Page 60 of Layla

Layla

In the dressing room, I go straight for the coffee. Haylee comes in a few minutes later, takes one look at me, and springs into action. “You need to alternate the caffeine with water,” she tells me. “And you need food to soak some of the booze up.”

I close my eyes. I feel slightly queasy, whether from the booze or the interaction with John I don’t know. “I want chocolate,” I mumble.

Haylee pushes me up into a sitting position on the couch. “You need bread, girl. Bread is the best thing for soaking up booze.”

“You would know,” I mumble, and Haylee’s hands freeze in the act of straightening the tank top strap that has slipped off my shoulder. It takes me a minute for the words to sink in and when they do, I look up at her in horror. “Shit. I didn’t mean that.”

“Sure you did,” she says, her voice tight. “God knows it’s true.”

“Haylee—”

But she’s stepping away from me, pointing at the coffee in my hand. “Keep drinking that. I’ll bring the water and food.”

Fuck. Haylee is terrible at hiding shit, at least from me. I can see from the dark look in her eyes that my words struck a chord. What in the hell is wrong with me? I don’t give Haylee shit about her drinking, not ever. Especially not now, when she’s got it all so much more under control.

I have a sudden flash of memory—an interview we’d done a few years ago, before the Ransom tour, back when we were still struggling. The stupid bitch reporter had asked Hay if the rumors about her drug use were true. We’d all immediately stiffened, pissed off, but Haylee had been calm. She smiled at the reporter and she gave some flippant answer about the stupidity of listening to rumors, then easily transitioned into a funny story about Dylan getting locked out of his hotel room, without clothes, in the middle of the night.

From the outside, it had seemed she’d handled it perfectly. No one would have ever imagined she was even upset about it. But that night she’d ended up in the hospital with alcohol poisoning. Again.

By the time Haylee comes back with a sandwich and two bottles of water, I’m breathing heavily, tears gathered in my eyes. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she asks, shoving the water into my hand.

“I’m so sorry I said that.” My voice is shaking and I can’t seem to catch my breath. Is this what a panic attack feels like?

Haylee’s face softens. “Layla, you’re fine, babe. We always joke around about that stuff.”

I shake my head. “But you’ve been doing so well—”

She puts a hand on my arm. “Girl, if you start treating me like some fucked up charity case you have to watch your mouth around, I will kick your ass.”

I snort out a laugh through the tears making their way down my cheeks. Fuck. Ihatecrying.

“You’re always a sappy drunk,” Haylee says, laughing. She presses the sandwich into my hand. “Eat this. I’m going to find you some Advil.” She winces. “Those drums are going to be rough on your head.”

Before she can leave, I grab her hand. “What did I do to deserve you?” I ask, blinking up at her familiar face, so much happier and healthier than it used to be.

Haylee grins. “You bullied your way into my heart and now I’m stuck with you,” she says cheerily. “Now eat that sandwich.”

By the time we’re ready to go on stage, I’m feeling a lot better. The food and coffee definitely helped. Unfortunately, sobering up means that a monster headache is starting to settle in. Haylee wasn’t kidding about the drums—by the time I stumble off stage three hours later, I feel like my head is going to explode.

“Looking a little rough, babe,” Dylan says, swinging an arm around my shoulder as we walk off stage.

I groan. “Get your sweaty arm off me or I’m going to throw up on your shoes.”

He releases me immediately, taking a comically large step away. “These are my lucky Chucks.”

“Those are your stink-ass Chucks,” I mutter. “You need to invest in some foot spray.”

He grins at me. “You really are hungover, aren’t you?”

“Silly Layla,” James says. “You’re supposed to get drunk after the show.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m just so rock and roll.”

I notice than that Conner is leaning up against the wall, waiting for me. “Maybe I’ll be drunk after the show, too,” I mumble, mostly to myself, but he must hear me because his face breaks into that sly grin.

“I’m down for that.” He moves forward to take my hand. “You wanna pick up where we left off?”