Chapter Twelve
“Fuck, Dillon, that hurts.”
“Can’t be helped, E. Wearing Eric’s clothes isn’t going to get us there. You’ve gotta have a birthmark beneath your left ear and a stud.”
I hold the ice against my newly pierced lobe, wishing I’d done it with Eric when we were kids, and hating that burning flesh scent wafting from my skin from whatever Dillon’s heating with a lighter against my neck.
“Whatever you’re doing better not be permanent,” I warn.
“What’s the matter? Afraid you won’t be pretty anymore?” he jeers, causing my dad to laugh. “That the girls won’t want you when I’m through with you?”
Dillon eases back and blows on the mark he just created, and I examine it with the mirror. It looks damn near perfect to me. Good enough to nearly convince me I’m Eric. “Where the hell did you learn to do this shit?”
“Never done any of this stuff before. I Googled,” he replies, stepping back to give room for my dad to inspect his handiwork. “It’s just heated eyebrow pencil. He can scrub it off in the shower tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry about this, Ethan,” Alan says on nearly a soundless raspy whisper.
I nod and remind myself this can’t be an easy night for my dad either. “It’s going to be all right. Eric always lands on his feet.”
Alan nods, rakes back his hair, and then turns to Dillon. “I think we’re ready to do this. Let the crew know Eric’s coming now.”
I rise from the chair, shaking my head, because no way am I going to make it through everything my dad expects me to do without a slip. Eric and I only look and sound alike. Our mannerisms and how we think and feel are totally different. How we are as men is totally different.
Dillon pauses at the storage room door and gives my shoulder a squeeze. “You’re going to do fine, E. Just remember, whatever comes to mind, do the opposite, and there won’t be a person in the house who doesn’t believe you’re Eric.”
I chuckle even though that isn’t even close to funny. Worry over my brother has lodged a lump in my throat that’s going make it impossible to sing.
After taking a moment to try to rearrange my head space into something that’ll help me on stage, I brush back my hair and say, “Let’s do it.”
Dillon opens the door and I strut out without a backward glance to my dad to be swallowed up by Eric’s security and ushered to the stage.
It’s funny how stress and nerves can affect someone, and even though my body feels wired and overalert, I’ve been at this long enough to know that what I’m feeling shooting through my veins is different. It’s not a run-of-the-mill performance, where a fuckup won’t matter in a day. It’s part of some scheme I still don’t fully understand that could mean my brother’s life. I know this firestorm of sensation in my flesh could either turn into performance adrenaline or a meltdown.
And there’s my first test, standing beneath the short flight of stairs to the stage. Hugh. Fucking Hugh. If any of the guys are going to see through this sham it’s him.
We share an intense stare like two junkyard dogs as I close in on the small circle of people near the production assistant speaking into a walkie-talkie.
Hugh decides to step from away from the guys and hit me head-on by himself. “You’re a fucking piece of shit, do you know that? Mind-fucking your own brother not to show, using Avery as bait to keep him away from here, trying to stir up shit with the band and Ethan when none of us have a problem with him, then keeping us all hanging until the last second and for what? How low will you go? You being here, Ethan blowing us off, isn’t changing a thing. We’re fucking through with you after tonight, Eric. You stabbed your own brother in the back. Do you have to fuck up every life you touch? Why don’t you let Ethan make his own decisions?”
The mention of Avery sends a hundred-volt jolt of anger through my body and it takes everything I have not to clock Hugh right there for thinking she’d be down with doing anything wrong, ever. It’s like I’m really seeing him for the first time, and with it comes the reminder that Hugh’s our friend and he didn’t do shit to help my brother. Instead, he piled on and added his own crap to whatever else brought Eric to the point of running.
It’s a hard battle to remember that tonight isn’t the time to finish everything I need to finish with Hugh, but no fucking way am I taking this. “Ethan did make his own decision. He doesn’t want anything to do with you fuckers, not anymore. Now back the fuck up and get out of my way.”
One side of my nose and lips alter into a snarl like my brother would make, and I brush by Hugh, continuing to the stage. He doesn’t try to stop me—coward—and I’d have annihilated him if he had.
Taz and Linc toss me a nod, and I shift my eyes, glancing at them for not even a second, before I let a dazzling Eric-type smile fill my face and hold out my hand for the replacement drummer my dad grabbed with a phone call.
“Motherfucking Kenny Jones,” I say as he pulls me into a hard embrace.
“Baby Manzone.”
I push back against him. “Don’t fucking call me that, you geriatric ward reject. I can’t believe my dad couldn’t find a better drummer than you, even on short notice.”
Kenny laughs. Whether he’s buying this or not I can’t tell, but then, he’s been wasted since the eighties and he’s one of my dad’s bandmates and oldest friends.
“I’ll try to carry you, kid. Not make you look too bad.”
The stage goes dark, the screaming of the crowd erupts, and I’m being ushered across the wood to the center as one of the crew shoves Eric’s guitar into my hand. Kenny’s drumsticks start to count, and my mind goes blank. I let go of thought. If this is my last set ever with Eric’s band, my brother is going out and walking off this stage the right way.
Light explodes around me, and I’m front and center giving the performance of my life. In every note and word I’m what the sea of faces of Eric’s fans expects, pulling out all the stops like he would to say, Fuck you, Hugh, I’m Eric Manzone. I’m the one who doesn’t need you or this shit.
