George Carlin once said, “What does cocaine make you feel like? It makes you feel like doing more cocaine.” George Carlin, ladies and gents, was, in fact, right. With cocaine, I felt more alert, less anxious, and a lot more confident. Coke made me all wired-up and worthy of my ridiculous net worth. Coke also made me more sufferable—I’d been less of a dick because I wasn’t so worried my shit was shite all the time—and more insufferable—because it made me think I was The Shit.
Now I was sober and acutely aware of the fact I needed to justify the money sitting in my bank by coming up with a spectacular album. The word ‘overrated’ flies around way too much once your art translates into sports cars, high-profiled relationships, and Malibu mansions. Money is also the beginning of the end to art, the kiss of death to creativity, and the cancer to integrity. More on that later. Point is, insecurity is like a snake. It can either suffocate or eat you alive. Your choice, really.
The new album made me uneasy, and being uneasy made me a dick. The first people in my line of fire were my staff, so it was no wonder I’d decided to take it out on Waitrose and his easy smile and unscrupulous intentions. Though really, was he expecting me to just sit there and let him fuck my very fuckable hanny? Fuck no.
“What’s up with the sitter?” Blake echoed my thoughts, tucking his phone into the front pocket of his trousers.
I stopped strumming Tania and looked up. We were sitting in the back of a taxi, driving through Melbourne’s interesting bits. The Eureka Tower, MCG, the Botanical Gardens, and the Shrine of Remembrance. I knew that since Blake had actually put away his phone to ask me that question, it meant it was serious.
“Specify.” I flicked dirt from under my chewed-up nails.
“You never cared when we hit on your nannies before. And we always have. Christ, Alfie shagged two, and none of them lasted over a week.”
My eyes moved to the window, and I tapped my knee to a tuneless rhythm. Oh, my life, two lines would fix everything. Unclog the lyrics and make me do what I’d been wanting to—drag Stardust by the hair to the balcony overlooking Melbourne’s skyline and fuck her senseless until she moaned out of key.
“Allow me to refresh your memory, Blake—none of my sobriety companions made it past the three-day mark. That’s the first fact standing in your way. The second one? This nanny is on the road with us, probably for the remainder of the tour, and I don’t need the drama. Third and last—unfortunately, she’s no longer disposable. I sort of found a good use for her.”
Silence sat thick between us. Then, “Now it’s your turn to specify. What is this something?”
Blake wanted Jenna. That much I was certain of. The first time they’d met, he’d asked her about the massive ring on her finger before he asked for her name. She answered she was wearing it specifically for idiots like him, who she wanted to avoid. His sniffing around Indigo made zero sense. I plucked a fag from my pack with my teeth and lit it, ignoring the driver who shot me a silent frown from the rearview window.
Puffing, I unrolled the window. “Indigo turned out to be a bit of a muse to my next album. She’s down-to-earth; I’m sky-high. She makes me want to write about the L.A. of the old films. Just look at her. She dresses like one of those Marilyn Monroe impersonators on the Walk of Fame. I’m starting to come up with the narrative of the album, and she’s part of it. The blue-haired girl in the vintage dress, cycling around on her bike, going around trying to piece her heart back together.”
I was talking out of my arse at this point. My explanation sounded artsy-fartsy at best and delusional mumbo jumbo at worst, but that was the beauty of being a musician. No one could dispute your process, even if it essentially involved sitting on a Chinese takeout joint’s rooftop, stark naked, balancing a fruit bowl on your head while singing “We Are the World”—undoubtedly the worst song to ever be written in the history of, well, the written word.
“Huh.” Blake stroked his chin, carefully considering the load of crap I’d fed him with a spoon. I knew he’d do whatever it took to help me write a good album, including skinning Waitrose and using his flesh as a new case for Tania. The next bit was a tad trickier. See, being an arsehole is an art. I probably needed to do this without blatantly pissing all over the meaning of “friendship,” but when it came to Lucas, I genuinely didn’t care. If anything, I’d be delighted if he’d found out I was fisting his little girlfriend to the sound of The Pussycat Dolls.
