Chapter 10 #2
“Yeah. You’re a family. Have you considered the rest of your family? Steve and Pete, Moss, your roadies and techs, what you owe them?”
“Gee, no. That’s not something I think about every minute of every fucking day,” DJ said sarcastically.
“Then act like it.”
Rage and frustration boiled over. DJ barely stopped himself from taking a swing at the tower of self-righteous control in front of him.
He could see Roy recognized it. But he also realized they’d moved into far-too-personal swamp water, offshore from where Roy knew they were supposed to be. He took a physical step back, and when he spoke, his voice was even. “I apologize. I’m your bodyguard, not your conscience or parent.”
“But you are more than my bodyguard.” Roy may have stepped back, but DJ wouldn’t let him step back that far. Roy was his lover and the man DJ wanted to be his Master.
Tal was eventually going to do something awful, something DJ couldn’t fix.
When it happened, DJ would face a million reporters shoving microphones in his face, wetting themselves with joy about a high-ratings tragedy story that the world would forget in a handful of days, while it would haunt DJ for the rest of his life.
After all that, if he had Roy, he’d have somewhere to go, someone to go to. That might give him the strength to handle it, and to hope he’d be able to learn to live with not knowing what the right decision was until it was too late.
Somewhere during that wishful thinking internal diatribe, he’d closed the distance between them and had his fists on the lapels of Roy’s jacket.
Roy’s hands had landed on his hips to hold him there, and were gripping him tight, the conflict in his touch clear.
Neither pulling DJ closer nor pushing him away.
“Take a breath,” Roy ordered.
DJ did, and it came with a self-administered slap in the face. What right did he have to put all that on Roy? They barely knew one another, and he was looking at him as an emotional safety net. Fuck, DJ wasn’t that much of a selfish asshole. He hoped.
The deep breath felt like cut glass. He stepped back, letting Roy go. “You’re right. This part of my life, it doesn’t involve you, nor should it.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Fuck, I’m tired, and the band has to be on a plane to Denver while I do the charity thing at Atlanta Mission.”
“Dory…”
DJ shook his head. “Let’s just leave it for now. Okay? I’m going to get some sleep. Then I’ll pull Tal together and get him to the airport.”
As he brushed past Roy, he resisted the urge to stop and bury his face in his shoulder, grab hold of his rock solid body and let it steady him. But he had to take care of his bandmates, which meant standing on his own two feet.
A few hours later, he’d gotten Tal into the limo and they were headed for the private airfield.
His bandmate had on his dark glasses and was slumped down, rocking a bottle of Jack on his thigh.
DJ wasn’t sure alcohol qualified as hair of the dog for a drug hangover, but he remained quiet until they got closer to the airfield. Because he was thinking. Thinking hard.
“Do you remember the girl last night, Tal?” he asked. “Sabrina?”
“Sabrina?” Tal rubbed his eyes under the shades. The fortunately closed bottle rolled to the floor. “I remember…fuck, she had a mouth. Was she the one with the beautiful tits? I came all over them. Blonde? Uh…blue eyes. Yeah. Blue eyes.”
“Blue eye shadow. Eyes were brown. Do you remember throwing a bottle at her head? Or breaking off another one and threatening her with it?”
Tal sat straight up, even though the move made him wince and twitch in an alarmingly seizure-like way. “Shit. Did I hurt her?”
“Some of the glass caught her face, but she was okay.”
“Hell, DJ, I’ll send her something. I assume Moss and his cleanup team did their usual schmooze job—”
“She was cool. I gave her some tickets and my shirt.”
“Good. I wouldn’t have wanted to hurt her.”
“I know you wouldn’t.” DJ snagged the bottle, putting it in the wet bar rack. “Tal, I’m making you a reservation at that rehab place in Colorado we’ve talked about. Your check in time is right after the Denver show. We’re going to drive you there. All of us. I’m bringing the snacks.”
Tal groaned. “Don’t start that bullshit again. I told you I’ll deal with it. I’m good.”
They sat silently as the limo took the airport exit. DJ stared at his bandmate. And kept thinking. Evaluating. Considering. And it wasn’t the usual pointless hamster wheel. Which made him feel sick, but he could push through that. He’d played a gig with the stomach flu before, after all.
When the limo glided to a stop in the parking area for charters and private planes, DJ saw Moss talking to Steve and Pete, Moss leaning against the railing of the steps that led up into the plane.
Tal pushed open the door and grabbed the Jack to take with him.
DJ picked up Tal’s forgotten go bag and drum pad and exited the limo.
