“Congratulations, eejit. Jenna is officially going to kill you.” Blake slammed me to the door the minute I stepped into our room. Even before I got in, I had a feeling I should’ve stayed at Indie’s and burrowed into her scent and heat and sweet, innocent existence. The shit with Blake and Jenna was getting old. Like it wasn’t enough my soul had been gangbanged by a bunch of Suits on a daily basis, I also had to answer to them every time I fucked up on stage.
I would say that Blake and Jenna acted like my mum and dad, but truth was, my parents didn’t give a shit, and my manager and agent mostly gave a shit about their paychecks.
“Waitrose had it coming.” I pushed Blake away. His back bumped into the opposite wall, his eyes narrowing, honing in on me like I was a moving target.
“Just tell him you like her, Alex. Is that really so hard? Instead of making grand announcements about how she’s yours and you’re the king of the world. You’re starting to sound like Mussolini on steroids.”
“Why is it so important that I tell anyone I like her?” I fumed, galloping toward the minibar and yanking out a bag of crisps. Holy crap, I was hungry. I’d come so hard I’m pretty sure Indie had swallowed enough little Alexes to form an army. “Plus, I don’t like her,” I maintained. Actually, that was a lie, but as I’d said before, lying was second nature. Or a first one. Whatever.
“It’s important for us to know that your sobriety companion meets your expectations.” Blake cleared his throat and added quickly, “To Jenna and me, that is.”
I stared at him like he’d just informed me he was going through a pickle transplant to replace his cock, my crisp mid-air on its way to my mouth. I threw the crisp into my gob and chewed loudly, trying to figure out his game. It was unlike him to focus on Indie instead of the fact I’d walked off stage mid-gig after slamming my foot in the drum kit.
“Are you high?”
“Are you sleeping with her?” he asked simultaneously.
“That’s none of your business. Even if I were, she signed an NDA.”
“That’s not why I’m asking.”
I blinked. He’d never given a damn about any of my babysitters. Then again, I’d never gotten close to a girl after what had happened with Fucking Fallon. Blake leaned over the kitchen nook, running his fingers along his hair, looking skyward. Then he did that big, dramatic sigh. The one I got every time he threw himself a pity party.
“The Halloween event in Paris…we need to be there. Fallon and Will are attending,” he said, his words slow and careful, like he was dripping gasoline into an invisible fuse in my head while I was smoking.
I gave him a flat look. I felt like Rob from High Fidelity, sans the love for pop music. Basically, I was a loser and everyone pitied me, even though I pitied them, too. “And?”
“And I don’t want you to do anything stupid. Like trying to win her back.”
“I won’t.” I scratched the back of my neck. Was it a lie? Maybe. When you lie so much, it’s difficult to distinguish the truth. In retrospect, Paris would be the night when my life changed forever. Indie’s, too. And Fallon’s, the most. But of course, I didn’t know that when I stared deep into Blake’s eyes.
Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat.
“Okay,” Blake said, withdrawing from the nook and walking to the bathroom. It was then I noticed he still hadn’t changed from tonight’s show. “All right.”
I watched his back, trying to figure out what had just happened.
What. Just. Fucking. Happened?
In the end, it was more of the same.
Blake gave me shit about the incident at the gig for days afterward. Jenna highlighted that sentiment by sending me a basket of baklavas when we landed in Istanbul with a note:
I dare you to pull something like this again, Alex. No, really. Try me.
I played nice with Lucas, but found other ways to taunt him. Mainly by devouring Indigo every spare moment I had in public. We wrote every night in the hallway so we could concentrate on work, then I’d sneak into her bedroom and eat her out on the balcony overlooking Athens, or finger her in a cab on our way back from a gig in Berlin, dry hump her against the wall behind a coffee shop in Milan, and eat exotic fruit off of her naked body in Barcelona. She always had that look on her face when I made her come. Like the intensity of what we were doing stunned her. It was like deflowering her every single day, even though we hadn’t actually had sex. Yet. Yet. But we were getting closer every day. Plus, she’d finally taken a step back from Lucas, and he, in return, remained polite and pleasant to her, not overstepping the red, imaginary line I’d drawn between them.