“I’m also going to fuck her.”
Blake’s jaw slacked, then eased back as he let loose a smile he was trying to bite. Why did he look so satisfied? Did he know something I didn’t?
“I didn’t say it’d be a threesome,” I clarified.
He schooled his face back to a scowl. “Shut up, Alex.”
The cab stopped in front of our hotel, and it was dark and cold, and for the first time in weeks, I wasn’t feeling like my soul had been run over by every vehicle in a two-hundred-mile radius. The crisp air pinched my nose as I slid out of the back seat. Two doormen approached us while Blake paid the driver, tipping him extra for the cigarette stench I’d left in his car. One of the doormen held an umbrella above my head. The other offered to take my guitar. I tsked. No one touched Tania except me. Blake matched my steps into the building, and for a second, we weren’t Alex Winslow and his dapper manager. We were normal twenty-seven-year-old blokes, and I was getting shit from my mate for being so insufferably self-centered. There were no barricades, no barriers, and no bodyguards to shield me from the world.
“Waitrose wants Indie. He made it clear,” Blake said matter-of-factly when we stepped into the elevator. “You’ve already dipped into the Lucas pool, mate. Remember Laura?”
Vaguely, and only because I didn’t have the pleasure of being high at age fourteen.
“We didn’t even have hair on our balls back then. Besides, I shagged her long before he started dating her.” I waved him off dismissively. “Laura left him because he was a miserable sod who gave her very little attention. He’d been itching to go on this tour and join us in L.A. When they broke up, I took him in, bought him a plane ticket, brought him to California, same as I did with you. The way he repaid me was throwing Fallon and Will together. Guess what? I still hired his arse as my drummer. Well, now he owes a debt, and I finally chose a way to collect it. He’s going to see what it feels like when the girl slips from between your fingers. Spoiler alert—it’s not pretty. Not by a long shot.”
The lift door slid open. The walk to our suite was so quiet our footfalls on the carpeted floor echoed on the walls in dull thuds. It was eleven fifty-four. Part of me wanted to see if Indie would come out to the hallway at midnight willingly, but the greater part didn’t give two shits. There were songs to be written. She was going to help me whether she liked it or not.
“You staying outside?” Blake rubbed his forehead tiredly, his other hand already on the doorknob.
I nodded toward my babysitter’s room. “I’m finishing this tour with an album.” It was a declaration, not a wish.
“With the amount of mess you’re creating in the process, you goddamn better.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, slamming the door in my face.
Eleven fifty-five.
I stood and stared at her door, wondering if Lucas was there. Surely, he wasn’t so daft as to try to mess with what was mine. And that was the naked, raw truth. Indigo Bellamy was mine. I paid her to be here.
She was at my disposal, for better or worse.
I was going to use her.
And fuck her.
And taunt Lucas with her, because he had nowhere to go—he’d literally have to see it. Day after day. Night after night. Like I saw Fallon and Will on every website, in every magazine, and every media outlet in the world. Kissing, hugging, smiling for the camera. “Bushell Finds Love!” “State of the Art: Will Finds His Muse!” “Love on Lankford Lane.”
Eleven fifty-six.
I swore her door was taunting me.
I was sober enough to recognize this wasn’t logically plausible, yet somehow, it was. I needed to knock and get it over with, but something stopped me.
Eleven fifty-seven.
A sound came from behind the door. A cross between a groan and a moan. Was Waitrose touching her? Was she touching herself? My blood heated in my veins, my dick hardening in my briefs. I imagined her mounting a white hotel pillow, clutching it between her sun-kissed thighs and riding it with her fingers deep inside her pussy. She was so small, I wondered what she’d look like from the inside. Pink and tight and easily bruised. I wanted to stick my tongue in and check. To rip her panties and see if her bum was the same color as her bronzed face and shoulders. The need to know was carnal. Like this was the greatest mystery one could possibly unearth.