The driver—his name was Newland—knew to wait for DJ’s return.
Roy had been in the rear SUV, but had exited it and was following at a discreet distance. DJ quickened his pace and caught Tal’s arm.
“Tal.”
His drummer whirled toward him, lips curled in a snarl. Behind the glasses, DJ knew his eyes would be bloodshot, sunk in his head. “I don’t need this shit this morning, DJ. I feel like crap and—”
“You always feel like crap, Tal. Except when you’re high. When was the last time you felt good when you weren’t?”
“Oh, Christ. Stop. I’m not doing it. I’m not. Fuck you.”
“You are. Or you’re not playing with us anymore.”
Full stop. He hadn’t talked about doing this with Steve and Pete, not at this exact time and place, but they’d danced around it plenty of times in their private discussions. He sure as hell hadn’t discussed it with Moss.
But they’d been handling it wrong. He’d known it in his gut, but hadn’t put a finger on the core reason until Roy said it aloud. If they wanted Tal to believe he truly mattered, more than for what he could do for them, then the decision was obvious. The time was now.
The words were out, and though they were like taking a steak knife to his gut, he knew they were right.
DJ moved to stand between Tal and the plane. Tal knew DJ well enough to know when he’d said something he meant. No backing down.
He stared at DJ, unsteady on his feet, as if the reality DJ had thrown at him was too much to handle. DJ wouldn’t let that sway him. Or change the message.
“I can’t take my drums,” Tal said. A plaintive note to his voice, a hint of the lost boy inside the man.
“You can take your drums. I’ll build you a fucking wing in the rehab center so you can take your drums. They may not let you play them all hours of the night like you can at my house, but you can sleep with them.
” DJ took a step closer. “Even if you can’t perform with us until you kick this, you’re in the band, Tal.
In our family. That doesn’t change. I’m going to be here for you. So are Steve and Pete.”
“No. No.” Tal threw him off and backed away. “I’m going to play the best set you’ve ever heard in Denver, and you’re going to know you’ve lost your minds, thinking I need some kind of bullshit help.”
“You’ll play the best set because you’re one of the greatest drummers in the world. You’ll still go because you need it. You need help.”
“You’re just trying to get rid of me.” Tal’s expression turned venomous.
“Fine. You want to fuck yourselves over, do it. You guys wouldn’t be where you are without me.
There wasn’t a Survival until I joined, and you know it.
I’m not going to be told what to do by anyone. I had enough of that shit growing up.”
Saliva sprayed from his lips as his voice rose. “You’re acting like they all act, DJ. I thought you understood me, but you don’t. You think you’re so much better than me. Well, fuck you. Fuck. You.”
He screamed the two words, getting up in DJ’s face. Or would have, except Roy was there first, easing Tal back. The movement was smooth and appeared nonaggressive, but it was effective. “That’s enough,” he said quietly.
Tal scoffed and shoved away from him. Though it didn’t move Roy an inch, the attempt set Tal back two paces.
He shot Roy the bird. “You think he needs protection from me? You don’t know shit.
None of you know shit. We’re going to talk about this fucking bullshit in Denver.
You just try to keep up with me. Fucking amateur hour. ”
He stomped away and up the steps of the plane, shoving past Moss. He disappeared inside, their flight attendant wisely backing out of his way. Moss went to reassure her as Steve and Pete joined DJ. Because of the shouting, DJ didn’t have to clue them in on what had just gone down.
“So you laid down the law, huh?” Pete asked.
“Yeah,” DJ said, his heart and throat aching. “He goes into rehab after the show tomorrow night or he’s done with us. We’ve talked about it before, but after last night…” He filled them in as Moss joined them.
Their manager’s expression went from shock to concern. “DJ, I’ve got a line on some top studio musicians, but no available drummer I know is good enough to play like Tal.”
“That's not important,” DJ said. “We’ll manage. He's what’s important. I let it go on too long. We let it go on too long. If we’re brothers, we act like it. Right?”
Steve and Pete nodded. He saw some of his own relief mirrored in their faces.
One day he would tell him how much it meant to him, seeing that, and having their support for the decision without a second’s hesitation.
He shifted his gaze to Moss. “Just do what you can, and pull in Pete. He’ll be able to tell who can halfway manage it, and we’ll work like demons to come up with an arrangement that doesn’t expose the gaps too much. ”
“Okay.” Moss nodded. “I’ll get on it. But the Atlanta Mission thing, should I cancel it?”
“No, just text me the details. I can handle it on my own. You work on this.”