“Soooo. Spill it, girl. What’s he like?”
Disgusting. Gorgeous. Rude. Sexy. Screwed-up. Witty. Broody. Unbearable. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Alex Winslow was all those things and more, but my family didn’t need to know any of this. Natasha was already crazy worried at the prospect of me leaving for three months. I turned off the faucet and wiped my hands with a kitchen towel, turning around to lean against the counter. We lived in an old Pico Blvd one-bedroom apartment, where the fridge made more noise than the highway outside, and the yellow walls were more naked and depressing than the strippers at the club right below the condo.
“Fine, I guess. Your average rock star. A chain-smoking, crazy-in-love-with-himself, conceited dude.” I sucked my teeth, my eyes traveling anywhere but their gazes.
Natasha looked up from her bowl of plain pasta, while Craig flipped through the want ads in the daily paper and took a swig of his beer. He was already to the point where he’d sent applications to anything even remotely relevant on Craigslist, which he joked was named after him, and Monster, which he joked he’d become if he didn’t find a job soon, and was a step away from knocking on people’s doors begging for them to hire him to do anything—walk their dogs, water their plants, or sell them a kidney. It pained me to see my bright and proud brother groveling. Especially considering how he’d given up his college scholarship to raise his baby sister because one day his parents walked home from their twentieth wedding anniversary date and never made it back home.
“Cut the bullshit, Indie. You never badmouth people. He’s probably a world-class prick, which doesn’t surprise me. Show me a celebrity who isn’t a jerk.” He sat back in his seat, a black cloud of anger hanging over his light-brown mane. The chair squeaked under his weight. Utensils clinked together in Nat’s bowl. Craig finished his beer and placed it next to the two other cans he’d already drunk.
“Another serving?” I jutted my chin to the bowl, ignoring my brother’s vast consumption of alcohol when we couldn’t even afford a bottle of Tylenol for Ziggy.
Nat shook her head. “There’s enough for tomorrow. Better keep it.”
“Counting pasta. Not very rock ‘n’ roll. Guess you’re too good for us now, Indie,” Craig said, and we both ignored him.
I washed the dishes. The kitchen was small and full—pans, containers, framed pictures catalogued all the good, sad, and funny memories of the four of us. Ziggy lay sleeping in his cradle in the living room. His ear infections were under control, but we all knew that come winter, that was going to change.
Nat slid behind me, hugging my midsection and resting her head against my shoulder. “You don’t have to do this. You’ve never been on an airplane before. Never even left the States. We can still work this out on our own. I have some temp work on Venice Beach at least until October. And Craig will find something soon…”
I turned around and grabbed her shoulders, smiling.
“Three hundred thousand dollars to hang out with a rock star. Are you kidding me? Does that sound like something any twenty-one-year-old girl would say no to?”
“Yes,” she deadpanned, flattening her palm over my antique orange dress. “If the girl in question is you. I know you. All you want to do is sew and play with Ziggy. You’re the mother of all introverts. When we watched Bubble Boy together—you envied the poor kid for living in solitude.”
Touché.
I didn’t need the reminder I was a reclusive loser. But maybe that was a part of the charm of taking the job. Getting out of my shell was exactly what I needed. Plus, I’d come back with a suitcase full of unique and precious adventures. New smells, sights, and tastes on my tongue from all the wonderful places I’d always dreamed of visiting.
“Nat, I promise you, I couldn’t be more excited if I tried.”
“Would you tell us if you really didn’t want to go?” she probed, and I wondered if she could see the terror I masked with my smile.
“Yeah, Indie.” Craig stood up from his seat and walked toward the living room, still in the same PJ’s from last night. “Don’t feel like you have to do this. We’re doing fine. Other than the fact we’re behind on rent, the electricity payment, and Ziggy’s pediatric bills. Oh, and, you know, life.”
“Craig,” Natasha hissed, her eyes two narrow slits of anger.
He left, his bitter chuckle bouncing off the walls. A minute later, the bedroom door slammed shut. Ziggy protested the sudden noise with a moan. Time stood still as Nat and I waited to hear Ziggy’s soft snores again.
