In my defense, Ozzy Osborne snorted ants and Keith Richards snorted his dad, so, in comparison, I wasn’t being that crazy.
Having said that, I had, indeed, been pretty fucking out of my mind when I’d decided to turn around in the middle of a gig, walk over to Lucas’s drum kit, and smash my silver boot right into the bass. It had collapsed right into Lucas’ spread thighs, and he widened his eyes, his arms still mid-air holding the sticks, watching me like this came as a great surprise. It shouldn’t have. Fucker could have seen it from three countries over, and he’d kept pushing and pushing until I had no choice but to shove him out of my life.
But I digress.
It had started half an hour before the show. I’d already been on edge because Blake had locked us both in my dressing room and launched into one of his self-righteous monologues that served to stroke his own ego. It had taken me a few minutes to understand what, exactly, he was yelling and sweating about.
The champagne.
He’d sifted through my shit and found it. Which was quite ironic, because the past few days were the first in a very long time where I hadn’t wanted to drown my sorrow in alcohol.
“When I find the cunt who keeps sending them to you, I’ll kill them. But in the meantime—why play into their hands? Why, Alex? You have so much going for you. You have everything going for you. You’re rich and young and talented and adored. You’re a religion, for fuck’s sake. You’re writing what might be your best album yet. All you have to do is not fuck it up. Is it really that hard?”
Was he kidding? Of course it was that hard. Did he think the entire zip code of Hollywood wanted to be addicted to painkillers, alcohol, cocaine, and plastic surgery? Did he reckon I was just so bored with my perfect, wholesome life? Finding happiness as an intelligent person was like finding a real-life unicorn. Blake was pacing the room and throwing his arms in the air, exasperated.
“I’m trying. I really am. Trying to make you and Jenna happy, even though you both give me very different instructions on how to make it happen. I’m trying to respect your wishes not wanting to take Hudson along because you hate big entourages and still make sure that you’re sober. But it’s so difficult. You’re so difficult, Alex. Most of the time, I think the only reason you’re sober is because we’re watching over you all day.”
“It is,” I said from my place on the couch, lighting up a fag. Now that Blake was riding my arse about it, of course I needed a fucking drink. Oh, Irony, you and your twisted sense of humor.
Blake stopped in front of me, hands on his waist, eyes to the ceiling. “It’s not good enough. You need to make more of an effort to change. That means taking better care of yourself. Eating better. Actively trying to get over your addiction. And, yes, talking to your parents. You’ll have to see them soon, so I’m not sure why you keep postponing that conversation.”
He was right. My entire staff—all fifty roadies or so plus my band and my manager/babysitter—were sober because of me, and I hadn’t even made the smallest effort by throwing the champagne in the trash. I’d kept it because I was still an addict. I still thought about alcohol and cocaine every single fucking day. I missed it. I didn’t resent it. I was like a rich, spoiled sonovobitch who got caught doing something bad and had his parents buy his way out. Just because I was physically clean didn’t mean I’d learned my lesson. My only drawback from drinking the champagne was: A) I was never alone, and B) I was momentarily occupied with getting into my hanny’s knickers and was so close to my goal, cocking it up was out of the question.
I needed to grow up, but growing up meant letting go of who I’d been for the past seven years. The last time I was sober was when I was twenty. I didn’t know myself anymore. Not without the drugs. There was a stranger in my house, and that stranger was me.
The only thing I didn’t agree with him about was my parents. I didn’t need to talk to my family. My family did enough talking about me. To the press. Often. Twats.
If Blake thought it was some kind of a pivotal moment where I snapped out of it and finally understood how low I’d stooped, he obviously gave me too much credit. I knew I was in deep trouble, and that I was a piece of shit, but I still had a few more inches of abyss before I really hit rock bottom. Blake dragged the coffee table between us aside and squatted down between my legs. It felt intimate and weird, and I groaned with annoyance. He plastered his hands on my knees.
“My PI can’t track the person who sends you alcohol. Can you? Think hard.”
“It’s Bushell,” I said without as much as a blink. “Who else could it be?”
Blake shook his head, sighing. “Stop it, mate. He’s not after you.”
Bollocks, but whatever.
“Maybe it’s Lucas,” I sneered.
“You’re insane,” Blake muttered.
I decided to bend my mate a little harder, see if he could break. There was something beautiful in fucking up my own life and alienating people by choice. It gave me the illusion that I was in control. That the choice was mine.