Oomph, my cock strained against my zipper, swelling to a point where I felt my pulse thudding through its veins.
Eleven fifty-eight.
Footfalls fell along her room. Back, forth. Back, forth. She was probably packing, not masturbating. I cupped my dick through my jeans, rearranging my junk and cracking my neck. Right. I needed a fuck. Stardust was still a no-go. She was the get-to-know-you-first type of bird. I made a mental note to jog from the plane the minute we landed in Japan and stick my cock into the first set of open legs I could find. Maybe even at the airport. No matter if I got caught. It wasn’t like there was one person in the western world who hadn’t seen my cock yet. Including Indie herself. And the way her eyes had brightened when she’d looked at it…
Eleven fifty-nine.
Restless. Why the fuck was I restless? She was nothing to me. And yet, she was obviously something. It was the album, I decided. It was doing my bloody head in.
Midnight.
The door was still closed. I didn’t hear her little feet or feel her approaching, and I should have. Body heat had the ability to move through wood and steel and space. My jaw clenched and my fist curled around her doorknob. It was pointless. The door was automatically locked, and even I was perceptive enough to acknowledge I had no right to barge into her space.
Twelve oh-one.
The girl wasn’t going to comply. What a little spitfire, she was. I raised my fist to knock on the door. The second my knuckles were about to connect with the wood, it swung open. Indie stood there, her eyes swollen and red. Somewhere in my throat, there were words I couldn’t say. Mostly profanity, so it was probably good I kept silent.
“I need someone to hold me tonight,” she croaked, hugging her midsection. Her eyes fluttered in defeat at her own sincerity, like she was giving me something precious. Her weakness. And of course—I took it. I stepped into her room. If there was anyone doing any holding of Indigo Bellamy on this tour, it was going to be me. She pushed me away, her palm connecting with my chest, and stepped outside into the hallway with me.
This evening, when she’d told me about her parents, I’d felt sorry for her. It looked like her parents had actually been decent human beings.
“Let’s keep it impersonal, shall we? Weren’t you the one who made the rule about staying out of each other’s rooms when we write? The hallway is neutral.”
“We’re way past neutral, and fuck if you aren’t being difficult again,” I grunted.
“I’m allowed to be whatever I want tonight.” She sniffed.
She was probably right. I wasn’t an orphan, but I might as well be, with parents like mine.
Not giving her the chance to resist, I immediately wrapped my arms around her body, holding her like breakable china. She wasn’t as boney as I’d thought she’d be. In my mind, she felt like hugging a sack of marbles, when in reality, she was soft everywhere. It made me tighten my arms around her, like she could slip through my fingers, like mist.
My chin rested on the top of her head; her nose was buried in my armpit. She was warm and silky. Delicious, really. I wanted to take her like a drug. All at once, in one gulp. I wanted to overdose on her like cocaine, and heroin, and crack, knowing the destruction I was willingly inhaling into my body. Because Indie, like drugs, was a temporary fix. Once our three months were up, she’d leave my surly arse and run back to what was left of her dysfunctional-yet-loving family.
I wouldn’t blame her.
Hell, I wouldn’t even stop her.
Because deep down, I knew a bastard like me couldn’t keep her.
The rudest bastard in the world, as it turned out, was also a welcome distraction.
Because here I was again, sitting in the hallway, face-to-face, soul-to-soul with the most troubled of them all.
Initially, I was going to stay put in my room, even if the entire world collapsed and Alex tried to break down my door. But then Natasha had called me shortly after the show, and I’d realized the last thing I needed was to stay in my room and stew. She’d sounded panicked on the phone. Apparently, Craig’s version of being a good husband and father today had been to go MIA the minute he’d stepped out of bed. Nat had gotten a call from her friend, Trish, saying Craig dropped Ziggy at her place wordlessly, already stinking like an Irish brothel. Nat had had to leave work and rush to pick up Ziggy, then aimlessly look for Craig on the streets while clutching her toddler to her chest.
