Dylan checked out of the hotel, and after leaving his duffel with the concierge, he took his guitar to Old Town. His stomach felt full of acid and his feet leaden. They grew heavier with every step. His mouth had dried up before he even arrived. When he reached the San Felipe de Neri Church across the street from the Old Town Plaza, he didn’t go inside the church. He set up on the sidewalk in the very spot Rick had instructed him to stand and took out his guitar, leaving the case open at his feet.

After chugging half a bottle of water, he tugged his Dodgers cap low over his face, checked that his reflective sunglasses sat firmly on the bridge of his nose, and willed the lump in his throat that made him gag to go away. He started to breathe, pacing his breaths like Billie had taught him, similar to how he’d talked Joy down last night before she had a full-fledged panic attack. Gradually, his hands stopped shaking and fingers steadied. He started to play and then he sang. He didn’t look around, and he didn’t look up. And he prayed to God that Joy wouldn’t see him, and if she did, that she wouldn’t approach and make her presence known.

As he performed on the street, Dylan didn’t think about the number of times as a kid Jack had forced him onstage to show off his musical prodigy son to his fans, or the ensuing panic attacks that never failed to overtake him afterward, bouts his mom would have to talk him through until his breathing regulated and the need to curl into a tight ball faded away. She’d go rage at Jack, and then Jack would spend the rest of the night with the band and a bottle, and often another woman.

Instead, Dylan swallowed the lump in his throat, willing his breakfast of Tums and coffee to stay down, and kept his mind focused on the trip through England he and Chase had planned, and all the new talent they’d sign to their label upon their return to LA.

At one thirty, he scooped up the twenty-four singles, odd change, and gum wrapper that had been dropped in his case and packed up his guitar. Head down and sanity hanging by a thread, he returned to Hotel Albuquerque to collect his duffel. He also called Rick collect from the lobby phone.

“It’s done.” He slammed down the receiver.

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 12

BEFORE

Joy

Albuquerque, New Mexico

Joy had woken early with her body still buzzing from last night’s rush. The bridge. Soaring. Falling. Dylan. Talking music. Sharing milkshakes. She practically burst at the seams to go over the day again with Dylan when her phone rang. Mark’s face lit up the screen and her pulse spiked.

“Hey you,” she answered.

“Morning, babe. You didn’t call last night. Everything all right?”