Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
BAD AUGUST
BAD MEDICINE
Iwant him so badly.
I need him.
He’s beautiful. He’s perfect. I want him.
And I can’t fucking stand that guy.
I have never once in my entire existence felt jealousy on this scale. A sickening, winding, constricting snake, squeezing and crumpling my windpipe, its fangs devouring every inch of me from the inside out.
“I guess you want to leave,” he says softly.
“No!” I practically bark at him. There’s no chance in hell I’m leaving him alone with that prick. The way he got under his skin. He’s so fucking pathetic, and August’s so caring, and I’d rather let this whole universe go up in flames than leave them alone together for one more nanosecond.
His eyes, understandably, widen at my very transparent display of way too much affection screaming to get out. “Are you sure?” he asks. “You seem kind of…”
“I’m fine,” I snap. “Totally fine. Are we going down?” Totally fine. As far as August needs to know, I don’t have a problem in the world. I’m not at all fazed. I’m completely fine and sticking around till the end and not leaving his side for a minute during their ‘talk.’
Just me, standing quietly by, ready to punch that guy in the face if he lays a hand on August. “Lead the way.”
He doesn’t say anything, only grabs our beers and passes me mine before lowering his head with his pretty flushed cheeks, walking out ahead of me, down the stairs, threading through the sea of people.
God, if there were only some way for me to come between them.
He said he’s ready to move on—I heard him loud and clear. But then a second later, that guy was all over him, that bastard, with his filthy lips on August’s precious hand.
How can he let him kiss him? How can he do it right in front of me?
As quickly as the thought occurs to me, I try to stamp it down.
August owes me nothing. He can’t have any idea how strong my feelings are, and I can’t act on them.
My stomach flips, remembering my golden opportunity to kiss him up on the hill.
And I didn’t do it. If I’d just done that, where would we be now?
Still there? Back at August’s place? With me falling for a guy who’s about to die, while he unwittingly wastes his last few days with the very person who signed his death warrant?
I can’t do it.
But August craves affection, I can see that from a mile away. And here’s Jon ready to drown him in it. The second I go home, as soon as I’m out of sight, it will be all ‘I love you’ and ‘baby’ and ‘remember when…’
I’m seething. I’m so fucking furious at the thought of it, watching August’s neck and his shoulders as the coloured lights dapple over his tight little shirt until he finally comes to a stop and looks back at me with clear concern.
I haven’t even realised how close to the stage we are until the lights cut.
The smoke machine spews out a fog that turns yellow when the stage floor lights switch on.
The crowd starts to scream as the band comes out to take up their instruments.
All but Jon fucking Non Jovi. His microphone stands untenanted, scarves hanging from it, blowing in the artificial breeze.
August dips his head to speak into my ear, and a full-body tingle takes me at the touch of his breath. “I’m really sorry.”
The familiar first notes of ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’ start, and the audience cries out in thrilled recognition. August’s eyes run to the stage, and despite everything, I can see the tension in every feature, the worry Jon won’t go on. But his gaze is soon back on me. He’s worried about both of us.
“I don’t care at all,” I shout.
“Really?” Then leaning close again, so his lips touch my ear, “It was meant to be fun.”
“No. It is fun,” I insist, another complete lie, which I’m obviously very good at these days.
“Free drinks.” I hold up my beer, and though it takes him a moment, he taps his against it with the first smile I’ve seen on him since we arrived.
It’s a relieved smile. And an exhausted one.
And having got it feels so good I instantly become even more determined to convince him that I’m totally normal and relaxed and not at all falling apart with seething jealousy.
The deafening howls that go up around us on sight of his ex make this especially difficult.
It’s harrowing, in fact.
The only thing more harrowing is when Jon then opens his mouth and delivers the first line, pitch-perfect, raspy, and sexy. The drunken, whining mess is gone, and this version of him is hot and confident. He’s all charisma, and he instantly owns the stage. Handsome, talented, August’s ex.
And August’s watching him.
Right about now, I feel like something Jon walked in on the bottom of his shoe.
Until August’s head dips back to my shoulder, nestling there ever so slightly as he yells, “I mean it. If you don’t want to hang around…”
“I want to be wherever you are, August.”
There. I’ve said it. It’s not something he could misconstrue, even with all the self-doubt.
