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.

Indie: I think the ten-minute song is going to be really good.

Jenna: I hope you didn’t tell him that.

Indie: No. I told him it’s unmarketable.

Hudson: And what did he say?

Indie: He said I sounded like a Suit, specifically like Jenna Holden, and that Jenna Holden was hired to get him Balmain deals and negotiate fat deals with record labels, not produce his next album. He also said he’d once caught you nodding your head at a Maroon 5 song, and the fact that you’re not dead to him after that is a miracle in itself, so you should not push your luck. Again, his words, not mine.

Hudson: Classic Alex.

Jenna: We’ll have to work on that. Indigo, how’s his mood? Does he look okay to you?

I didn’t know how to answer that. Alex constantly looked like his soul was shattered, but his bravado was steel and metal. I didn’t know him well enough to know if his current state was good, bad, or indifferent. He didn’t look like he was having suicidal tendencies, but I wasn’t exactly a qualified shrink.

Indie: He’s crabby, but fine.

Hudson: That’s his default setting.

Indie: He and Lucas aren’t getting along.

Hudson: When did they ever?

Jenna: Keep us posted, Indigo.

Jenna: Indigo?

Indie: I said I only answer to Indie.

Hudson: BURN.

Hudson: Also, I think Alex is rubbing off on you a bit.

Oh, he had no idea.

Tokyo, Japan.

Not so fun fact: when you’re an alcoholic, holding a bottle of champagne in your hand is the equivalent of clutching a semi-automatic weapon. Destructive, but somehow still fucking legal in all fifty states.

I don’t know who the fucker was who kept on sending them to every room I’d stayed at during this tour, but whoever they were, they had inside information, malicious intent, and a lot of free time on their hands. Every time we rolled into a new city, Blake, Jenna, and Hudson all made sure to call the hotel and warn the local staff to empty the minibar of alcohol. I was kept away from everything I could get high on, including mouthwash, dust remover, and hand sanitizers. I swear, the fact I still smelled remotely pleasant was a fucking miracle. And though I was too busy hating the world to actively look to score or get pissed, my sobriety was mainly a product of circumstances and laziness. And now I had a bottle of champagne and a minute by myself.

Fancy that.

Knowing Blake would come upstairs to our hotel room any second and that Indie had a key card to my presidential suite, I quickly wrapped the bottle in a hoodie and shoved it into one of my suitcases. They’d both lose their shit had they known I’d found the bottle on the threshold. The first time Blake had opened the door to find a bottle of Jameson, he’d tossed it out of the window and cursed, watching it swan-dive into the ocean. The second time, he’d hired a PI and treated himself to a twenty-minute meltdown in the bathroom. And Indie…she would go on a hunt all over the world to track down the twat who’d tried to throw me off the wagon, turning every stone over until they were found. Never mind the fact I thought I knew exactly who the bastard was—and where he was. In bed, with my ex-girlfriend.

Which reminded me, I needed to throw the plan of fucking Stardust into high gear before I got back with Fallon. She may have been a cheater, but I wasn’t.

The decision wasn’t calculated or even particularly smart. Sure, I saw Indie balling into herself like a kitten on the couch of the private jet with her head on Lucas’ thighs—his crotch— but it wasn’t like I was jealous. My heart rolled in my chest helplessly like a wounded soldier, because Waitrose didn’t deserve anything, much less the only girl on the tour.