My brother was going to show up back home. We both knew that.
He was also going to apologize profusely, promising it’d never happen again.
‘Just a blip.’
‘Not after all we’ve been through.’
‘Come on, Nat, you know my family is my everything.’
Oh, yes, my brother was charming. He’d never raise his voice to his wife, or push her, or blame her for his troubles. Nat would stay, and the crack in their foundation would widen further, with Ziggy’s happiness slipping through it.
“If you wanna talk about it—do.” Alex’s glacial voice pierced through my dark thoughts, his boot between my stretched legs. It only touched my ankles, but still somehow felt deeply inappropriate. Then again, we were in the hallway, in plain sight, like all delicious secrets that were meant to stay that way.
I considered the unlikely idea. “Would it be helpful to your songwriting?”
He did a one-shoulder shrug. “If I knew the answer to that question, I’d have thirty albums under my belt, not four, and probably enough money to buy the entire city of Los Angeles and consequently burn it down.”
“You’re charming.” I rolled my eyes.
“Doubtful. I’m not prolific, either.”
“There are solutions for that. Time management classes are kind of big these days,” I babbled.
He shot me one of his dry looks. “What a great time to be alive. So. Your hissy fit today,” he detoured back to the subject.
I tilted my head, studying him. His frown. His natural, bee-stung pout. Clean-shaven face, softened by youth but hardened by life. If it wasn’t for his tousled hair and life’s-a-bitch-and-then-you-die scowl, he could actually pass for someone else. Less intimidating. Less soul-sucking. Less dangerous for my heart. He was so beautiful, and talented, and adored, and miserable. How could you have so much and feel so little?
I opened my mouth, knowing the truth would come out, but afraid of hearing it.
“I always knew my life would have this big, colossal catastrophe. Even before it actually happened. It was like I was waiting for it, in a way. For something to define me. I spent my youth sitting in my room sewing clothes, content with being a weirdo, as you so diplomatically put it. My brother, Craig, was just the opposite. Hotshot football player with the cheerleader on his arm.”
“And did it?” Alex asked, his army boot caressing the inside of my ankle, riding up my calf. The worst part was that I let him do it. Yesterday, I wouldn’t have. And tomorrow, I would swat him away. But today, I was fragile enough for him to make me feel good, even if it was a bad decision. “Define you, I mean.”
“No. It didn’t. I have this chip on my shoulder I carry with me everywhere I go. Of the girl who’s been robbed of her parents. But I still smile, and laugh, and spend time with my nephew and friends. My tragedy is like an ugly scar that’s hidden from the world. Only I can see it.”
“Mine’s the opposite.” He smirked, fingering the strings of his guitar absentmindedly. “My tragedy is an open wound every fucker in the universe can poke and look into. My fiancée left me for my ex-best friend publicly, after it was revealed in the tabloids that she’d been fucking him while we were still together while I was on tour. I’m an addict, a knobhead, and a bitter arsehole who can’t even sit still when his enemy receives a Grammy. Everyone can—and does—see my scars. No exceptions. My soul is empty, because I whored it out. I signed fat contracts with huge labels to get big money. For the last six years, they’ve dictated my every move. And whatever they didn’t suck out of me, the crowd did. Because every night you go on that stage, Indie, you give your fans your everything. Every. Fucking. Thing. Then you wake up the next day and do it all over again.”
I was so surprised at his admission, the fact I uttered anything at all was nothing short of a miracle. “Is that why you act this way?” Not that it gave him an excuse, but the need to understand him better burned me from the inside.
Alex rolled his head against the wall. “Enough with the philosophical bullshit. So. This is not inspiring at all. Tell me about your sex life.”
I gave him a look, my walls stacking up again, brick by brick. “No.”