“I don’t know, Blake. Maybe it’s Alfie. Maybe it’s Jenna. Hell, maybe it’s even you. Maybe you want me to cut this tour short so you can go back and fuck her like you’ve been planning for the past few years. Who knows? Every single person I work with wants to either fuck me or fuck me over. Some—both. Nothing surprises me anymore, other than the sheer astonishment at finding someone who doesn’t want or need anything from me. You wanted me to go to rehab? I did. You wanted me to write an album? I am. Now you want my trust? That can’t happen, Blake. Not anymore. You’ve done so much shit in the name of saving my brand, you don’t get to keep the fucking friend title.” I stood up, adrenaline running in my veins as I shoved his hands aside. These words had sat dormant inside me for far too long, I realized. Blake always wanted what was best for us. His career was intertwined in mine, and he had good intentions—Billboard hits, sobriety, and stability in mind—but he didn’t think twice or ever stop to wonder before he ran people over on his way there. Including yours truly. He’d covered so many of my scandals by dumping the blame on other people, and putting the blame on me when he fucked up things, I knew better than to think he was the same guy I’d shared a two-bedroom flat with in Clapham. We were both different. Blinded by money and destroyed by fame. Want to ruin a relationship in less than five steps? Put a few million quid between the two people and see what happens.
Blake shot up, so now we were in front of each other, panting hard, ready to yield our verbal swords. It was liberating to finally let all the shit that bubbled beneath the surface rise.
“Everything I’ve done was to help you. I saved you.” He bared his teeth.
“And I made you,” I said, dumping my lit cigarette on the floor and stomping on it. I balled his shirt and crushed our noses together. “Never forget that, Blake. Before you were Alex Winslow’s manager, you were just a loser from Watford who had to split rent three ways to live in South London. I made you, and I will undo you if need be. So I suggest you find the bastard who sends me alcohol—because by now I think we both know it’s not the hotel staff that brings it to my door. It’s who has access to a lot of people or can bribe his way with the hotel staff. And that’s the last time I hear you talk about my family. If I want to see them, I will. Right now, I’d be more worried about our relationship, mate.”
It was the last word that made his face crumple.
I slammed the door so hard in Blake’s face, I wouldn’t be surprised if his ears rang deep into 2034. Stalking down the corridor, I took deep, desperate breaths, trying to get to the break room without killing anyone on my way. I needed something strong. Or a good lay. Where the fuck was Indie, anyway?
Blake was right. At the heart of it all, I was still an addict. If there had been alcohol or coke anywhere near me, I would’ve consumed the hell out of it without even taking a moment to think it through.
Maybe it was time to call in some groupie favors.
Maybe it was time to live up to my reputation and snort my frustration away.
The only reason I stopped by Lucas’ slightly ajar door was because I heard weeping. It was soft and polite, like the person who was crying didn’t have the guts to do it all the way. I halted, my back to the wall next to Lucas’ door.
“I’m so sorry,” I heard Waitrose say, and to that, Indie cried even harder. What had he done to her? Nothing, most likely. She was crying about something else, which threw my mind in overdrive.
It was probably family-related. She’d been dealt shitty cards in life, but unlike me, she was still deep into the poker game, trying to fool people into thinking she could win. And Waitrose was the person she’d run to when sorrow found her.
The thing about flashbacks is that they really do your head in. His relationship with Fallon was the first to spring into mind. I’d been on tour, and he’d stayed in Los Angeles to help Blake and Jenna with the demos I’d left behind. He’d been there for Fallon when she’d overdosed, and when she needed to pour her little, black heart out. He’d been there for her the first time she sought out Will Bushell, and he’d been there for them when they snuck around behind my back and started fucking at the very same Chateau Marmont I stayed at these days, because I’d had to sell my L.A. apartment and couldn’t even stomach the idea of calling myself a permanent resident of that god-awful city.
“Let it all out,” Lucas said.
I leaned forward and watched them through the crack between the door and the frame. They were sitting on the same loveseat, her head pressed against his chest.
He kissed her forehead.
He kissed her forehead.
He kissed her forehead.
He kissed her goddamn fucking forehead.
“I love my brother, Luc. But I don’t like him. At all.”
“We’ll sort it out, Indie. We will.”
We? Since when were they a ‘we’? He was barely a fucking ‘he,’ acting like a pussy every turn of the way.
Stardust sniffed and pulled away, wiping the tears on her face with the back of her hand. “It’s like ever since we lost our parents he’s just this crazy, volatile person. Who does that, Luc? Who does what he did tonight?”
“Your brother is hurting,” Lucas said, and something inside me twisted like barbwire. Her brother sounded a lot like me. Maybe it was premature to think she’d get attached to me. Why would she want another knobhead to stress about?
