Midnight Blue
Besides, I’d been babysitting two-year-old Ziggy since the day he was born. This person was supposedly a grown-ass man. How hard could it be?
“It’s Alex Winslow,” Jenna supplied.
Evidently, the answer to my question is ‘next to impossible.’
Winslow was huge. His songs were shoved down your throat by every radio station like he was the only person on the continent with vocal cords. But what truly worried me was that he seemed unapologetically arrogant. Alex Winslow looked through people like it was an Olympic sport and he wanted to make the queen proud, which was just one of the reasons why he’d managed to create beef with every person with a pulse in Hollywood. That was common knowledge, even if you tried to avoid gossip like the plague, which I did. Wherever he went, a string of reporters and palpitating fangirls followed. I’d get heat the minute his fans spotted me. The paparazzi shadowed him everywhere but to the bathroom. I once read in a gossip magazine—dentist appointment—that some girl had to shut down her Instagram account after partying with Winslow because a dark net website put a bounty on her head. Twenty grand was collected to predict her death date—“fulfilling your prediction is entirely optional, ” they said.
Last but not least, Winslow was the most antiauthority mainstreamist in Hollywood. Not too long ago, he was arrested for DUI, and I hated, despised, loathed drugs and alcohol. Which basically meant that our “organ transplant,” as Jenna had referred to it, would likely result in two casualties and one epic failure.
I cradled my face in my hands, letting out a breath.
“This is the part where you say something.” Jenna’s cherry red lips twitched.
I cleared my throat and straightened my posture.
Time to put on your big girl panties and make sure they stay dry for three months, despite him looking like Sean O’Pry’s hottest brother.
“I promise to keep him safe and sound, Ms. Holden.”
“Good. Oh, and I’m going to say this once to keep my conscience clear: don’t fall in love with the guy. He’s not the white picket fence type.” Jenna waved a hand and scrolled her phone, pressing her thumb onto it and making a call.
“I’ll try my best.” My jaw muscles twitched as I swallowed a sneer. Alex Winslow was beautiful in a way storms were—only from afar. Just like them, he had the power to sweep and ruin you, two things I was too busy surviving to entertain.
“If your best is good enough, then you should survive this. I’ll have my assistant print out the paperwork. Any questions?” She fired some instructions on the other line to said assistant, then ambled toward the door.
“When are we leaving for his tour?” I peeked over my shoulder, my fingernails burrowing into the armrest.
“Wednesday.”
“That’s two days away.”
“Good at math.” She sneered. “That’s an unexpected plus. I’ll get the paperwork. The tour is called ‘Letters from the Dead’ and is supposed to revive his career. Be right back.”
I remembered that song. It was the soundtrack to my senior year, when everything looked so final and wrong.
Love is just a fraud,
Excuse me for being goddamn bold,
You asked me to believe,
As if I had some fucks to give.
With the door closing behind her, I sat back and blew a lock of blue hair away from my face. Crazy laughter bubbled in my throat, eager to pour out.
I was going to make three hundred thousand dollars and hang out with the biggest rock star in the world for three months. I looked up, and the chandelier winked at me mischievously.
I thought it was a sign.
M y soul was dying.
It wasn’t an exaggeration.
It bled the last of my hopes and dreams onto the sticky floor, smeared in cigarette ash and pussy juice. My mobile chimed with a text message, forcing me to peel my gaze from the ceiling.
Unknown
Hey, Alex!
Me
Arse pic/ tit pic/ face pic.
Unknown
???
Me
You got my number. That means whoever gave it to you told you I don’t sext without checking the assets beforehand.
Unknown
This is Elsa from The Brentwood Club. You are supposed to make an appearance tonight for the fundraising evening event for children with ASD. I contacted you directly to extend my gratitude…
I was doing something for free tonight. Why was I doing something for free tonight? Most nights, I didn’t even do stuff for money. In fact, it’d been a long time since I’d done shite. At all.
Fuck my manager, Blake, and my agent, Jenna, and my life, sideways scissors-style, for making me leave my room, my sanctuary, my personal space. And fuck Elsa, who now knew my true colors—fifty shades of dick.
“Oi, Waitrose. A new charity case.” I threw my mobile at Lucas, who caught it in the air, groaning. Technically speaking, Lucas was my drummer, so covering my arse was not part of his jurisdiction. But Lucas—dubbed Waitrose after the fancy supermarket chain he grew up posh enough to afford—was notoriously nice to Suits. Me, I hated Suits. Loathed them. Because when you’re a rock star and make a crap ton of money, everyone wants a piece of the pie. A pie you baked. With ingredients you bought. None of the Suits had given a shit about me when I sat, day in and day out, outside King’s Cross tube station with Tania, my acoustic Tatay, and played, and begged, and shoved demos into people’s hands just to watch them slam-dunking them to the nearest bin. None of the Suits were there when I knocked on doors in the pouring rain, and pleaded in the bitter snow, and bargained, and argued, to get myself heard. They also weren’t there when I got booed in Glastonbury three years in a row opening for bigger bands, or when mostly-empty beer cans were thrown my way for a good laugh, or when a drunk girl puked on my only pair of shoes trying to tell me I sounded like a Morrissey knockoff.
They weren’t there when I sold my soul to some other Suits, who thought I was really talented but wanted, “poppy, short, catchy, with a flare!” , and I caved in and gave it to them. Told you my soul was dying. Or maybe it simply belonged to other people. Either way, I needed a new one. Unfortunately, it was one of the rare things my money couldn’t buy.
I hated everyone I worked with. Record companies, executives, producers, PR staff, marketing mavericks, big corporations using me as their spokesperson, and basically every single cunt who’d ever asked for a raise because they thought they were oh-so vital to the Alex Winslow brand. Newsflash: I was the brand.