” Tammy asks, giving each of us her “bossy bitch” eye one by one. When she gets to me, the look falters for a moment, and I see Mel glance between us quickly.

  “On the main bus will be the six of us, Dave when he’s around, and a security guy. The crew bus will have everyone else, including the rest of security, and the semi-trucks will haul the equipment.

  “We’ve each got a sleeping space in the bus, and there’s a bathroom with a shower. We’ve got hotels booked as often as possible, but there are a few nights when the performances and travel are so tight we’ll have to crash on the way from one appearance to the next.”

  “So, like, do you and Walsh have separate beds or do we have to listen to the two of you bangin’ the boards all night?” Colin slurs out.

  “Shut up, you Irish eedjit,” Walsh shoots back.

  “Hey, man. Do not diss my grammy’s homeland,” Colin says, his face turning red.

  I hear Mel chuckle next to me and look over at her. The line of her neck is long and smooth, and I have an urge to run my finger along it up to the delicate little curve under her jaw. I breathe deeply, trying to calm my jumpy pulse, only to inhale a sweet lemony scent that makes me want to close my eyes and taste it on my tongue. Fuck. She smells like a lemon meringue pie. It’s my favorite. Who the hell smells like that?

  “Guys!” Tammy claps her hands, and I snap my eyes back to the room, trying really hard not to breathe too deeply, visions of Mel naked, covered in meringue dancing through my head.

  “Let’s not argue.” Tammy shoots severe looks at Walsh then Colin. “You need to hear about the tour stops and appearances for the first week.”

  The bickering stops and everyone settles in. I tune out after the first few minutes, knowing that Tammy will send it all to my inbox and calendar anyway. I’ve got iPads, iPhones, laptops, and people to keep track of all this stuff. It d
oesn’t really matter if I know the shit or not.

  Apparently Mel doesn’t think she needs to listen either because after a few minutes she quietly says, “Excuse me,” and slips out of her seat, shimmying past me. I intentionally don’t look to see where she heads. I’ve got enough trouble with her sister. I don’t need to know any more about Mel—or how she smells or what her legs look like in those shorts.

  Fifteen minutes later, Tammy’s finally done and everyone starts to stand, bickering already and stretching as they transition into the next activity. I finally look up from the lyrics I’ve been doodling on my iPad to find Mel crouching quietly in a corner of the room, camera lens pointing right at me. I look sharply at her, and she lowers the big lens.

  “Hi,” she says with a small smile.

  “You’re very quiet about that,” I answer. “I didn’t even know you were shooting me.”

  “That means I’m doing my job. You have to blend into the background if you want to get the honest shots, the ones that really tell the story.”

  “I never thought about it that way, but I see what you’re saying. Makes the paparazzi look like a bunch of fools, doesn’t it?”

  She laughs. “Well, it certainly doesn’t make them very credible photojournalists.”

  “So that’s what you studied? In college? Photojournalism?”

  She stands, and I do too. We both take a few steps toward each other so we’re not talking across an empty space. She starts removing her camera lens and putting it into a bag sitting behind her on the kitchenette counter.

  “Yeah, I got a Bachelor’s degree in journalism and a Master’s of Fine Arts in photography, so I’ve had all the training you can get, I guess.”

  “Wow,” I say, watching her long, slim fingers as they wipe down camera parts and zip compartments. “No wonder your sister’s so proud of you. That’s impressive.”

  She blushes and my heart skips a beat. No, no, no. This is so very wrong. I can’t be attracted to this girl. This sister of the woman I’ve spent the last twelve months wanting, hating, fixated on, avoiding. She’s hot, but she is not for me. My life is so fucking messed up right now. Mel DiLorenzo is like adding TNT to a raging fire. Explosions of epic proportions are guaranteed.

  Just then, Tammy walks up. “So you’re not hitting on my little sister, are you, Joss?” she asks with an edge to her voice that makes me want to tell her to fuck off.

  “You know, Tammy, unlike a lot of people in this business, I don’t go around looking to put notches on my bedpost. I’m actually a one-woman kind of guy.”

  Tammy looks uncomfortable, but then she smiles at Mel and ignores my remark. “Get your stuff packed up and let’s go, Little D. I want to take you shopping before we leave. You need some rock and roll touring clothes.” Mel laughs and Tammy flounces off without a backwards look at me.

  “So you’ve got a serious girlfriend then?” Mel asks as she hoists her camera bag on her shoulder.

  “No,” I say honestly. “I just made a deal with the devil and now I have to pay the price.”

  I’M NOT sure when I started to think I was in love with Tammy DiLorenzo.

  Maybe it was the day we were fifteen and Lucy Madison had just dumped my ass. Tammy showed up at my house with the keys to her dad’s truck and a six-pack of PBR she’d stolen from his basement fridge. We took the truck, driving without licenses, went to the old cement factory pond, and spent the afternoon jumping off the rocks in our clothes and drinking weak-ass beer. Without even saying it in words, she told me I was a good guy, someone girls wanted to spend time with, someone worth her time. She soothed my stinging heart and kept me from brooding over a rejection I might have otherwise. I decided that day that no girl would ever break my heart again unless she was every bit as cool as Walsh’s girl.

  Or maybe it was the day she stood next to me at my mother’s grave, the Portland air sagging with moisture that mirrored the heaviness in my heart. Tammy gently took my hand as I stared at the fresh mound of dirt and said, “If I have a son someday, I want him to be like you. I’ve never seen a guy who cared for his mother the way you did, Joss. As a woman, I thank you for that.”