Luckily, she didn’t bore me despite Waitrose’s lack of interest in her.
It was probably the fact I hadn’t shagged her yet.
Though, let’s be honest—it’s not exactly like I was charming her into a fucking Shakespearean love story. I was certain a big part of the reason why Stardust could stand the sight of me was because, the morning after the Moscow gig, Howard Lipkin, one of the biggest attorneys in Los Angeles, had bailed her brother out and dragged him back home to his wife and kid. Craig was on house arrest, and that made Indie feel pathetically content. Like he couldn’t possibly fuck up from the comfort of his home. Which, from experience, was bollocks, because both my parents were unemployed and had managed to damage Carly and me just fine, even though their arses were forever glued to the sofa, watching EastEnders and Jeremy Kyle into the afternoon—is there ever anything more depressing than watching daytime TV? I thought not, and I still do.
Barcelona was our last stop before we took a week off in London. Technically, I had a gig at the Cambridge Castle on Friday, but that was the extent of it, and the Cambridge Castle was my home field.
Barcelona was a turning point. It was a turning point because it was the place where I stupidly thought it’d be a good idea to walk into a British hipster coffee shop and grab some black coffee and English breakfast for my entourage. Should’ve known nothing good ever comes out of trying to be considerate.
Indie was up in her room, probably sewing The Paris Dress. Blake was loitering outside the shop on his goddamn mobile. With my beanie, Wayfarers, and head down, I knew I wouldn’t be recognized. It was the kind of place that would play Nazi propaganda before playing someone who managed to break onto the Billboard list, so I doubted they’d even recognize me. I was Satan to them. Suits’ Satan.
I took in the deep blue and pale pink tiles of the shop, the people in flashy blazers and thick-framed glasses and women in trendy petticoats. The breeziness of their lives. They looked so grounded. Like they had the virtue of gravity working in their favor. Me, I felt loose. Tied to nothing. Not to people and not to objects, other than Tania. I just floated through life, and the worst part was, drugs and alcohol had actually been one of the only constant things in my life. I stood in the queue. No one recognized me. It was a relief caked with worry. There was always a gnawing anxiety that nibbled at my ego whenever people overlooked me.
Was I still big?
Was I still famous?
Was I still worth it?
Was my career going downhill?
Cue to wanting to throw up my own soul for giving a fuck.
The queue was dragging. That was fine. I didn’t have anywhere to go. I thought about Indie. How we only hooked up at night. During the day, I acted like I couldn’t be bothered with her, and she acted like I exasperated her. It was only at night when we peeled our masks and our clothes off that life became bearable.
There was a row of flat-screened TVs plastered above the counter. One had the menu, the other played the show GossipCave. Menu, GossipCave. Menu, GossipCave. Bright colors and bold fonts. Showbiz programs are like junk food, so beautifully wrapped. The volume was quite high, and my eyes drifted up despite my best efforts. A bunch of millennials and a gay bloke in his mid-forties were swiveling on neon chairs in their cubicle-style, ultra-futuristic office, the floor-to-ceiling window behind them exhibiting L.A. in all its Botoxed glory. They were talking so animatedly, you’d think they were discussing the Middle East conflict.
“Do you think there’s going to be a showdown?” The older man in the Polo shirt and impeccably styled hair rested his elbows on top of some guy’s chair. All the reporters and editors nodded enthusiastically.
“Oh, absolutely,” a blond, malnourished girl exclaimed. “There’s no way around that. Alex Winslow is unhinged. I mean, he’s definitely cooking something delicious, what with the snippets from his ‘Letters from the Dead’ tour.” She clapped her hands together excitedly, brushing her tongue over her glossed lips in a way that was calculated and overtly trying and not at all like Stardust’s nervous gnawing. “But Winslow is still every inch of the reckless rock star we know. Like two weeks ago, when he attacked his drummer. He’s definitely going to let Will Bushell and Fallon Lankford know how he feels about them.”
“Apparently, he didn’t attack the drummer. There were severe sound issues and he was just frustrated. He was later photographed hugging Lucas Rafferty outside the hotel,” a guy chipped in.
