CHAPTER EIGHT
Simon rested his forehead on the rim of the toilet bowl. “Just let me die.”
The empty bathroom didn’t answer him. In fact, he was pretty sure not even God would answer his prayer at this point. It could be because he’d raged well into the night.
He wasn’t sure.
It was pretty blurry.
When he was positive the last of the whiskey was out of his gut, he weaved to his feet.
“Advil, oh sweet Advil, where are you?” He pushed aside bottles of vitamins, aftershave, razors, and every other goddamn bottle except for the one he wanted.
He stumbled to the skinny closet and there, on the top shelf, was the perfect white bottle. He reached for it and growled when he couldn’t get the arrows to line up. Finally, the lid popped free and the tan capsules scattered.
“Fuck.”
Rhianna’s “Umbrella” blared out of the bedroom.
“I’m going to kill Roman.” Asshole kept stealing his damn phone and putting ridiculous ringtones on it. Simon slid across the tile on his knees and gathered three capsules off the floor and dry swallowed them. He slapped his palm against the counter and pulled himself to his feet.
He caught a glimpse of his face. “That’s not good.”
His eyes were bloodshot and bruised. His skin was more putty than pale, and all the greasy breakfasts on the planet couldn’t fix this hangover.
Nope, he wouldn’t be good for the camera at all. Cara, the make-up girl extraordinaire, would have her work cut out for her today. Hell, Photoshop would be working overtime.
He weaved slightly and prayed the pills would stay down.
He hadn’t had a drink in over five months and he’d finished off a bottle of Crown last night. And not the small bottle.
His throat was on fire from puking up said whiskey, and he had to be across town in less than an hour.
Yeah.
Not a good day.
He resisted the urge to crawl into their—his bedroom. Fucking huge bedroom that shouldn’t have been empty. She hadn’t come home last night.
Hadn’t texted.
Hadn’t even checked on him.
Okay, so he’d pretty much told her to go to hell, but that wasn’t the point. The real point was she hadn’t come home. Hadn’t even tried to change his mind.
And that said so much more than any text or phone call would.
He was fooling himself to think she’d come around. She’d been half in this relationship the whole time and he was tired of trying so goddamn hard.
Simon crashed onto his bed and looped his finger around the charging cord for his phone. At least he’d managed to do that last night. Too bad it was mostly because he didn’t want to miss a text from her with a dead phone.
Fucking sap.
She may as well have chopped off his balls and put them in a jar.
Pathetic.
George meowed and butted her head against his shoulder, then climbed onto his back and made herself at home just above his butt. At least the cat loved him.
He flicked his phone alive and texted Roman begging for a reprieve.
90 minutes, punk. I have a deadline for Rolling Stone.
Fuck.
It wasn’t just any photoshoot today. This was the one with Lindsey and Jamie from Brooklyn Dawn for the magazine.
Like anyone gave two shits about him for music anymore. But those girls? Yeah, they were burning up the charts. Co-headlining the London Music Festival after a successful summer tour.
Stars on the rise.
Just like where they used to be, except Lindsey knew how to take care of her voice. She didn’t let everyone down.
And now he was doing the same goddamn thing. Again.
He dumped George off of him and gave her a thorough scratch until she was purring and content before he hauled his sorry ass into the shower.
Twenty minutes, and two cups of espresso later, he was out the door with a thirty-two-ounce water bottle in his hand. By the time he got to the on-site location Roman had picked, he was a few shades closer to normal—at least in skin tone.
His gut was shot. Raw from alcohol and espresso, he groaned when he saw the crew set up outside.
In the sun.
Kill me now.
Ellie spotted him and jogged over. She had her trusty walkie headset on, her blonde hair wild around her heart-shaped face. “You had to pick today to be late.”
Simon held his hand up. “I know.”
She frowned and leaned into him. “I can smell the whiskey through your pores.”
“Rough night.”
“You pick today to go on a bender?”
Could she stop screaming? Jesus fuck. “Last night actually.”
She snatched the sunglasses off his face. “Oh, Christ.”
He grabbed them back. “I know, all right.”
“Cara! I need you.” Ellie pushed him over to a set of director’s chairs. “Go. Sit. Do you need coffee?”
Any more and he’d be jittering out of his damn skin. He lifted his water bottle. “Need this more.”
She nodded. “Yes, hydrate, please. The wardrobe tent is over there. At least you look like a rock star this morning.”
Yeah, he looked like one. Wasn’t one, but at least he looked the part. At least he could get something right.
Simon edged through the flaps of the tent’s opening. A few interns he knew by face were running around, walkie headsets on as well. They kept muttering numbers and names. He wandered over to his rack all nicely labeled. Thank you, Ellie. He didn’t have the strength for the chaos today.
He unhooked the hanger labeled sitting one. Today’s clothes included a cool jacket. It was about eighty-five degrees already and the hanger felt like eighty-five pounds. Awesome.
He changed right inside the tent. At least he didn’t have to flash his ass to the entire crew today. Modesty was nonexistent on a photo shoot. He might as well be a stripper for how long his clothes stayed on sometimes.
“Simon?”
“In here.”
Cara peeked her head in. “Oh good, you’re dressed.” She waved him outside. “Let’s see how bad you are.”
“Good morning to you, too.”
