Page 50 of Side Trip

Joy looked at the time on her phone. Five more minutes.

The man scooted his chair aside. “Can you see better now?”

She could, and his large profile kept Joy hidden. Dylan wouldn’t see her.

“I can. Thanks.”

“I’m Rex.” He extended a meaty hand.

“Joy.”

“You let me know if you need anything, Joy. Any of these scumbags in here bother you, you tell them you’re with Rex.”

“Uh ... okay. Thanks?” She took a deep breath. Lucky her. She’d just acquired a bodyguard.

Rex patted her back, two big thumps, and turned back to his game.

Five minutes ticked by, then ten. Joy began to worry. Had Dylan changed his mind? Was he even backstage? Twenty minutes passed and Joy considered asking the cocktail waitress if he was even here when Rex turned back to her. “You sure he’s playing tonight?”

Joy hoped he was. “It takes him a while to get onstage,” she said, recalling his performance the other night.

He lifted a brow. “The boy nervous?”

Yes, but not her place to say anything. She shrugged.

“He like Babs?”

“Who?”

“Barbra Streisand. She has major stage fright.”

Joy blinked. She couldn’t picture meaty Rex listening to Streisand’s music. But hey, Rex might be onto something. She nodded.

“The musicians hang in the back.” Rex pointed at a side door Joy hadn’t noticed. Posters of country music bands plastered the door that blended into the wall that was also papered with old posters. “Maybe your friend could use a friend.”

Maybe. He probably wouldn’t be thrilled that she was there. But she was worried, and the crowd was growing restless. She didn’t want to hang around if Dylan had cut out through the rear exit.

She stood. “Good idea, Rex. Save my seat?”

He dragged her chair over to his table. “You got it.”

Joy slipped through the side door and into a dimly lit hallway with four doors. One was open to a shoebox-size office, where she saw Dylan’s guitar. The second door led to a supply closet and the third door was an emergency exit. The fourth door was a restroom, and it was locked. From behind that door she heard someone roughly clearing his throat.

She lightly knocked. “Dylan? You in there?”

A toilet flushed, and a faucet ran. The door unlocked and swung open. Dylan brushed past her. “All yours,” he mumbled.

She watched him hoist the guitar strap over his head, then leave out the door she’d just come through.

Okay, that was weird. Though, in his defense, she was wearing black and blended into the darkness, and this hallway was the last place he’d expect to see her.

Joy slipped into the bathroom. Gah! The stench. She put a hand over her nose. The room smelled of fresh vomit and stale urine. She glanced at the locked door behind her.

“Dylan.” A dismayed murmur.

Why was he forcing himself to perform when it made him physically sick? He’d retched up his dinner of coffee.

She quickly used the toilet, then returned to the bar, letting the door slowly close behind her. She remained by the door. Dylan was onstage, this time standing at a microphone rather than perched on a stool. The spotlight reflected off the sheen of perspiration on his forehead. His hands shuddered. Eyes glazed, he stared vacantly over the leather, mute. The bearded, heavily inked audience grew rambunctious. They jeered. Their entertainment wasn’t entertaining. Joy watched the crowd with trepidation. They were getting out of hand fast, and Dylan didn’t seem to be registering the shift. He was too far inside his head, lost in paranoia.