“That ’cause you don’t have any? Because that could be rectified.”
“It’s because it’s none of your business, and while we’re on the subject, I’d appreciate it if you stopped hitting on me.”
He put his guitar down, snatched a cigarette from his open pack by his feet, a notepad, and a blue Sharpie and started writing. Blue Sharpie. Just like in the article. Alex was a creature of habit. I wondered what it was about the color.
There was something incredibly sexy about seeing him, an unlit cigarette hanging between his straight teeth, making art in front of me. I had no idea what he was writing, and I doubted he’d let me know if I asked. But the idea that I might hear it on the radio someday made me shiver.
“If you want me to believe you about not wanting me to fuck you raw, you should probably stop looking at me like that. Like you’re already mine,” he said, his eyes still focused on his notepad. I looked away, my face growing ruddy and hot.
“You’re crass.”
“And you’re full of bullshit.” He looked up, catching my gaze. “You really like Waitrose? Really, really like him? I don’t believe that. Not for one second. Know what the difference is between you and me, Stardust? You watch me, but I see you. And what I see is your truth. You wear your heart on your sleeve, and it bleeds into the real world, which means you’re a remarkably terrible liar. You look at Waitrose fondly. Like you would at a stranger’s baby down the street. You look at me with dynamite in your eyes, waiting for me to light up the match and finally set you on fire.”
Everything stopped.
The air.
The world.
My heart.
He said all that with his lips still pursed around the cigarette. With dead eyes and a sultry, rough voice he’d tone down and sweeten when he recorded his music. A door opened and closed in the distance, and we both snapped our heads in its direction. It was Alfie, ushering two giggling girls in miniskirts toward the elevator. He smacked their butts as he rushed them between the doors, not even sparing us a glance. They skipped, their voices pitching high, while he barked like a mad dog, pretending to bite and nibble at their necks. He hadn’t noticed us.
“We’re heading to the airport in less than two hours.” I cleared my throat after the laughter died down. Alfie and the girls rounded the hallway. “Did you get everything you needed?”
“Not by a long shot.” He leaned forward, his hand clasping my wrist. His gaze held mine hostage. “And neither did you.”
I rolled to my knees quickly and stood up. Alex did the same, his guitar and notepad still on the floor. We stood in front of each other, not like strangers anymore, and that scared me.
“One for the road,” he said, hooking his finger into the neckline of my hoodie and jerking me close. His arms enveloped me, the tip of the cigarette in his mouth tickling my neck. I felt his hug in my stomach, in my groin, and in my toes. His arms felt coarse, but the moment felt eerily soft. I squeezed selfishly, burrowing into his white V-neck tee while closing my eyes, inhaling, inhaling, inhaling.
I miss you, Mom.
I miss you, Dad.
It’s when you memorize the small things in a person that you realize you’re screwed. I liked the stale scent of cigarette smoke between his fingers, and the sour, masculine smell of his neck. The way his wavy hair curled at the sideburns, silky and boyish, and the way his strong jaw looked almost comical in contrast with his stupidly cute ears. When he finally loosened his hold on me, I looked up, and he looked down, and every sense was floodlit. A ping rang between us. The elevator, probably. But he couldn’t have noticed. Not with the way his browns held my blues. This was his chance to make a move. He’d said he was going to have me, and tonight, I wanted to be taken. After all, if you make one horrifyingly bad choice in your life, better do it on a day that represents your parents’ deathaversary, right?
His lips were close.
His pulse quickened under his shirt.
Warm, warm, so warm.
I took a deep breath.
Closed my eyes.
Opened my mouth.
Stood on my tiptoes.
And…stumbled forward into nothingness.
As my eyes cracked open, the emergency door at the end of the hall slid shut automatically, still pushing the last hints of his intoxicating scent. I looked down. His notepad and Sharpie were still there.
Cold, cold, so cold.
He’d gone to smoke that cigarette.
And left me all alone.