Cara’s lavender eyes crinkled at the corners. “I’m not the one who decided to drink an ocean of whiskey last night.”
Simon pulled down his sunglasses off his head. “Just a bottle.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She lifted his chin and moved his head around to the angles she wanted. “I’ve dealt with worse. At least you don’t have wrinkles on top of it.”
He felt about fifty-two instead of twenty-six, but he supposed that was true. The routine of make-up and hair, waiting on the set, getting posed, and then being ordered to change was one he was used to. It didn’t require any thinking, just going through the motions. Leather, denim, shirtless—lather, rinse, repeat.
When he was moved inside, he found the girls.
“There he is. You held up the shoot this morning, dude.” Jamie jogged over to him. “What? The more important model doesn’t have to move his kingly ass?”
Simon grinned despite his mood. “You got that right, sister.”
Jamie punched his shoulder. Her version of a hug. “So, how you been?”
“Not as good as you.”
She folded her arms. “I’m tired as fuck.”
“Don’t look it.”
“Yeah, well, don’t look too close. That Cara chick troweled it on. We flew in from London yesterday. I don’t even know what day it is.”
“To be honest, I don’t either.” He laughed. “I just follow the directions on my phone. Calendar and emails from my agent. Wake up and start over.”
“Where does music come in?”
“Good question.”
“Don’t let it slide by, Simon. I know the voice thing was shitty, but you can come back from it. Plenty of other artists have.”
He hooked his arm around her neck and dragged her in for a hug. “Thanks.” When she squirmed, he backed off. “I’ve got a great vocal coach. It’s just taking a helluva lot longer than I thought it would.”
She shrugged. “It’s just a muscle. Time to get your workout on, bud.”
He grinned, nearly meeting her eye-to-eye. Jamie DuCaine was a tall one. Dark eyes, dark hair, tanned, and sharply stunning—if you liked a little fear. He was pretty sure Jamie had left behind as many bruises as broken hearts. “You look like you’ve been doing that enough for both of us. You’re seriously ripped.”
“I started playing a double neck. Holy fuck, is it heavy. I had to increase my workouts.”
“Bet you look hot.”
“Bet your ass.” She glanced over his shoulder and waved. “The princess is ready.”
Lindsey York sashayed over to him. There really wasn’t any other word for it. Of course, the five inch heeled boots might have something to do with that. They went up to her thighs and ended an inch from her skirt. Both in a pewter gray that made her tanned skin look amazing. Her blonde hair tumbled over her shoulder and down her back with a slow fade into a light blue. She really was fucking gorgeous.
And he was supposed to be the star of this triad? Yeah, he didn’t think so. And his feelings on triads had certainly changed in the last few months. Six months ago, he would have been angling for a way into one or both of their pants.
Regardless of the fact that they’d toured together, both of them were interesting and ridiculously beautiful. But now he simply appreciated that they were simply interesting. That they were still excited about everything and anything music.
He’d become a one woman-man.
And that woman was almost always looking toward the door for escape. Didn’t that beat all?
Lindsey walked right into his arms and hugged him. “It’s been way too long. We’ve been worried about you.”
“Can’t keep me down for long. I always bounce back.” He patted her arm.
“Of course you will. Especially when I saw that YouTube of your session with Jerry. If I ever have problems like you do, I’m calling him right away. He’s amazing.”
“I doubt you will.”
Lindsey shook her head. “You don’t know that. It happened to Adele, and she’s probably got one of the most amazing voices in the world. That Sam Smith guy—heck, even Chad Kroeger from Nickleback has been in for surgery. It can happen to any of us, Simon. You’re doing everything right and that’s all that matters.”
Except the bottle of whiskey the night before. Then the acid bath he’d given his cords this morning with the puke fest. Christ, he couldn’t even hold his alcohol anymore. What was the point of drinking it?
Lindsey wrapped her hands around his and dragged him into the studio. “Have you met the newest member of our family?”
“You guys have more members?”
“Sort of.”
Jamie snorted. “Roxy cannot play an instrument. Unless you count the annoying pitch she can hit. Her vocal cords need to be cut.”
“Shut up, I found you sleeping with her this morning.”
“That’s because you slept through her crying all damn night.”
“She has to get used to it.”
Simon looked between the two women. “Okay, the prurient aspect of this little story is too good to be true. We’re not talking about another woman, are we?”
“Pig.” Jamie’s slick red mouth bent into a smile that kicked up that fear notch a few more clicks. “Not that I haven’t had a little fun with a chick before.”
Simon groaned. “That’s just wrong.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Jamie said over her shoulder.
“Wrong,” he yelled.
“Why?”
“Because there’s no video proof.” Simon followed the girls into the warehouse.
“You couldn’t handle it.”
Simon grinned. “I’d sure try.”
Jamie laughed and threw herself into another one of Jase’s huge chairs. They were becoming a staple of all Roman’s photoshoots. This one was distressed mahogany with crimson leather. And again, he wanted it in his house.
Lindsey leaned down and scooped a little mop of a dog out of a little zipper tent. “This is Roxy.”
Jamie swung a long leg over the leg of the chair. “She’s badass for a teddy bear.”
Simon grinned as she handed over the tiny wriggling white dog with purple tipped ears. “Of course she is.” He scooped the dog against his chest. Maybe today wouldn’t be so awful after all.