I could see why my brother had very little success with finding a job, but it was important to remember he wasn’t always sarcastic, rude, and borderline incoherent. Once upon a time, Craig was the lovable wide receiver who won Natasha Brockheimer’s heart by serenading her an Alex Winslow song outside her window. She had the blondest hair and the tannest legs, and the richest daddy in Beverlywood. Natasha didn’t care that Craig had dropped out of college to take care of me. But her parents did. And when she got pregnant at twenty-two, said parents then decided they wanted nothing to do with Nat, Craig, Ziggy, or me.
For a while, Craig remained positive. He worked two jobs, helped with Ziggy, and gave Natasha foot massages every evening, talking to us about how we were all going to make it. But then he got fired, and started drinking, and the pep talks, foot massages, and hope evaporated from our lives, replaced with a suffocating cloud of bleakness.
“I think I’m going to head to bed. Thanks for everything.” I twirled one of Nat’s fair locks. I slept on the couch next to Ziggy’s cradle. It was convenient, because he woke up thirsty several times a night.
Who’s going to give Ziggy his sippy when I’m gone? I shoved the question to the back of my head, allowing my legs to carry me past the couch, to my white bicycle, the only expensive thing I’d ever owned. My mom got the bike for me when I was fourteen. It was made in Paris, my favorite city in the world, though I’d never been.
I glanced at the big suitcase sitting next to the entrance door, glaring back at me, taunting me, reminding me of what was to come. There was no way I could sleep with so much weighing on my chest, my mind, my heart. I needed more air than was in the whole apartment building.
I went for a ride.
Outside, I swung one leg over the bike, pushed off the asphalt, and darted down the darkened street. The breeze was crisp and salty, the wind dancing across my face. Lights from convenient stores and old-school diners zinged by, and for the first time that day, I managed to inhale deeply.
A tingle ran down my spine when I remembered the first time I saw Alex Winslow’s eyes up close. Whiskey brown. Bottomless and tawny like rich wood, full, expressive, and misleadingly warm. Straight nose, square jaw seemingly made of stone, and too-full lips that softened his appearance, despite his best efforts. His tousled hair was dirty brown, silk and cashmere, and he smelled of old leather and a new obsession. He may have looked beautiful, but it was important to remember that Alex Winslow was not, in fact, boyfriend material. Or anything-material. What he definitely was was: rude, impatient, a bully, and a recovering drug addict.
I pedaled faster, a mist of sweat forming on my brow. Winslow had worn army boots—unlaced—a pair of cheap-looking torn jeans, and a black tank top with raw-edge armholes, exposing his lean torso and tatted ribs. He was skinny—lithe but strong—and had several wristbands and rings on his hands, and was the very definition of sex on legs.
And I hated him.
Hated the way he walked, the way he talked, the way he’d undermined me. Hated that he held so much power over me, and the way he was going to use that power against me.
I rode my bike for almost two hours before making a U-turn and heading back home, then decided to skip the shower because I didn’t want to wake anyone up. I tossed and turned until dawn, thankful when Ziggy woke up twice and cried for his sippy cup. And when the sun emerged and the clouds hung low and fat over my city, I stood up, grabbed the suitcase, and walked over to his cradle.
“I’m getting us out of this mess,” I swore, leaning to kiss his forehead, reminding myself this temporary goodbye would later on grant us a steady future. He murmured to himself and waved his chubby little fist goodbye, blowing me kisses like I’d taught him.
That’s when I knew this was a promise I was going to keep.
“Dafuq?”
I jolted awake at a sharp elbow slamming into my ribs. It dug through my black hoodie and my leather jacket, so it had to be that long-limbed tosser, Alfie.
I sat up, growling. The dead hum of industrial engines buzzed in my ears. You’d think I would’ve gotten used to it by now. Spoiler alert: I hadn’t.
Alfie pouted like a groupie and slapped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Oh, Alexander, why don’t you love me?”
“Because you have a cock, no tits, fart like you’ve consumed every rotten egg in America, and think Russell Brand is funny. The latter, by the way, is borderline criminal.”
Alfie laughed and threw something at me—a blue guitar pick.
I picked it up from my crotch and slid it in my back pocket. “What do you want?”
“We’re almost at the airport.”
“I thought we were on the plane.”
“Are you still using? We’re in a traffic jam from hell moving at a snail’s pace to LAX.”
“So what’s that annoying noise?” My head swiveled toward the window.
