Midnight Blue

We rolled forward.

A soft knock on the door made me snap out of my reverie. I frowned, turning off the sewing machine positioned by the drawn curtains. I stood up, knowing it couldn’t be Alex. He was never lenient, always rough and dirty, and maybe that was why my heart throbbed fiercely every time I did as much as hear something drop in the other room. I opened the door, staring back at Lucas.

“Hey, sleepyhead. Where have you been?” Lucas flashed me a tentative smile.

I took a step sideways, leaving it for him to decide whether he wanted to come in. I didn’t give a damn about Alex warning us both off, but I wasn’t sure where Lucas stood on our boss’ threat. He’d probably come here to grab his laptop, anyway. I turned around to seize it from the desk, but Lucas snagged my wrist.

“Can you tell me one thing?”

I looked up at him. His face was angelic, even while tense. Open, fresh. He was Alex’s age, but he didn’t share the same internal hardship, and that somehow made him look so much younger. Alex was wrong. There was no way Lucas could be bad or vindictive. I read faces the way bookworms reread their favorite paragraphs. Religiously. And I knew that whatever Lucas was doing, he had his reasons.

“Maybe,” I answered. “I need to know what it is first.”

He licked his lips. “If—and I’m not asking you to tell me what’s going on between you and Alex because that’s none of my business—at some point he’s too much for you, would you let me know? It probably looks like we hate each other, he and I, but trust me, we go way back.”

I stared at him blankly.

“I’m just worried.”

“For who? Me or him?” I asked.

“Both of you. In different ways. You’re a strong girl. He’s like a black feather. Less resilient than he appears.”

Pause. I stared at my feet. It looked like Lucas didn’t want us together, and I was starting to feel like maybe Alex had a good reason to think his frenemy wanted me.

“Never mind.” Lucas shook his head. “Just let me know if you need me. He thinks I want in your knickers—hell, you probably feel the same way, too—but trust me, I just want to be here for you,” he said.

My eyebrows nearly touched at this. Maybe the tour was forcing me to embrace my inner cynic.

Luc rushed to add, “You’re on the road with a bunch of blokes you’ve never met before, and your boss is giving you crap. Whatever’s going on with your family back in L.A., I’m sure it’s not easy on you.”

“It’s not,” I admitted.

“I’m here to help.” He offered me his hand.

This time I took it, unaware of the chain reaction it would prompt.

Unaware of all the secrets we held between our palms.

I n my defense, Ozzy Osborne snorted ants and Keith Richards snorted his dad , so, in comparison, I wasn’t being that crazy.

Having said that, I had, indeed, been pretty fucking out of my mind when I’d decided to turn around in the middle of a gig, walk over to Lucas’s drum kit, and smash my silver boot right into the bass. It had collapsed right into Lucas’ spread thighs, and he widened his eyes, his arms still mid-air holding the sticks, watching me like this came as a great surprise. It shouldn’t have. Fucker could have seen it from three countries over, and he’d kept pushing and pushing until I had no choice but to shove him out of my life.

But I digress.

It had started half an hour before the show. I’d already been on edge because Blake had locked us both in my dressing room and launched into one of his self-righteous monologues that served to stroke his own ego. It had taken me a few minutes to understand what, exactly, he was yelling and sweating about.

The champagne.

He’d sifted through my shit and found it. Which was quite ironic, because the past few days were the first in a very long time where I hadn’t wanted to drown my sorrow in alcohol.

“When I find the cunt who keeps sending them to you, I’ll kill them. But in the meantime—why play into their hands? Why, Alex? You have so much going for you. You have everything going for you. You’re rich and young and talented and adored. You’re a religion, for fuck’s sake. You’re writing what might be your best album yet. All you have to do is not fuck it up. Is it really that hard?”

Was he kidding? Of course it was that hard. Did he think the entire zip code of Hollywood wanted to be addicted to painkillers, alcohol, cocaine, and plastic surgery? Did he reckon I was just so bored with my perfect, wholesome life? Finding happiness as an intelligent person was like finding a real-life unicorn. Blake was pacing the room and throwing his arms in the air, exasperated.

“I’m trying. I really am. Trying to make you and Jenna happy, even though you both give me very different instructions on how to make it happen. I’m trying to respect your wishes not wanting to take Hudson along because you hate big entourages and still make sure that you’re sober. But it’s so difficult. You’re so difficult, Alex. Most of the time, I think the only reason you’re sober is because we’re watching over you all day.”

“It is,” I said from my place on the couch, lighting up a fag. Now that Blake was riding my arse about it, of course I needed a fucking drink. Oh, Irony, you and your twisted sense of humor.

Blake stopped in front of me, hands on his waist, eyes to the ceiling. “It’s not good enough. You need to make more of an effort to change. That means taking better care of yourself. Eating better. Actively trying to get over your addiction. And, yes, talking to your parents. You’ll have to see them soon, so I’m not sure why you keep postponing that conversation.”

He was right. My entire staff—all fifty roadies or so plus my band and my manager/babysitter—were sober because of me, and I hadn’t even made the smallest effort by throwing the champagne in the trash. I’d kept it because I was still an addict. I still thought about alcohol and cocaine every single fucking day. I missed it. I didn’t resent it. I was like a rich, spoiled sonovobitch who got caught doing something bad and had his parents buy his way out. Just because I was physically clean didn’t mean I’d learned my lesson. My only drawback from drinking the champagne was: A) I was never alone, and B) I was momentarily occupied with getting into my hanny’s knickers and was so close to my goal, cocking it up was out of the question.