“Morning!” Grant turned around. His cheeks were flushed red, matching the red highlights in his brown hair. He was holding a plate of fried potato wedges which he set down on the breakfast bar.

“Morning?” Jamie was so surprised to see Grant in the hotel that he forgot to add a bit of malice to his voice. He gathered himself. “What are you doing here?”

Grant checked on the frying eggs in the skillet. He’d made them sunny side up. The way Jamie liked them.

“Marshall told me where you were staying.”

“And?”

Grant shrugged. “It’s been a while. I thought we could hang out before the meeting.”

Jamie narrowed his eyes. This was where he had to let him down. It was his job now.

“I don’t want to.” He glared down at the plate of wedges. He sounded like a fucking spoiled kid when he said it that way.

If Grant noticed, he didn’t mention it. He merely picked up the spatula and flipped the eggs. There was a sizzle and then quiet.

This reminded him of something. A morning spent with the band before they packed up to get on the tour bus. Or when they were training together before they got officially signed to the label. Unlike what they told the media, they didn’t know each other before they formed. They’d been put together after they were talent scouted.

“I made breakfast,” Grant said like it wasn’t already obvious.

Sometimes Jamie thought Grant was dense. Then, he realized that Grant just made other people feel dense. It was a strange kinda relationship.

He scooped up the eggs and slid them onto the plate in front of Jamie.

Jamie stared down at the sad-looking breakfast. There was nothing fancy about it.

He looked up, but Grant wasn’t looking at him. He was staring out the window.

Against his own screaming conscious, Jamie picked up one of the wedges and bit into it. He was assaulted by the overpowering spices.

He laughed while covering his mouth. “You’re a bad fucking cook.”

He meant every word and this time he wasn’t trying to be mean. It was the truth.

Grant sat down in the seat beside him. He picked up a slice and popped it into his mouth. He winced, but otherwise got it down without any problems.

Jamie smiled and then hid it behind his hand.

“Marshall’s going to be picking me up.”

Grant nodded. Silence fell over them again.

He didn’t know what this was. When he was lone in his big mansion, he could pretend that there was never a band called Live Warnings. There was never tours, sold-out shows, or friends he used to have.

They weren’t friends. They weren’t.

His fingers were itching to get a cigarette between them.

With eyes glistening, he turned to Grant. “Could you take me somewhere?”

Like a puppy, Grant jumped up for the task. Somehow, he’d been able to sidestep the horrors that had befallen them all. Jamie let himself glower and hate Grant for one moment. It was what he needed to get the pain off his chest. He didn’t want to hurt Grant more than what was needed, but there would come a time when he would have to make sure Grant didn’t come back to him.

***

They stopped at a nearby gas station. It was run down and looked like it had a few months before it was closed. It was a beacon in this fucked up city. He almost cried when he saw it on the corner.

He slapped Grant’s shoulder. “There. Hurry before Marsh gets back.”

Grant pulled into the parking lot.

“Keep it runnin’. I won’t be long.”

He jumped out with the crumpled twenty he had stashed away. There were only a few hundreds left in his wallet that he saved for cases like this. Ever since he cut him off he’d been holding off using his cash, but drugs got in the way and he couldn’t live without his cigarettes. Brandy was only for special days when he felt like an even worse piece of shit.

He thought about how Marshall would shit his pants if he found out Jamie was going against his orders again. When he’d handed the keys over to the house back in Tulsa, he’d made it clear that he didn’t want Jamie smoking, drinking, or doing drugs. Of course, the rules Marshall tried to enforce never lasted long because he was never there. Jamie got to do whatever he wanted.

The only reason he let Marshall take his shit was because he didn’t want to deal with him.

And also because he was high. That too.

The gas station door swung open. He made it quick grabbing a bag of chips and going up to the cash register. They didn’t have Lucky Strikes, but he picked the first thing he saw. He wasn’t picky when he was this far out of it. All he wanted was some smoke in his lungs. That was all.

Once he paid, he high-tailed it back into the car. Grant looked at him curiously as he droved back to the hotel.

“I thought you quit?”

Jamie lit the cigarette. “Who told you that?”

“Marshall.”

“Marshall’s a big fat liar.”

He took a long drag. Grant was looking at him from the corner of his eye. Jamie sighed. He couldn’t put the fucker down. It just bordered on wrong.

But he told himself that it was just this time.

“Here,” he said as he offered the cigarette.

Grant looked from the road to the cigarette, and then back again.

“Take it. My arm’s getting tired.” He was starting to get irritated.

Grant took it with a delicate hand. He wasn’t much for smoking if Jamie was remembering right. The one time he did do it he’d ended up in a coughing fit.

Grant took a soft drag.

He coughed into the back of his hand until he started to swerve.

Jamie cracked a smirk, taking the cigarette away from Grant before he crashed them.

That shouldn’t be funny considering all things that have happened to him.

“You never share.” It wasn’t a question.

Jamie didn’t answer. He just smoked until the cigarette was a small nub and they were parked outside the front of the hotel.

“Don’t tell Marshall.”

They made eye contact. Grant nodded.

Jamie didn’t miss how sad it looked. Like Grant had realized something and it had taken all the energy out of him. They were good at ignoring those kinds of things. It’s one of the reasons why he liked hanging with Grant the most.

Though hanging was a very loose terms. It barely meant anything to him anymore.

He went up to the hotel and crashed until Marshall was knocking on the door.

The door opened.

Marshall walked in and found Jamie laying on the couch.

He threw a bag onto him. Jamie jolted as it landed on his stomach.

“Fuck,” he gasped out. He sat up. “That shits heavy.”

Marshall sat down on the other couch. “It’s a suit. Don’t ruin it until after the meeting. I had to pull a couple of favors to get that made so soon.”

Jamie shimmied the large box out of the bag. Armani. Of course.

He flipped the lid up. It was the same color and cut that Marshall would have picked out for him years ago. Marshall had been in charge of him for a while now since he wasn’t the most dress-able of the group. The stylists always had a field day with him.

Blue wasn’t what he would call his color though everyone seemed to think so. He didn’t know what it was since he was dark-haired, brown-eyed, and was tan. But it beat picking things out for himself. It was always shit going shopping.

That was before he lost his money and his own rights to Mr. Perfect over there.

He shoved the box and the suit onto the floor.

“I’m not wearing that.”

Marshall tensed at the door. His face turned red.

“Pick that up.”

Motherly tone. Again.

Jamie gave a loose shrug. “Pick it up yourself.”

A wicked grin crossed his face. “Or…”

He sat up, folding his arms lazily behind his head. “I’ll wear the suit, but I get to have my booze back.”

Marshall didn’t miss a beat. “No.”

His hands balled into fists. A vein bulged from his forehead.

Jamie fell back on the couch. He wasn’t going to pick up the damn suit. Either he got his way or Marshall could go fuck himself.

Either option was fine with him.

No sooner than two minutes did Marshall break.

“Put the damn thing on. I’ll go get your booze.”