Chapter 22
Philadelphia is a bizarre place.
Our tour bus barely made the trip from New York, and Kale—the only one of us with a US license—drove Kevin’s dinged-up car behind us in case we broke down along the way.
In perhaps the only stroke of luck we’ve had this tour, the bus sputtered to a halt as we pulled into an auto shop parking lot.
Kevin turned it over to a mechanic who did not say a single word to us, just stared, a chunky gold cross hanging between the open flaps of his shirt to land on his exceptionally hairy chest.
Kevin had us cram into his shitty hatchback as he drove to a highly questionable motel near tonight’s venue, the only affordable lodgings we could find on such short notice.
But the “good news,” as Kevin phrases it (he could find something lovely to say about a turd), is that the motel rate is so cheap we can afford for everyone to get their own room.
I don’t want to touch anything for fear of catching pinworms but hey, at least I’ll have the opportunity to be murdered in my own personal space!
We’re in a pocket of the city called Fishtown and the residents flaunt the name with pride, fish paraphernalia decorating wrought-iron fences, trash cans, and murals.
The shops are equally as odd; countless storefronts with bizarre offerings and antique goods lining the streets.
At one point, we even pass a bakery with an attention-grabbing window display of cakes shaped like boobs.
Tonight’s show is at a wonderfully grimy bar called Kung Fu Necktie, every centimeter of the walls covered to its fullest potential with graffiti, stickers, and a stray neon monkey.
I’ve been on edge since leaving the hotel yesterday, refreshing my phone over and over as I wait to see if Connor is really so evil as to plant a story, but a new problem has taken priority in my anxious brain: Something is horribly wrong with my mouth.
Staring in the mirror like some Sad Girl?? in an indie film, I poke at the angle of my swollen jaw, hissing out a breath. The pain is a sharp, throbbing ache that travels all the way down to my toes. Angry blotches of red slash across my cheeks, the rest of my face gray and sweaty.
Lovely.
I’ve been noticing a growing but sporadic ache along my face for a few weeks now, but I chalked it up to grinding my teeth to dust from stress. I’m starting to think it might be slightly more serious than that.
With a sigh, I lean closer to the mirror and open my mouth as much as I can, which isn’t very much at all, and gingerly pull my cheek back.
It’s dark and hard to see in there, but the back right looks swollen and angry, a large bump forming where my lower jaw meets my upper.
I try to touch the spot, but it’s so tender I almost bite my own finger off as I jerk back.
Bracing my hands on the sink, I gulp down a few deep breaths.
Okay. This is okay. I splash some cold water on my cheeks. Totally okay. This is tomorrow Cubby’s problem. Not yours. So mind your own business. With a final shaky breath, I straighten and head out of the bathroom to the small backstage area.
Only to discover there is something horribly wrong with my band.
“It’s absolute bullshit,” Kale yells into Kevin’s face. “Wake up, man.”
“You have to calm down, mate,” Harry says, stepping between them. “Come off him, he didn’t cause this.”
“Don’t tell him to calm down, he’s rightfully upset,” Skull says. I do a double take at the sheer passion in his voice.
“We’re all fucking upset. Him screaming his head off won’t do any good, though, will it?” Darcy snaps back. All four of them erupt into more yelling.
“If we could all take a breath…” Kevin says, his voice lost in the noise.
My attention flits from person to person, their red faces, phones clutched in their hands.
I grab my electric guitar sitting in the corner, plugging it into a stray amp and spinning the knob all the way up.
I play a shrill note, holding it close to the amp so feedback pierces through the room.
The yelling stops, everyone clamping their hands to their ears and swiveling their angry faces to land on me.
“What the hell is going on?” I say, sweat pricking along my hairline as the pain in my mouth builds.
Kale, shockingly, is the first to respond, marching toward me. “You tell us, traitor.”
“Excuse me?” I square up to him.
With a curled lip and a scoff, he throws his phone on the worn couch next to me, pointing at it like it’s a smoking gun. Refusing to take my eyes off him, I reach out, picking it up and bringing it toward my chest. When I have no choice, I look away from the rage in Kale’s face to the screen.
My heart sinks.
My own face looks back at me, a series of pictures of me in a posh hotel lobby … embracing Connor. A surge of pain zaps between my temples as I scroll to look at the headline.
Cubby Clark Crawling Back
The first few sentences have bile burning up my throat.
Cubby Clark, the notorious girlfriend of Tea Time Tantrum’s leading man Harry O’Connell, can’t seem to help herself as she’s seen begging her heartthrob ex, Connor McCabe, to take her back, not only in the bedroom but onstage.
Insiders report Clark orchestrated a surprise visit to McCabe’s NYC hotel in an attempt to lure him back into a relationship, and to take her on as a supporting act as his stardom intensifies.
“It’s just sad to see such a good guy toyed with,” a friend close to the star tells us. “Cubby is so desperate to use these guys in her life to further her career. She doesn’t even think about the emotional damage she’s doing to them.”
Desperate indeed …
“I get the picture,” I say, tossing Kale’s phone back on the couch.
“Yeah, we do too,” he spits.
“I’m sorry, but why are you mad at me?”
