Side Trip(31)

Joy opened the door after his first knock, showered and dressed in pressed lime-green Bermuda shorts and a sleeveless white blouse with a funky collar. He didn’t know how to describe that collar. Scalloped?

Dylan scowled. Joanie Cunningham was back.

Joy smiled radiantly, letting him in. “I’m almost done packing; then I’ll be out of your way.”

“Whatever,” he grumbled, dropping his gear on the floor.

“Rough night?”

Rough day ahead. He lifted his cap, raked back his hair, replaced the cap.

“Dylan . . . I wish you didn’t feel that you had to sleep outside. There’s a couch here. You could have had the bed.”

Yeah . . . no. He would have sweet-talked her into sharing the bed, and then he’d have to look at her face in the morning, full of guilt and regret because she’d slept with someone else, even if they hadn’t done anything. He’d make sure she never looked at him that way. He’d seen a similar look too many times on Jack’s face when he’d look at Billie before his mom had had enough and left.

“I slept fine.” And he had. He’d slept like the dead until eight, when he ordered coffee from the restaurant and took his mug onto the patio.

Joy zipped her case. “Where are you playing today? I’d love to come watch.”

Hell to the no.

“I don’t want you to.”

Her head snapped back and Dylan wanted to punch himself for hurting her feelings. But he honestly couldn’t bear to have her watch him play today of all days.

“All right then,” she said slowly, looking around the room as if she didn’t know where to look or what to say.

Dylan glanced at his watch. “Go do your thing today. I’ll meet you at the car at two.” He took himself into the bathroom and slammed the door. He inhaled deeply, forcing himself to chill. “Fuck.” The bathroom smelled like Joy. Fresh, clean, and floral. He’d also left his clothes and toiletries in the room, and there was no way he was going to show his face again after he’d been such a dick to her.

Coward.

He stood in the bathroom glowering at his reflection until he heard Joy leave. He forced out a breath. Time to get this shit show of a day behind him.

Dylan quickly did his business, leaving time to make a few calls from the room. He checked in with Chase and confirmed their meetup plans. He called his mom, who taught artist management at Northwest University and still lived in the same house in Seattle even after she’d divorced Jack and he moved out. It was where Dylan had grown up, his home until he bought his own place in Santa Monica. Billie was worried about him. She was just as upset as Dylan about this trip but understood why he had to do it. Last, he called Jack’s attorney.

“I’m in Albuquerque,” he told Rick when the guy picked up the phone.

“You recall the spot we discussed?”

“I know the place, how long I have to play, and I won’t forget to check in when I’m done.”

Rick sighed. “This would be much easier if you gave yourself the chance to enjoy this, Dylan. Your dad had your best interests at heart.”

“If that were true, I wouldn’t be here.” He hung up.

Dylan checked out of the hotel, and after leaving his duffel with the concierge, he took his guitar to Old Town. His stomach felt full of acid and his feet leaden. They grew heavier with every step. His mouth had dried up before he even arrived. When he reached the San Felipe de Neri Church across the street from the Old Town Plaza, he didn’t go inside the church. He set up on the sidewalk in the very spot Rick had instructed him to stand and took out his guitar, leaving the case open at his feet.

After chugging half a bottle of water, he tugged his Dodgers cap low over his face, checked that his reflective sunglasses sat firmly on the bridge of his nose, and willed the lump in his throat that made him gag to go away. He started to breathe, pacing his breaths like Billie had taught him, similar to how he’d talked Joy down last night before she had a full-fledged panic attack. Gradually, his hands stopped shaking and fingers steadied. He started to play and then he sang. He didn’t look around, and he didn’t look up. And he prayed to God that Joy wouldn’t see him, and if she did, that she wouldn’t approach and make her presence known.

As he performed on the street, Dylan didn’t think about the number of times as a kid Jack had forced him onstage to show off his musical prodigy son to his fans, or the ensuing panic attacks that never failed to overtake him afterward, bouts his mom would have to talk him through until his breathing regulated and the need to curl into a tight ball faded away. She’d go rage at Jack, and then Jack would spend the rest of the night with the band and a bottle, and often another woman.

Instead, Dylan swallowed the lump in his throat, willing his breakfast of Tums and coffee to stay down, and kept his mind focused on the trip through England he and Chase had planned, and all the new talent they’d sign to their label upon their return to LA.

At one thirty, he scooped up the twenty-four singles, odd change, and gum wrapper that had been dropped in his case and packed up his guitar. Head down and sanity hanging by a thread, he returned to Hotel Albuquerque to collect his duffel. He also called Rick collect from the lobby phone.

“It’s done.” He slammed down the receiver.





CHAPTER 12