“Sometimes I think I should just hand in my resignation and go back. Now’s not the time to be away from home.”
“Stay.” He squeezed her palm. “The money you make will be able to help your family more than any pep talk you could give Craig, and we both know that.”
I wanted so badly to push the door open on them, waltz in, yank her up, and escort her outside before I beat him senseless. In fact, the only reason why I hadn’t done that was because Stardust seemed genuinely distressed, and for the first time in forever I allowed someone else to steal a small slice of the limelight and have it their way.
She didn’t need me; she needed him.
Did it make me want to kill him? Yes.
Did it make it any less true? No.
Anyway, that’s the short story of how I ended up ruining Lucas’ drum set.
I was six songs into the gig when I turned to take a breather from looking at all the faceless faces below me. I caught Waitrose glancing sideways and smiling at someone. At the someone I’d fingered twenty-four hours ago. That had done it. I’d walked over and broken his drums, admiring the fact I’d held back from yanking out the stand and smacking him with it. Baby steps, right?
“What the fuck!” He’d jumped up.
“The fuck is you’re fired,” I’d said, already storming backstage. “And what a fucking fuck that is indeed, my friend.”
I was now chasing Indie. Chasing her. As in, spotting her and going after her. Perhaps it was not my finest hour, but it made sense to do it at the time. She turned around and power walked toward the main dressing room, probably to Blake, most likely to make sure I didn’t kill her or anything. I grabbed the tip of her flared black dress and yanked her into my chest. She gasped, falling into my body, and to her horror—my erection.
“I get that you’re going through shit, Stardust. We all are. That’s the nature of being born into this chaos called life. But this is getting a little old, and not so fun anymore. So I’ve decided to fire Lucas, just to make sure you don’t run off to him next time your brother pisses you off. Where’s my thank you for that, huh? We both know it should’ve been you I gave the boot to.”
She turned around, and my heart had a hard-on at the prospect of how she was going to react. Not one to disappoint, Indie’s cheeks blazed red as she raised her hand and, instead of slapping me, pushed me with every ounce of power in her, slamming my back against the wall.
“You don’t have to fire me, because I quit,” she announced, her voice pitching high. Just then, Blake appeared from my dressing room, looking ready to admit himself to the ER with a severe heart attack.
“You stormed off the stage?” He looked so wired I thought he was going to explode. A drop of saliva decorated his chin. He looked rabid. I kept stalking behind Stardust, who was still running away from the scene, even though there was nowhere for her to go. She couldn’t leave the stadium without us. Blake followed both of us. Cirque de stupid. And, of course, I was the leading clown.
“I fired Waitrose, too.”
At least he had the courtesy not to ask me why. The answer was obvious, and he knew it, because he was there to talk me off the ledge every time I thought of throwing Lucas out of my life. I followed Indie until she was faced with the end of the hallway and had nowhere else to go. She turned around, narrowing her eyes at me and plastering her back to the door, clinging into her personal space.
“What do you want from me, Alex?”
Everything. I want everything, and then all the things you’ve already given away to other people. I want them back, too.
“Don’t play coy.” I grabbed her wrists when she tried pushing me off again, but she didn’t really mean it—I know it sounds creepy, but it was true—her hips bucked forward, and her breath was fast and husky. “It’s gig night, and I just fucked up royally. We have work to do tonight, Stardust.”
She threw her head back and laughed, the voice she was producing so sardonic I barely recognized it as hers. “Work? Your whole tour is crumbling. You fired your drummer, your babysitter quit, and you walked off the stage.”
And hid a bottle of champagne.
And began messing with you only because Waitrose showed the slightest interest.
The list was longer and acutely embarrassing. “You can’t quit.”
“Why?”
“Because you need the money too much, and I need you too much.” What was I saying? What was I doing? I thought I heard Blake gasp, and I couldn’t even blame him. I hadn’t subconsciously drunk that bottle of champagne and then blacked it out, had I?
Stardust took a step toward me and cracked a smile, with teeth and all, and I finally saw her for who she really was. A cunning pixie, a thief of hearts. She was shy and reserved, but she had power now, and she knew it. It made our game so much more interesting.
“I’ll stay for the money, but I won’t help you anymore. What are you going to do to me? You can’t force me to talk to you. All I signed up for is watching you.”
“Oh, Stardust.” I thrust my face into hers, laughing. This was where I thrived. In our cruel banter. “You have no idea what I can do to you, but you’re sure as hell about to find out.”