Crap. Why did I say that?
I shrug. “Nothing. It’s nothing. He’s just not the kind of guy I’d want to hang out with.”
“Nope, not buying it, Chrissie. Are you going to tell me what happened in the green room that I don’t know about?”
Neil asks more forcefully this time. Oh crud. How did he know something happened in the green room? Is he fishing because I’m so terrible at hiding my thoughts or has someone already said something to him?
I drop the brush and fight to keep reaction from my face. If Neil doesn’t know what went down with the Delmos, I don’t want to ruin tonight by telling him the Manny’s toss-overs comment or that other repulsive thing Nicole said.
“I don’t like him,” I say carefully. “He treats his girlfriend like shit. But then Nicole is a bitch. Not exactly a fun couple.”
“Then we won’t go.”
I stare back at him in the mirror. “If you are expected to go, you have to go. Don’t not go because of me.”
He drops a kiss on my lips. “I’m not doing that party without you.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s not fair, Neil.”
His arms slip around my waist, pulling me back against him. His lips start to lightly touch my neck.
“Come with me, Chrissie,” he whispers into my ear before he softly nibbles on the flesh of my lobe.
I lean back into him. “That’s not fair either.” But I move into his touch, not away from it.
Against my back, I feel his chest shimmy with silent laughter. “We’ll stay fifteen minutes. We’ll show up. Polite, but then we’ll get the hell out of there.”
I make a face at him.
“That’s not polite.”
Neil shakes his head. “Then we’ll stay.”
“I don’t want to.”
Shit. I’m doing it again. Being a pain. I can be so frustrating at times, but then again those are difficult, rude people.
I make an internally contained shudder.
“Fifteen minutes, then we’re out of there.”
It’s clear he’s not going to let me have my way in this. “Fine, Neil. Fine.”
He takes my hand and starts guiding me toward the door. He unbolts it.
“He apologized, you know,” Neil says quietly. “Vincent apologized to me before he went on stage. He’s the headliner and I aint shit. But he manned up, wanted no hard feelings, and made sure things were cool between us. He’s not that bad of a guy, Chrissie.”
Crap.
He places a light kiss on my lips, his hands holding my face with his thumbs lightly stroking at the edges of my mouth.
“I don’t give a shit what anyone says. Not about you. Not about me. And you’re going to hear shit. Lots of shit, Chrissie. That’s the road. Ignore it. Don’t let it hurt you. Whatever you hear, be honest with me and we’ll be OK. Don’t let it hurt us.”
I nod, but there is something in the way Neil’s eyes fix intensely on mine that makes me wonder if there is something he is worried I might hear.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I lie on my stomach on the cold stage floor, stare at my journal, and then write the date. September 14th, 1993. Have I really been on tour with Neil for three months?
I turn my head to look up at Neil sitting in the last row of the stadium. Sound check ended an hour ago and he’s just been sitting there, staring off into space. But that’s Neil. Only a stupid girl would try to change him at this point. Whatever this ritual is, it works for him. The performances only get more spectacular. The crowds larger. His fans nearly outnumber Scream’s at every gig.
Still, I wonder what he thinks about while he sits there. I shake my head and focus back on my journal. I start to write. Blah. Not very good. I scribble a giant X through it. I flip through the pages, looking for something not dreadful, and stop. Parts of me have been quieted, new parts of me stirred awake, parts of me I leave behind, and parts of me I take.
I sit up, grabbing the Gibson acoustic guitar lying next me. I close my eyes and start to play. I pause to write in the journal. I play.
My concentration is shattered by the sound of boots stomping on metal steps. I stop playing and slap my journal closed just as Delmo and his entourage take over the stage.
“Nancy Drew, did anyone say you could fucking touch our stuff?” snaps Rex Dillard as he hovers above me, staring at the guitar.
I have to fight not to make a face at him. Why does he always have to give me such shit? Rex Dillard may be one of the world’s greatest guitarist, but he’s an absolute prick.
“Sod off,” Delmo interjects before I can rally words to defend myself. “The girl can touch anything of mine she wants to.”
He gives me a roguish smile and a wink. I roll my eyes and meet him stare for stare as he crosses the stage toward me.
“You’re so obnoxious,” I say, shaking my head at him. “If you stopped pretending to be an asshole, I might start to actually like you.”
Vincent Delmo laughs, settling on the stage next to me. I bite back a smile. I do sort of like him, but I don’t want him to know it. He’s so conceited. But the rest of his unappealing traits, I figured out on my first week on tour, are all show for the fans. The obnoxious behavior. The parties. The women. The booze. Nonsense for the fans.
As far as I know, he hasn’t stepped out once on Nicole, and we’d all know it, because it is impossible for that woman to say anything without everyone hearing it. And Vincent doesn’t drink. That one was a shocker. He’s a Twelver. That’s how he knows Jack. That’s how they became friends, another one of Jack’s strange circle of twelve-step buddies.
Delmo is sort of OK, but Nicole and the rest of the band are dreadful. I can tell by how the guys are moving on stage that they are more than a little drunk, and their obnoxious behavior is not show. They’re assholes. Total assholes every moment they are awake. But Delmo isn’t. Neil was right. He’s an OK guy.
He nods toward the back of the arena. “Is the kid all done here?”
I clip my pen to the cover of my journal. “They finished an hour ago.”
Rex snatches the Gibson out of my lap. The rest of them are tuning instruments. I need to get out of here quickly.
I look up to where Neil is, wondering if I should wait or go to him. I don’t really want to climb the stadium steps to the top. I resolve to wait.
Delmo’s eyes fix on me. “I can’t quite figure you and the Hardy boy out, Nancy Drew.”
I ignore the comment as if I’m annoyed with it—Vincent was the one who first called me Nancy Drew, prompted for some reason by me always scribbling in my journal as I wait on Neil, and the wretched thing has stuck with the band—but I am not annoyed. It’s amusing from him with his thick British accent and he doesn’t mean any disrespect. It’s just the way he talks. He hasn’t a mean bone in his body.
He studies my face. “So is it serious with him, or do I have a chance?”
God, he’s impossible. “I’ve already answered. Neil and me? Serious. You? No chance at all. Never.”
“You break my heart, love. But it’s probably for the best. Do you want to know what I think?”
“Not particularly.”
“Ah, but I’m going to tell you,” he announces.
I laugh in spite of my efforts not to and Delmo smiles.
“I don’t understand these kids they keep putting on the road with me. More talent than they know what to do with, but they live like Quakers. They don’t live the life. But that’s a good thing. The kid is smarter than I was at his age. Keeps his feet planted on the ground and stays out of the mix.”
“Neil doesn’t buy into the hype. He never will. He’s not that kind of guy. What you see is what you get with Neil.”
“Smart.” Vincent’s expression changes and he looks almost wistful. “Here’s the other thing, which you probably don’t want to know. You and the kid have a good thing going on. You’re the only two in this fucking madhouse who have it right. I have only one thing to say about that.”