“That would be L.A., Lord McCuntson,” Blake quipped, his eyes hard on his phone, always in work mode.
Forty minutes later, we were at the airport. Blake scrolled through our schedule on his iPad. We always started at the farthest point and worked our way back up to the States. Australia first—Sydney and Melbourne—then we’d do Asia, then Europe before we hit the land of the free—with a week-long break in England, to see our families.
“Letters from the Dead” was supposed to be a piece of cake. Best of. Songs I knew by heart. I had no new product to push. I was going to kiss my fans’ arses and hope to fuck the sights, smells, and cultures were going to get my creative juices flowing.
This time, the record company had asked for, “catchy, fun, bubbly, with a hint of rock ‘n’ roll.” So of course my inner rebel wanted to dump a bunch of fourteen-minute tracks about politics and global warming onto their table. I didn’t even like politics, but I hated my record company more.
At the airport, we breezed past security and into the VIP lounge. The private jet was ready, and this was the part I despised the least about being Alex Winslow. I had access to the most ridiculous shite ever to be invented. Seven years ago, I’d drooled from the prospect of getting on a plane—any plane, fuck the destination or class—and now I was literally grousing about having one all to myself.
“Well, if it isn’t the mother of dragons.” Blake oomphed as I unloaded Tania, resting her guitar case against one of the tables. Blake often claimed Jenna had the ability to burn people alive if they disobeyed.
I wormed out of my leather jacket, looking around me to make sure my few valuable possessions—mobile, Tania, and wallet—were with me. “And you’re telling me this because…?”
“Because she ain’t alone.”
I looked up, watching my agent striding in her snug three-grand dress toward me. She’d brought sitter number eleven. New Girl was now standing in front of me, wearing a Mad Men type yellow dress. Tight and completely ridiculous for a daylong plane ride. Her blue hair was braided into an embellished chignon, and she looked like a color-blind fairy.
“New Girl,” I exclaimed with false enthusiasm, so that Jenna would think I at least tried before I gave her the boot. I refused to call her Indie because A) her name was silly, and B) that would be acknowledging she was a person and not an obstacle. I opened my arms and walked toward her, all swagger and easy smirk. “We’re thrilled to have you on board.”
New Girl’s smile transformed from timid to irritated. When my arms wrapped around her shoulders, I heard her wheezing out the remainder of her hope that this was going to resemble something civilized. Jenna was standing beside us, and I took the opportunity—again—to loom over New Girl and whisper into her ear, “Run, darlin’. One last chance to do so.”
Her body turned to ice, but she didn’t cower, and for that, I sort of didn’t hate her all the way. At least she had some backbone. So far, I’d treated her even worse than the rest. Because—unlike the rest—she hadn’t budged.
“Glad you guys are getting along.” Jenna eyed me, suspicion leaking from every syllable rolling between her lips. She knew something was fishy. But, like the majority of people around me, she didn’t want to open that can of worms.
I leaned back and threw an arm over New Girl’s shoulders, squeezing her into an embrace.
“Like, legit, we’re gonna be best buds,” I mimicked the whiniest, most valley-girl American accent I could scrape.
Jenna stubbed a manicured fingernail to my chest. “Write me an album, Al. One where you don’t throw shade at half the industry. Make it good. Behave. And just a heads-up—Bushell is doing a similar tour. Your European dates parallel. Stay away from him.”
My ears perked, possibly literally.
I wondered if Fucking Fallon—dubbed as such for ruining my life—accompanied him. Bushell, I never wanted to see again. Fallon? Now, that was a different story. Jenna saw the question on my face, because she was quick to answer it.
“Let me put you out of your misery—Fallon is coming with him. Listen carefully one more time—with. Him. Not with you. It’s over, in case you needed any more clarification.”
“Don’t tell me—” I started, which prompted her to bang her open palm against my torso. I was ninety-nine percent sure that most agents didn’t spend the better part of their time continuously smacking their clients in the chest.
“She nearly ruined your goddamned career! You almost snorted yourself to death. If you want to kill yourself over a girl, one who jumped from your bed to your ex-best friend’s without batting a pretty eyelash—be my guest. But if you pull any funny business on ‘Letters from the Dead,’ I swear to God, your tour title will become literal, because I will kill you.” She paused, took a deep breath, and then slapped on a Botoxed smile. “Metaphorically, of course. My lawyer said no more death threats to rock star clients until the Malibu house is fully paid off.”
