Page 160 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me

Through Alice, we eventually tracked him down, and he and Curtis, who offered to play keyboards, arrived the following day by seaplane.

“The Rogues are here,” Cleo announced, ushering them into the studio where the rest of us were already gathered. She quickly departed, throwing a “Good luck, they’re all yours” over her shoulder.

Ian and Curtis looked exactly how you would expect 80s rock stars to look on a Friday morning—hungover, in dark shades, with drinks in hand and cigarettes clamped between their lips.

“Mate, you think I’d miss your first gig?” Ian said, shaking his head like he was disappointed that I thought so little of him.

“Alright, lads,” Curtis said, waving his cigarette at us, “show us what you’ve got.”

I took a hit off the joint and pressed my lips against Cleo’s, shotgunning the smoke into her mouth.

She held it in her lungs before releasing it. “You’re so bad for me,” she said, running her fingers through my hair. “So bad.”

I passed the joint to Dev and skimmed a hand up her thigh. “You love it when I’m bad.” I gave her thigh a little squeeze. “You look so pretty in the moonlight.”

“How did I end up in your lap?” she asked.

“You fell right into it.” She didn’t. Cleo was walking past, and I tugged her into my lap, but she didn’t fight me on it. She stayed.

She laughed and swatted my chest. “Liar.”

I held out my arms. “You’re free to go at any time.”

“Maybe I want to stay.”

My arms wrapped around her again. “I’m onto you. You’re just trying to escape the party,” I said, brushing a lock of hair off her cheek.

“It’s almost like you know me,” she teased.

As soon as we’d finished rehearsing for the day, Curtis and Ian made a few calls and shortly after, an SUV delivered liquor. A few of their friends showed up with a mountain of nose candy. And another SUV chauffeured women to the party on my deck.

No wonder Cleo didn’t trust musicians. Her dad’s former bandmates were in their late forties and still partying their asses off with girls who barely looked legal. It was like hanging out with Keith Richards and Ronnie Wood.

It was all too easy. The drugs. The liquor. The women. Didn’t entice me in the least.

Ian’s voice boomed from the kitchen. “Oy, watch your bloody mouth, you stupid git.”

“It’s the British invasion,” Cleo said.

“My soul is withering.”

Cleo laughed and kissed me on the cheek.

I heard ice clinking in glasses. Shrill laughter. Oasis blasting from the speakers.

Eddie was making out with a blonde. Dev was getting stoned and dancing with two girls. Curtis was…no idea. Last I saw, he was snorting cocaine off a girl’s stomach.

Earlier, Eddie regaled us with road stories that may or may not have actually happened. I always got the impression thatthey were like tall tales and got more exaggerated every time they were told. Ian had chimed in with some Rogue Prophets’ road stories, which were even wilder than Eddie’s, so maybe he’d embellished for the sake of a good story.

Who knows? Not me.

This was the first time Curtis and Ian had ever been to my house in Montauk, so none of this should feel familiar and yet it did.

“Have I been here before?” I asked Cleo. It made no sense. “Not in Montauk. But why does this scene feel so familiar? The road stories. The party.”

Cleo shifted so she could see my face better. “You’re probably thinking of the summer party in the Hudson Valley.”

“Baby Blue,” I said, nodding. “Ian was telling stories about you and your dad.”