Right. About that.
That had been Blake putting out one of the many fires I’d created. There were no sound issues—though I’m sure someone got fired for the non-existing one Blake reported—and the embrace I’d given Lucas outside our Berlin hotel had almost snapped his neck.
“Either way, will they even meet? I mean, chances are they won’t.” A brunette girl with bold red lipstick picked dirt from under her acrylic nails.
“They’re all going to be at Chateau De Malmaison’s Halloween event in Paris.” The older man snapped his fingers.
Someone tapped my shoulder, and I realized the queue had progressed, but I’d stayed rooted to the floor. I took a few steps forward, my eyes still glued to the screen. There was something cathartic about the pain coursing through me. It made me feel so human. So vulnerable.
“There’ll be no media at the event. And they’ll all wear masks.” The blond girl sounded disappointed. At least someone still got a mental hard-on for my personal life. Shame it wasn’t me.
“Mask or not, Will and Fallon owe Alex an explanation, don’t you think? Their engagement came as a surprise to everyone.”
For a second, I was in purgatory between my life the second before I’d heard it and my life after.
Engagement?
En-fucking-gagement?
I sucked in a slow breath. Fucking Fallon was the hottest mess Hollywood had had the displeasure of producing in this decade and Will was happily married to his work. What business did they have getting married?
“The preparations for the wedding have been going on for weeks now. Do you think they’ll invite him?”
Weeks? They’d been engaged for weeks and no one had told me? Then it dawned on me like hail. Trickling down at first, then all at once, pouring down on my fucking parade.
No Internet.
No social media.
Stay away from the laptop.
Channels in my hotel rooms hooked on news and porn and nothing else because of…
Cockgate.
Blake had created Cockgate. My jaw locked so hard my teeth meshed into dust. He’d do whatever he needed to divert the scandal from “British rock star loses his shit and goes on a three-week bender consuming every single gram of cocaine in Europe” to “British rock star fucks a random starlet and leaves her a souvenir.”
My blood boiled, and I made a U-turn, pushing the door open and storming out. Blake was still on his mobile. He had one eye on me, like I was going to drink myself to death in a coffee shop in the middle of Barcelona. I motioned for him to follow me up to our hotel with my hand, and he did, the device still cemented to his ear.
“All right. Gotta go. Talk later. Bye.”
We got in. Into the lobby. Into the lift. I was sick and tired of Blake and Jenna pulling shit like this. I had a babysitter, I was not allowed on the Internet, and every time I acted in a way that didn’t suit them, they’d dump the blame on other people and bark at me, like in Moscow.
Not to mention I suspected he put my fucking dick on the Internet.
Yeah, enough was e-fucking-nough.
“What crawled up your arse?” Blake’s defiant eyes dragged to meet mine when we were in the lift, and I had to tell myself, not now. When we get to the room. When we get to the fucking room, which only served to make every second tick like a year.
The minute the door behind us clicked shut, I grabbed a vase and threw it across the wall. I wanted to scream, but this time we didn’t have the entire floor for my entourage.
“How long have you known? About Will and Fallon. Don’t lie.” I wasn’t a bad man. I knew that. I paid my taxes. I always made sure my sexual partner orgasmed before I kicked her out. I took care of my family and mates, even when they let me down. So this didn’t make any sense.
“How did you…” He gulped, widening the loop of his tie like it tightened around his neck. “What…”
“They have fucking TVs in Spain, that’s how!” My voice hitched up, the control I’d clung to seeping slowly out of me. I looked aside. I needed air. I didn’t have air. Not in the physical, but fucking spiritual sense. I always had someone babying me. I could drag Indie from her room and have her accompany me, but I didn’t want to do it. As it was, she was overworked and dealing with personal bullshit. Plus, I needed to be alone. Bollocks.
Bollocks!
“Look, I can explain.” Blake held his palms in the air in surrender.
How many times had I seen him in this position? One too many. That was the exact number. And I was sick and tired of it. I pushed him, bloodthirsty for a fight.