I tipped my head back and laughed. A hearty, big, that’s-why-I-hired-your-crazy-arse laugh. Sure, I needed Jenna, but she needed me just as much. I was still the hottest shit since sliced bread in Hollywood, and even after Cock My Suck, which, admittedly, was a sugarcoated, mass-produced, Maroon-5-meets-Ed-Sheeran-in-a-Catholic-school-prom inspired album, I had enough star power in me to light up Vegas. If my next album flopped, maybe, just maybe, I’d be subject to that kind of threat. For now, I needed to make an effort, but definitely not to submit to Jenna’s every whim.
“You’re going to miss me.” I winked at my purse-lipped agent, who didn’t even bother rolling her eyes anymore.
Jenna shoved New Girl in my direction. “Help her when you land in Australia. She’s never been on a plane before. We had to issue her a quickie passport.”
New Girl’s face turned ruddy so fast I thought her head was going to detonate. She tilted her chin up and tightened the grip on her duffel bag. She needn’t worry. I was a cunt, but I’d never make fun of someone because they didn’t have the same opportunities I had. It wasn’t long ago I’d had to count every penny and sneak into the tube when I needed to get places. But, just to be clear, I was still going to make her life hell. I didn’t do positive discrimination. Or a negative one. Call me a saint.
“Anything else?” I plucked a cigarette from my Camel soft pack.
“There’s a manual listing Indigo’s job. Read it carefully and don’t argue. It’s a process, Al.” She slapped a folder onto my chest, her raised eyebrow daring me to argue.
“And you”—she tossed something into Indie’s hands—“this phone has two contact numbers—mine and Hudson’s, Alex’s PA. No Internet connection. No apps. It’s only good for one thing, and that’s reporting back to me. You’ll give me daily updates, got it?”
Then Jenna turned around and walked away, not even sparing her new employee a goodbye. New Girl stood in front of me, her face a mixture of defiance and determination.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” I lit up. Maybe I wanted to get arrested. Jail time meant alone time, and alone time wasn’t the worst thing in the world.
“I’m looking at my worst nightmare.” She blinked, almost willing herself to un-see me.
If nothing else, she was bloody honest. Taking a step in her direction, I made sure we were toe-to-toe, my cigarette dripping ash down to her hair when I whispered the words, “I’m not your nightmare, sweetheart. Nightmares, you wake up from. With me, I’ll keep going until you’re out of my hair. We clear?”
Not allowing her to gather her wits—Arsehole Behavior 101, I trademarked that shit—I turned around, dumping the thick file with her job description into the bin on my way to the leather seats by the huge window.
I hoped, for her sake, she wasn’t too frightened of flights, because she’d need to board one alone after I sacked her curious little bum.
From there on, it was same old shite, different day. We got on the plane. The takeoff was bumpy. Turbulence made New Girl’s face ashen, and I was certain everything in her body clenched, cunt included. Fifteen minutes into the flight, a stewardess strolled into the room with the blond wooded cabinets and asked if we’d like something.
“Ginger ale on the rocks and a loaded gun.” I waved her off, staring at a blank page I needed to fill with inspiring, thought-provoking prose.
“He means for himself, not for you,” Lucas, who was sitting on a white L-shaped sofa next to New Girl, clarified. He was the only one who’d deigned to talk to her, probably to piss me off. “And if it wasn’t for his treating alcohol and cocaine as a recreational hobby, you wouldn’t have to be here.”
I made a mental note to tell Lucas to kindly withdraw his tongue from New Girl’s anus, because his arse kissing was getting on my last nerve.
I didn’t want him to mess around with the girl who was hired for me.
I didn’t want to see how easy life was for him while I was being dragged through a mud of depression every minute of the day, my old friends, alcohol and coke, the only ones able to pick me up from the dirt.
Mostly, I didn’t need to watch them both making out on airplane sofas and backs of vans while I nurtured a breakup fiasco that left my ego bruised. Especially seeing as he was part of the reason I was in this situation in the first place.
“Careful, Lucas. My toys are mine, so keep your hands out of my toy box,” I warned, taking a sip of my ginger ale, my eyes still on the blank sheet.
He didn’t ask what I meant.
He knew.