Dirty Like Us

using were not wholly intact or clear; the ones that had gone and later come back to me were often in disparate, discordant fragments. There were memories that had taken years to come back, and I knew there were some that would never come back at all. And I had to live with that, every day.

It was incredibly off-putting, this feeling… The sketchiness of my own memories, the lack of reliability of my own mind. My confused emotional associations to my old crew, my old family.

I knew I’d disappointed a lot of people with everything that had gone down. Hurt people. People who’d once cared about me.

Even if I couldn’t remember it.

But as I passed through the halls, my chest tight, meeting the eyes of anyone who glanced my way, my aviators still on… I didn’t recognize a single face.

And somehow that made me even more uncomfortable.

I could face up to my mistakes. I could look people in the eye and take the accusations or the disappointment or the anger, no matter how hard it would be. I was ready for that.

As ready as I could be.

But seeing all these people—strangers to me—working around the band… It just reminded me how much time had passed between us, how much things had changed. Not just for me, but for them.

And for the first time since setting out for this audition, I doubted myself.

Would I really fit in with them again, even if they gave me the chance, like I’d convinced myself I would?

Jude led me directly toward an office, and it was at the threshold, just as I was about to step inside, that I glimpsed the first familiar face in the hallway outside.

Katie.

Jesse’s wife.

I’d met her, briefly, at the reunion show in Vancouver. Sweet girl. Big blue-green eyes that were staring at me now. Which meant she recognized me, too.

I paused and slipped my sunglasses onto my head. She snapped her mouth shut, like she’d just realized it was hanging open. She was standing by a table of food with a few other girls I didn’t recognize; none of them were looking at me. Just Katie.

I nodded at her.

She crossed her arms and looked unsure. Then she nodded back.

Then she turned away, her dark hair falling over her face, and I followed Jude into the office.

He was arguing with someone as I set my guitar cases down. A woman. Petite and pretty, she had long, sleek dark hair, and I knew who she was.

Maggie Omura, Dirty’s assistant manager.

I’d never worked with Maggie. She’d come to work with Dirty after I was fired, but she’d been with the band a long time. Longer than I ever was.

“It’s just one more, Maggie,” Jude was saying.

“Who?” she said. “What’s his name?” She was on an iPad, and hadn’t even noticed me yet.

I just stood there next to Jude, and when he said, “Todd Becker,” Maggie glanced up, her face blank.

Then she saw me.

And her pretty face frosted over.

“Oh, hell no. How did he get in here?” Her striking, gray-eyed gaze stabbed at Jude. “You let him in here?”

“Have I ever asked you for a favor, Maggie May?” Jude replied calmly.

“Oh, don’t Maggie May me, Jude. You never Maggie May me.”

“So you can see how important this is,” he said.

“Brody will fire me,” she hissed. “And you.” She didn’t even look at me as she said it, as if doing so might speed up the firing process. Instead she stared Jude down—not easy to do, since Jude was huge and she was tiny. The two of them reminded me of that Looney Tunes cartoon with the bulldog and the kitten.

“Never gonna happen, darlin’,” Jude drawled. “And all I’m asking you to do is look the other way.”

“Don’t darlin’ me either,” she said. “What you’re asking me to do is tell Liv and Brody and the band that we need to keep filming, which is not my call. We’ve already wrapped for the day.”

Liv.

Someone else I knew, from way back. Liv Malone was a crazy-talented director who’d directed Dirty’s first video, and I knew she’d worked with the band on a lot of projects over the years. She’d also directed the video for Jesse’s solo album version of “Dirty Like Me”—one of the most popular rock videos ever. If she was directing this shoot, that could work in my favor, maybe. Liv and I had always been cool. That was back then, though; I hadn’t seen her in years.

“Let me see Liv?” I asked. “Please.”

Maggie looked at me, finally. The full force of her sharp gray eyes bore into me. Then she glared at Jude again. “This is on you,” she said, but kind of sighed as she turned and strode from the room, like she knew it really wasn’t.

“Don’t worry,” Jude told me. “She’s a kitten.” Then he grinned halfway, and as he followed her out the door, he added, “Stay the fuck here.”

Not a problem. I wasn’t going anywhere.

The door was still open, and I could see up a short hallway. A few people passed by, but no one noticed me as I waited, alone.

I looked around the office; it was a typical bar office. Cheap office furniture and a safe. A bunch of tattered band posters wallpapered the walls. I stared at one of them. It was a picture of Elle, the cover of her solo album from a few years back. ELLE it said, in big gold letters. Then the title of the album in black underneath: BOLD.

She was standing against a white wall, wearing skin-tight white jeans and a white tank top. Her hair was smoothed down over one shoulder and her lips were cherry-red. She was staring out at me, all sass and confidence.

I stared back at her for a moment, the way I always did when I saw her picture.

Then I turned away.

I took my Gibson from its case and strapped it on, and I started to play, practicing a bit. I kept it quiet, not wanting to