He splutters for a moment, shooting a bewildered look around the room. I’ve actually rendered Kale speechless. It’s a miracle.
“You’re joking, right?” he finally manages. “You seriously aren’t going to own it?”
“Own what?” I clap my hands after each syllable for emphasis.
“That you’re two-timing us. That you’re using us as a stepping stone to your next big conquest. You’re in cahoots with Connor and waiting for the right moment to tell us you’re leaving the band to go work with him.”
It’s my turn to splutter. “Are you cracked? You think I’d ever do something so degrading as go back to that asshole?”
“Up until I saw pictures of you doing just that, no, I didn’t think you would. But the proof is right there. We all see it.”
“There’s nothing to see!”
Kale picks up his phone, flashing the article at me. “Really? Because, from where I’m standing, we can clearly see Connor, a fancy hotel paid for by his execs, and you having some sort of secret meeting with him. What else would you be doing there?”
“Obviously it wasn’t so secret if all the paps got pictures, you prat. But that’s not at all what it was. Connor texted me, he arranged the whole thing. And, yes, he asked me to collab with him—spewed some crap about his label wanting it for publicity—but I told him to fuck off.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about the meeting?”
It takes me a moment to remember there are other people in this room besides me and Kale, and I turn.
Darcy. Eyes wide, brow pinched, lip caught between her teeth. She clears her throat. “Why didn’t you tell us about the meeting?” Her voice has a ragged edge, almost imperceptible unless you knew her normal voice well. As well as I do.
I push past Kale, to get to her. I reach out and grab her hands, trying to hold them to me, but she slips away, wrapping her arms around her middle.
“Darce,” I whisper. “Come on. Not you too.”
“Why?” she repeats.
I let out a humorless laugh, a few angry tears slipping out the corners of my eyes.
Does she really need any more evidence of how fucking pathetic I am?
Do I need to spell out how I was desperate for closure in at least one failed relationship?
“Because it didn’t matter,” I say through gritted teeth.
“A major pop star asking you to join his band matters a bit, Cub,” Harry says. “That’s stuff you share with your band. Unless you’re trying to hide something.”
I drag my gaze from Darcy’s hurt face to land on Harry’s frown.
I shake my head slowly. “You of all people, Harry? Are you kidding me right now? Have you been awake for any of the events the past six weeks? The absolute circus we’ve been thrown in the center of?
The media twists everything! How could you think that’s real after everything we’ve endured? ”
“That’s the thing, though, innit? It is real. He really asked you that. You really took the meeting.” There’s a pleading note in his voice like he’s begging me to say it’s all photoshopped.
“It seems pretty convenient that the media has it out for you so specifically, Cubby.” This time, it’s Skull digging the tip of the knife into the wound.
“Yeah, interesting that you’re always the victim,” Kale says, coming to Harry’s side and clapping a hand on his shoulder.
I go to open my throbbing mouth, but any arguments turn to ash in my throat.
I stand there, gaping at the people I thought I could trust. What’s the point in trying to make them see the truth?
They were so ready to believe this, so ready to think the worst of me.
Why would I bother defending myself when I have no one left to give me the benefit of the doubt?
A knock sounds at the door, drawing our attention.
“Five minutes till show,” a runner says, popping her head in and ducking back out in a blink.
“I’m not going onstage with this lying snake,” Kale says, turning to Kevin, who’s hiding in the corner and, if I’m being honest, doing a horrible job of managing things.
“I think we all need to take a second,” he says, face bright red and sweat ringing the collar and pits of his shirt.
“No,” Kale says, crossing his arms. “I’m not going to do it.”
The pulsating in my jaw intensifies, making my eyes water and vision blur, anger pumping through my blood and clawing at my muscles.
I glance around the room, desperate to find anyone to back me up. Skull sits on the couch, eyes fixed on the wall across from him. After a heavy moment, he stands, setting down his drumsticks, and shoving his hands in his pockets. “Tonight isn’t the night to play.”
Harry’s head is hung low, hands fisted in his hair.
“Harry.”
He doesn’t look at me.
“Harry.”
Nothing.
Darcy at least has the decency to meet my gaze, but there’s a mix of hurt and confusion on her face.
How does she not get it? The one person that knows me the best. How can she not see how utterly humiliating it is that I even showed up at Connor’s stupid room, desperately searching for pathetic closure?
Why would I give any of them one more example of how pitiful I am?
Another shock of pain shoots down my jaw and up to my brain like barbed wire is cinching them together. I grab my cheeks, squeezing my eyes shut as I try to breathe through it.
This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.
My world has been slowly crumbling for months, and this was the final blow. There’s no coming back from this. Not when I don’t have anyone listening to the truth. I dredge up my last bit of strength to collect myself, gaze sweeping to every single person in the room.
“Fuck this,” I say simply. “Fuck you. All of you. Fuck this band and our stupid songs. I don’t need any of you.”
“Cubby.” Darcy’s voice is soft, but the warning echoes like a shot through my head. I don’t care. I’m done holding myself together if everyone is so dead set on ripping me to pieces.
I stare straight at her, letting all the hurt, all the excruciating pain of the past few months play across my face. “I’m serious,” I say, not blinking. “I’m done.”