I’d bought the ingredients.

I’d baked the pie.

I was going to eat the fucking pie.

All of it. Every single crumb and lick of filling. Mine .

My reluctance to share was, among other reasons, what branded me as a disreputable arsehole in the media. To say I didn’t give two shits was an insult to said shits. The tabloids weren’t my friends, and the day I’d invite a paparazzo to take a picture of me was the day hell froze over and Katy Perry released a decent song. I was still voted Nicest Celebrity to Fans three consecutive years, and that was genuine, and real, and true . I loved my fans. Harder than I loved the money or fame or pussy that came along with them.

“Mate. I can’t believe you tried to sext a fifty-year-old chairwoman of a non-profit organization. Have you no shame?” Lucas nudged my shoulder with his foot, his thumbs already flying across my touch screen furiously, offering a profound apology in my name. I didn’t even know why. At this point, my image was as wholesome as a Serbian war zone. Waitrose huffed but still cleaned up after my shit. It was partly why I kept him on my payroll.

I didn’t like him. I barely even tolerated him after everything that had gone down two years ago.

We were all sprawled on my auburn velvet sofa. I’m saying ‘mine,’ but really, it belonged to the Chateau Marmont. I stayed at the cottage-styled room whenever I was in L.A. Which, granted, was seven months out of the year, but I refused to call this place my home. Los Angeles was like a B-Grade prostitute. She let anyone in, looked less than average, and once inside, you realized there was too much traffic and that whoever’d been there before you had left a mess. Add to this the pollution and white-toothed starlets who wanted to ride your anything—be it your knob, reputation, or black American Express card—and what did you get? My very own definition of hell.

I lit another cigarette and flipped through the channels. Reality show. Cooking show. Makeover show. TMZ. A bunch of people renovating a house and crying about it. A fake-tanned bird having a meltdown over her wedding invitations, which were sent in the wrong shade of pink. I threw the remote across the room. It crashed against the flat screen, cracking it into a spiderweb impression. No one batted an eyelash.

Alfie, my bass guitarist, farted. Then he said, “I need to scratch my arse, but I’m too knackered to move.”

“I need to fuck, but I’m too knackered to go to the hotel bar,” Blake countered, lying. He only had eyes for one girl, and she was the wrong girl.

“I’m sure Lucas is a willing candidate. Getting fucked over is his national sport.” Alfie snorted, to which Blake responded by flicking his ear.

Why they were tired, I had no clue. At this point, we were collecting sleeping hours like they were antique typewriters. Dutifully. Indulgently. The next three months were gonna be rough.

I grabbed my mobile, since Lucas was done successfully extinguishing another fire I’d created, and scrolled down my contacts list. I’d had a few dozen regular bells in L.A., but I didn’t want to wine and dine any of them, and that was a problem. They all nurtured some kind of a celebrity career, and they all wanted me to walk hand in hand with them at The Grove or stroke their cheeks adoringly at The Ivy. Unfortunately, I’d rather ram my cock into a roughly-opened tin than humor their millennial dreams, which made my sex life about as exciting as a beige painted wall. I didn’t do groupies—respected my fans too much—and didn’t do romance—ex-girlfriend from hell, more about that later—and that meant I’d normally settled on what I called ‘Compromise Pussy.’ Lonely stewardesses, mid-thirties career women sitting at the Chateau’s bar, and the passing tourist who didn’t care who I was. They weren’t always the best looking, but at least they didn’t make me feel like the plastic product my record company had shaped me into.

The doorbell rang. Maybe God had heard me and sent a bodiless cunt. Another thing I’d pay good money for and wasn’t for sale—note to self: Google pocket pussy. Apparently, it is a thing.

“Expecting anyone?” Alfie gathered phlegm in his throat and spat it into an ashtray on the coffee table. Wanker had the manners of a used tampon.

I continued scrolling my mobile, ignoring him.

“Mate.” Lucas shoved his foot into my chest—again —lying across from me, using one of his drumsticks to scratch his back under his tee. “Are you too famous to answer people’s questions now? Who’s at the door?”

“The Grim Reaper. Or Jenna. Same difference.” I took a swig of my Coke—the drink, not the drug—regrettably—my finger halting over a name on my phone.

Fallon.

Fuck you, Fallon.

And I was. Going to fuck her, that is. Again. But this time on all fours, after she had my name tattooed across her ankle like a shackle, a punishment for what she’d done. I had a book-long list of things I wanted from Fallon Lankford, and she was going to give them to me, because deep down, she still loved me. It was etched on her face. The face that kept transitioning with the years to fit Hollywood’s standards: puffier lips, smaller nose, longer eyelashes. I remembered the girl behind the mask, and she was crazy about me. Problem was, she was crazier about fame.

Blake stood up, stalking to the door. He looked like he was going to war, every muscle in his body tight with frayed nerves. Blake and Jenna never saw eye to eye, and I never saw the point in making them play nicely. I heard murmurs from the entrance. Growls, huffs, and then the metallic chuckle Jenna produced when she wanted to spit in your face. A few seconds later, they both marched in, a third person trailing behind them.

A girl.

A girl I didn’t know.

Another bloody babysitter.

She floated into the apartment, on the shiny dark wood, the blond hue of the many lamps in the room illuminating her teardrop-shaped face, and all I could think about was how fast I was going to get rid of her arse. She looked…fine . Not my taste. Jenna went for the ones who weren’t quite so pretty as to make me want to bang them harder than the bottom of a ketchup bottle, but still pretty enough for me to tolerate. This one was significantly smaller than a normal human being. Thumbelina-tiny, with olive skin, flat chest, and pointy little nose. Long icy-blue hair—if I wanted a hipster, I’d pluck one from the thousands of screaming fans trying to smuggle their way backstage—and I wasn’t entirely sure what she was wearing, but I found it senseless to believe she actually paid for it. A vintage orange dress with flared cuffs and floral embroidery barely covered her knobby knees. Why the fuck did I know what any of these terms meant, you might wonder? Because my soulless arse did Armani and Balmain campaigns to support a cocaine habit that made Charlie Sheen look like a Boy Scout.