As the last note of the final song starts to fade, I lift the mic and shout, “Fuck you, LA. You’re going to miss me,” because it seems like an Eric thing to say. And it must be because the crowd that’s been on its feet the entire ninety minutes is going crazy.
Security clears a path for me to exit, and I hand off the guitar and sprint to where my dad’s waiting in the wings.
Even in this awfulness of what we’re doing, his eyes simmer approvingly and he cups my face. “You’re brilliant, son. The best I’ve ever played with. And that’s no lie. I mean every word.”
The raw emotion in Alan’s voice chokes me up, and I nod with my forehead pressed against his. “I couldn’t let him down. You’re right. He’s my brother.”
Alan’s embrace tightens and he pats me firmly on the back. “Let’s finish this night. But tomorrow morning it’s time for you to decide what you want to do. Don’t let anyone get in your way of having what you want and deserve. Not anymore. Not ever again. And especially not me.”
As good as this feels—when I’m fucking positive it shouldn’t because I can’t escape the thought of what I’m doing or that it took an Eric crisis to hear this from Pop—I’ve got to shake it off because Eric doesn’t get emotional. Not even with family.
I step back and gesture for one of the crew. “Get that fucking blanket over here. I’m getting chills from the goddamn sweat.” And as it’s wrapped around me, I grab a bottle of JD someone left near the stage, unscrew the cap, and take a long chug.
Then I’m moving down the hall to the dressing rooms, with people and faces closing in on me, their voices raised in accolades. There’s buzzing excitement shooting within the concourse, and all I want is a shower then to get out of here and track Avery down, but instead I’ve gotta go to the fucking after-party like Eric would.
Dillon opens the door, and I say, “Don’t let anyone in or you’re fucking fired.”
Alone, I collapse back against the wall and try to still my racing heart. I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack. I can’t quiet my pulse or avoid the aftereffect of what I just did. And I’m not talking about putting on a killer set, but going out there and committing a fraud in front of thousands and the press. That I did it to help Eric doesn’t make it one ounce less terrible. That my dad’s proud of me and showed it doesn’t make it right.
It was the greatest performance of my career and it was a fucking lie and wrong in every way.
Still breathing heavily, I sink down on a sofa and cradle my head in my hands. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.” It’s pointless to regret it now. It’s done. And it couldn’t be helped.
The only break I caught is that Avery’s not here and I didn’t have to do that in front of her. I couldn’t ever have carried off that lie if she were here. And she would have seen through it.
Thank God she’s not here.
My stomach turns and my face snaps up.
Why isn’t Avery here?
She never misses a performance, and when we parted we’d planned to meet back up here to finish our date. With everything happening, somehow I failed to remember she wasn’t here or to wonder why.
Hugh’s words revive in my memory. I pull my phone from my pocket and power it on. Nothing. No text or call from her. No, no, no. I don’t believe it. That crap talk of Hugh’s can’t be true.
We were practically fucking in the booth at The Cockyard. No girl could fake arousal that well, and even if they could, Avery would never do that.
Leaning with my elbows on my knees and holding the phone with both hands, I stare at it for a moment then hit callback for Avery and speaker.
No ring.
Straight to voice mail.
I check her blog and Facebook page. Her last post is us in front of the sign at the club. That was ten hours ago, and Avery usually posts at least every four, even when she’s working to meet a deadline.
My pulse ticks up and I tell myself the thoughts I’m having are crazy. That it doesn’t mean anything that I can’t reach her and she was a no-show tonight.
Since I dropped her at her sister’s house, I call Emmy next. I listen to the rings. At least her phone’s on. My leg bounces as I wait, anxious for her to answer.
“Hello, this is Emmy.”
Emmy’s tone is businesslike even at midnight.
“You sound wide awake. I was about to say sorry for calling so late.”
Soft giggles bubble through the speaker. “Ethan, you sound half dead, but really sexy. Your voice is gravelly. You just get off stage?”
I slouch back against the sofa cushions. “Yeah. Tour done. Fini.”
I hear voices in the background, and for a split-second I wonder if their dads tracked Avery down and showed up at her sister’s. It would make sense why I can’t reach her.
“You sound busy,” I remark. “Like you’ve got people over.”
“Ah, just a few friends. No one important. I’m never too busy to take a call from the only famous rock star I know.”
“Hey, put Avery on. I need to speak to her.”
“What is this? Are you two messing with me? What’s the joke? I don’t get it.”
“No joke. Let me speak to Avery.”
A pregnant pause through the phone. “Oh crud. Did you guys have a fight already? She looked so happy when you picked her up here. What’d you do to piss my sister off?”
I picked her up? Reality hits me like a semitruck. Fucking Eric. Goddamn it, why did he pick up Avery from her sister’s tonight? And why can’t I reach her?
“Ethan? Are you OK?”
“Yeah, I’m great.”
“Well, you don’t sound great.” And there’s a pout in her voice.
“Just tell your sister I called, OK?”
“Sure.”
“Talk to you later, Emmy.”
After clicking off the phone, I toss it aside. I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach and I don’t even have the details of why she’s with him. But fuck, I don’t need to. I know Eric. And that’s enough to make my mind spin in endless ugly possible explanations. What more do I need to know? Avery blew me off tonight and is now with him.