I watch in real time as his eyes light, spark with mine.
But again, I don’t make that move.
I freeze up because I can’t. And his eyes slip to my shoulder, the light fades, and I have to know I did that. I put that doubt there. Added to all of what he already has. And it feels like a sword in my gut.
A squeal comes out of nowhere. Amber’s got an arm around his neck, shouting, “You did it!” His hand’s on her hip, and he says something in her ear that I can’t hear.
She stands on tiptoes and kisses his cheek, then turns to watch the show.
Shashi, on her far side, gives me another once over before focusing on the band.
They’re both gorgeous, these women. Shashi, with her dark skin and black hair and intelligent eyes. Amber, short and pale and ginger, full of vitality. Amber’s dancing and Shashi’s singing and they’re forcing sips of beer on August. And he’s happy with them.
I had him down as so alone. He says he’s lonely. But I’m beginning to get a picture of his life not too long ago. This was it. Every night, probably. He must have been close with them. Then Jon kept the friends in the break. And everything else. The band, the fans, the nights out, the lot.
There’s a nervousness in August, directed at me. His shoulder’s always turned a little to me, like he doesn’t want to leave me out of any of it. But his hips are moving a bit. He wants to relax, and he wants to have fun. I’m not going to be the one to stop him.
“He’s pretty good,” I yell across, even if it’s like swallowing daggers of fire.
“Do you think so?” Before I can wrestle my mouth into confirmation, he says, “I hoped you’d think so. I wanted you to understand.”
If he wants to say more, it’s cut off by the effort of shouting it to me over the music.
But he doesn’t need to. Jon’s incredible, and everyone here’s so into it.
It’s all perms and black T-shirts, and it doesn’t matter if they’re not really Bon Jovi.
To everyone here, they are. Every single person is playing make-believe, and they love it.
If they have shitty jobs, or if they’re broke, or if they just broke up, or if they’re falling in love, or if they’ve lost someone they care about, it’s all on hold.
It all stops for the hour or two Jon and his band hold them here in their hands.
It’s a mass hallucination. It’s magic. It’s a time slip, but one of their own very deliberate creation.
And August was at the centre of it all. For years.
The jealousy is still there—these beautiful women, this gorgeous man on stage, and August, this star that seems to hold all the rest of them in balance, even when he doesn’t want to be that anymore.
When I want him to be mine. When I want August to be the thing that holds me in balance. When I wish I could be that for him too.
The song ends, and everyone applauds, then Jon starts to speak. The usual band talk about where they are and how great it is to be here. Then he stops, casts his eyes over the crowd. “August, where are you?”
Amber screams and jumps, flinging August’s hand up into the air.
Jon waits just long enough to get a clear view of him, gives the kind of smile that makes half the audience squeal, then nods. Instantly the band launches into ‘Bad Medicine,’ and it’s pandemonium.
August’s grinning from ear to ear, and as much as I hate to say it, it’s contagious.
I love watching him, even if I’m doing it as discreetly as I can manage with him checking in on me constantly.
Amber’s worked her way over in front of us, and she’s dancing against me too now, pouring her beer into my cup when it gets low.
And she, and Shashi, and August are shouting the words together.
Their sheer joy takes the edge off the night. The illusion goes on, unbroken and fantastic.
Next is ‘Runaway,’ followed hard by ‘In These Arms.’ Somewhere in ‘Wanted Dead or Alive’ Amber and Shashi disappear, then they’re back shoving full beers at us, chugging their own, Amber’s arms tightly around Shashi’s neck as she screams out the words.
On and on it goes, one hit after another, and with every song, every sip, August relaxes more and more. He’s got a shimmer of sweat about his brow and neck, and his shirt has ridden up even higher, his jeans slinking a little lower.
Jon finishes his song and, dramatically, takes his studded jacket off. I don’t think you could even call it a shirt, the thin sliver of material that dips down between his pecs, showing off his arms, eliciting perhaps the loudest screams from the crowd so far.
He plays it off like he doesn’t even notice how much they all adore him, casually flipping his waist-length hair to the side to take up his guitar.
He fronts up to the microphone, tight leather pants shining in the light, then slides his hand effortlessly down a plucked string, breaking out the first note of ‘Blaze of Glory.’