Page 89 of The Comedown

“Collette.”

Our names and breath mix between us in a combination of want.

Nothing on our bodies is technically touching, only his lip piercings grazing my skin every time I inhale, yet it feels incredibly intimate. Maybe because we both want to touch, and we both know we both want to touch, but neither of us is breaking that line; just making it stretch taut. One way or another, it’s bound to snap if we don’t pull back soon.

I’m just not sure I have the strength to do it right now. I’ve been fielding Julian off since the night he barged on to my bus.

For the first time since vowing to myself that I’d never get involved with another celebrity, I’ve started questioning it. Julian makes me question it because when he’s like this, he’s almost believable. Almost, because while I want to believe Julian is who he’s showing me, it’s when the coin flips and his other, meaner side comes out that I remember why I made the vow to begin with.

“Let me finish first.”

“Finish?” I ask.

“Got me spinning in circles just thinking about it.”

I recognize the line he used the last time we were on stage together, but where my lyrics were just talking shit, his seemed a bit more personal. While I don’t know for sure that they were inspired by me, I don’t know that they weren’t either. Me saying he goes down on me was obviously not about Julian specifically. He doesn’t go down on anybody.

Julian grabs one of my hands, lifting it above my head to spin me around so I’m facing away from him, then his deep voice envelops me.

“Let me off the ride but never the high.

The view from up here look different through your eyes.

Never need to chase that rush with you by my side.

Baby, you’re the only drug I haven’t done tried

Yet here we are together, ruling the fucking sky.

Gimme the cover beneath your wings,

And I’ll promise to keep you lifted long after I die.”

Finally, I open my eyes, considering Julian as he stands behind me. If he wasn’t wearing a shirt, I’d search out that broken angel wing tattoo of his. Is that who these lyrics are for? Whoever he got the tattoo in honor of?

If so, why is he singing them now?

“Nobody will ever hurt you again. I swear.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“I just did.”

“You can’t keep it.” Nobody will hurt me ever? No one can guarantee that. Even parents to their children. Of course, we want to keep them safe forever, but unfortunately, we can’t.

He lowers his head until his chin is almost touching my shoulder again, and says, “Watch me.”

The intensity in both his stare and his words makes me question everything, even my sanity. This can’t be real.

I busy myself washing my hands, then splash some water on my face, bringing reality crashing back into me—the actual reality I’m stuck in, not the one I wish I could escape to. Sadly, this entire experience is nothing new. Misogyny runs rampant in this business. It’s tightly woven into every bit of the entertainment industry, making it the Kevlar of patriarchy—stronger than steel. Men may provide entertainment to the masses, but to the entire world women are the entertainment. And by any means necessary.

I feel the shirt at my back being lifted slowly, carefully, then something is written along my backbone. When I glance at Julian in the mirror, he’s focusing intently on whatever he’s writing with the marker he usually carries in his front pocket.

“What are you writing?”

“My name.” He traces the letters with the tip of his finger when he’s finished, eliciting a shiver that follows his every move. “I’ve got your back now, too.”

Something inside of me thaws, a small piece of the ice casing around my heart that I’ve been cultivating since the night I left Bodee’s house.