The more I had money, and power, and fame, the less I had freedom, and happiness, and the ability to be me. And the person I’d become was imperfect. He occasionally fucked things up, including his drummer’s kit. The person I was wanted the truth. The person I was—I am, I always will be—couldn’t settle for the life he had. A life where I worked for so many people—Jenna, Blake, my former publicist—and the only thing that kept the illusion of control was the fact I’d taken the biggest slice of the pie. A pie I was no longer hungry for.
I didn’t need guardians.
And babysitters.
And people who leaked pictures of my dick on the Internet.
I needed to get out of there. Now.
I made my way to the door before my fist could make its way to Blake’s face. My manager panicked and grabbed my wrist to turn me around. What the hell did he think he was doing? The minute I swiveled and he saw the look on my face, his eyebrows popped.
“I did it for your own good, Alex.”
“Fuck you,” I spat, shaking his touch off me. “You don’t get to pretend it’s even half-true after everything you’ve done.”
“Where are you going?”
“Doesn’t matter. Wherever it is, no one’s coming with me. Not Indie, and definitely not you.” The minute I said these words, I realized it was a demand I’d been afraid to make months ago. Sure, I’d bullied my past babysitters and taunted Indie, but I’d never put my foot down. I’d never said no. Until now.
“Alex.” He jumped in front of me, blocking my way to the door. “I’m afraid if you leave now, you’ll make a huge mistake. If a punch in the face is what I need to tolerate to keep you sober, I’ll take one for the team.”
I threw my head back, shaking it on a bitter chuckle. “Aren’t you a goddamn saint.” I shot him a serious look. “Out of my way.”
“Alex…”
“Now!” I grabbed the first thing I could get my hands on and swung it in his face with force.
He tripped sideways to prevent the hit. Tania crashed with force against the door, chipped wood flying everywhere from the thump. She broke into two pieces, leaving me standing there, choking the neck of my guitar while the rest of her was lying on the floor. She lay under my feet like a dead lover. Beautiful and broken and no longer mine. She was all the diaries crammed into one object. The empty box that was full of tunes and lyrics. She was the most special, important gift I’d ever received, and the only possession I actually cared about.
And she was gone.
Tears pooled in my eyes, and I squinted to prevent them from falling. When was the last time I’d cried? Never. I mean, I’m sure I did—who hadn’t?—but it was so long ago I couldn’t imagine it was after I hit thirteen. So. There was that. I was crying. I was fucking crying.
Blake was standing behind me, his pulse so fast I could hear it thrumming in my ears. He wanted to offer an apology but knew better than to speak. I’d kill him. Shit. Tania. Shit.
I don’t think my world had ever been so silent as it was in the moment I stepped out of the room. Indigo stepped out of hers at the same time, like she could sense me. When I looked at her face, all I saw was another mouth I needed to feed. I bypassed her. She stood there barefoot, with that Paris dress she always worked on clutched in her hand.
“Alex? What happened?”
“Whoever is stupid enough to follow me will get fired on the spot,” I said coolly, then left.
I wandered around the streets. Alone. It was reckless, and stupid, and kind of cool. I bought a pack of cigs and finished them as I walked. I thought about everything. About Will and Fallon, who were on the same continent, probably not many miles away. About their wedding. I thought about my life and what it had become. About my mates, or the people I referred to as such. Of Blake, who pulled no punches to further his career and mine. Of Alfie, who was oblivious to anything other than his dick’s desires, and about Lucas, who’d tried to seduce Indigo. Then I thought about Stardust, about the way she’d made me feel. Like I was living in a semi-normal universe, where I didn’t have to worry the girl I was shagging would sell our sex tape to The Sun or lure me into buying her something expensive. She was, perhaps, the only real thing I had in my life, and that was utterly pathetic, seeing as she was my employee, and only on tour because I paid her to save me.
But I’d saved her, too, hadn’t I?
In the only way I truly mattered.
With my money.
It was only when I strolled back to the hotel that it occurred to me what my heartbreak was really about.
Tania.
Blake.
Alfie.
Lucas.
The list wasn’t short, but it was telling. There was one thing omitted from it—two, actually—and those were the things I should have considered the most.
Will and Fallon. They made me feel nothing.
And that, somehow, made me feel everything.