  Or maybe it was six months after my mom’s funeral, when Tammy and I stood in a filthy gas station bathroom as I held Walsh around the waist while he was doubled over, vomiting blood on the floor. Tammy watched, eyes huge, tears streaming down her face as she talked on the phone. First she called 911 for an ambulance and then she made the arrangements for him to be admitted to Cedar Valley rehab center.

  He had been drinking for twelve straight hours, even after being told he had a bleeding ulcer. He’d passed out in an alley behind a club after a concert, and it had taken us two hours to find him. When we did, his shirt was shredded, his wallet was gone, and his face was a fucking mess. We sobered him up enough to get him back on the tour bus, and then he started drinking again. Three hundred miles later, we stood with him in that bathroom, his girlfriend and his best friend, and we knew that, if we didn’t stop him, he was going to die.

  Tammy and I went to hell and back with Walsh. Maybe that’s why I thought I was in love with her. Maybe I wanted to be in love with her because she loved him and he was all I had left in this world by then. I don’t know, but at some point, it all got tangled in my mind. I couldn’t discern between loving him, loving her, and loving me. We were knotted together in his pain, and the right kind of love, the brotherly love I’d always had for her, became something wrong. Once I turned that corner, I couldn’t seem to find my way back.

  A week after we pulled him from the edge, Walsh was in the hospital getting treated for the ulcer and drying out. I sat with him for hours every day, trying to keep his mind off what he was doing. They kept him on medications that made the transition easier on his body, but no one could help what it did to his mind. The depression set in, and this guy, this brother of mine who had always been the happy one, the light one, the outgoing one, was now barely able to lift his head.

  I remember one night I was dozing in the chair by his bed. Tammy had gone home to grab a change of clothes because she was usually the one who stayed overnight. I woke up to hear Walsh sobbing in the darkness.

  “Walsh? Hey, are you in pain? Do I need to call the nurse?”

  He hiccupped a few times as he tried to get himself under control. “No, man, it’s not that kind of pain. But it hurts, Joss. It hurts so fucking bad. How do you stand this? How do you stand feeling like this all the time?”

  “Like what, Walsh?”

  “Unhappy, man. Just fucking unhappy.”

  “I don’t know. I guess I’ve never been all that happy, so I don’t have anything to compare to.”

  “Yeah.” He sniffed. “Well, I’ll tell ya, if you’ve felt it, you’ll do anything to get it back. Even drink yourself to death. Nothing beats being happy.”

  After that, he fell back asleep, and the next day he went into rehab. We never talked about it again, but if I’d known then what I know now, I’d have had a different answer for him. I’d have told him that I might not have ever been that happy, but I’d also never been that sad. The sad didn’t come until later. Until I slept with Tammy—and betrayed myself, and her, and Walsh. Until I got the love all scrambled in my brain and in my heart and had no love left for anyone, especially not for me.

  Mel

  THE NIGHT after I’ve been to Studio B to meet the guys, I sit in the completely overdone guest suite at Tammy and Walsh’s house on the big king-sized bed and look through the day’s photos on my laptop. I scroll past pictures of the band standing around Tammy, her long dark hair falling alongside her face as she bends over a paper Mike is holding, photos of the sound tech’s hand adjusting dials and buttons, and pictures of Walsh watching the love of his life as she talks to the guys. Then comes the final group, a series of photos of Joss during the afternoon meeting.

  I zoom in on them one at a time, looking at the sheer male beauty that is Joss Jamison. The structure of his face is like a
work of art, the planes and angles so geometrically perfect that he’s a flesh and blood sculpture. His golden skin fits across his bones like a glove, a piece of satin stretched taut. His dark blond hair is the perfect length, not long enough to be feminine but long enough to attract all things feminine.

  In most of the photos he is looking down at his iPad. He wrote on it throughout the meeting, his brow furrowed in concentration, his lips parted slightly while he followed the stylus in his hand as it traveled across the screen.

  In the midst of the series, there is one photo of Joss looking up to where Tammy and Walsh were sitting. I gasp in shock when I enlarge it to full screen because it shows me a glimpse of a man so torn asunder by pain and loneliness that it makes my own heart ache. The look on his face is sheer devastation, and his eyes are pools of despair. This is the rock star uncut. The man the fans never see. A man I never would have seen if I’d had my camera pointed a different direction or taken the photo a split second later.

  I push the laptop to the side and lie down on the big bed, resting on my back, my right arm bent behind my head. My mind wanders to questions of what could make Joss Jamison so sad that he would mirror that kind of devastation. The beautiful, talented, sought-after man with fame and fortune and any woman he could possibly want at his beck and call. How does someone like him become so utterly bereft? I decide that one of the mysteries I will solve on this tour is the mystery of Joss. I want to know what makes him work as a human being, as a man, as a friend. I want to know what’s brought him such pain. And in the end? Some deep part of me wants to be the one to make it disappear.

  SUNDAY COMES quickly, and I find myself standing outside an enormous luxury bus, bags in hand, watching the chaos that is a rock band about to depart on tour. Tammy and Dave are running around, shouting like a couple of buskers at a carnival, and the guys are hanging out, leaning up against cars in the parking lot outside Studio B, where we’ve all met. Mike, Colin, and Walsh are eating doughnuts I brought them, and joking around with some of the crew. That is, until Tammy marches over and starts hollering at the roadies to get their asses in gear and load up their shit. Walsh laughs and tells them to take his word for it and do what she says.