“A little.” She laughs in return, flicking her hair slightly as her eyes drift down the length of me. My smile broadens, I know I’ve got her.
“The truth is, I had my heart broken that day, and the best way for me to deal with that pain is through my music,” I tell her, a sombre expression placed upon my face. Like I said, I’ve done this before. It’s all just an act now.
“I completely understand,” she sympathises, nodding her head as she makes eye contact with me.
“Listen. This is actually hard for me to talk about, do you mind if we move onto something else?”
“Of course. Tell me all about your tour. How many shows and how long will you be travelling?” she asks, her eyes filled with sympathy for my broken heart.
* * *
“Oh god! Don’t stop! Don’t stop!” she yells as I pound into her, slamming myself inside her, harder and harder as her body thumps up against the dressing room mirror.
I used to think it was easy getting girls into bed before but add the word ‘heartbroken’ to ‘musician’ and you’ve struck gold. Panties fall to the ground as they all line up to be that one that turns my head and teaches me to love again.
But no matter what they do, or how kinky they get, I won’t be that dumb again. Falling in love was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Fucked if I’m ever falling for that shit again. There’s a huge line of girls around the globe, begging to share my bed. I’ll never be lonely again.
I’m a rock star now. I don’t need love.
One
one year later…
Marcus
Rock star. For most of my life, it’s all I wanted to be called. To me, it meant making my dreams my reality, that I could click my fingers and anything I wanted would appear in front of me. And I was right. Being obscenely famous is as close to magic as you can get. I’m thirsty. Click. I’m hungry. Click. I’m cold. Click. I’m horny. Click.
All needs are taken care of the moment they arise. I don’t have to think or ask. I just demand and someone runs. It’s a powerful feeling. Hell, during my last tour, I demanded the entire floor of the hotel be allocated to me alone—I worked on my golf swing down the hall while drinking tiny bottles of Grey Goose vodka because that’s all I allowed in the bar fridges.
My rider chops and changes depending on my mood. But one thing that has been the same since my first solo show—no one on my staff can go by the names Theo or Naomi. My brother got the girl, and I got the stardom, I don’t need to be reminded of them when every fucking song I write is born from the pain they put me through.
I’m a sore loser.
I’m an arrogant winner.
For the past two years, I’ve travelled the world, singing to audiences in every country imaginable. I’ve fucked more girls than I can possibly count. Done every kinky thing I ever imagined—and a whole bunch of other shit I didn’t even know existed. Every step of the way, I smirked and thought, Fuck you, Theo. You don’t control me. You don’t get a say in how I live my life. I’m bigger and better, brother, than you will ever be. Keep your precious Naomi. I don’t need either of you. But the problem with building a career on hate and pain is it’s hard to sustain. You find new reasons to be angry, new ways to lash out and hurt. The hate slowly eats away at your insides, stripping away your values until there’s only one thing left for you to hate.
I hate myself.
I’m not even OK with looking at myself in the mirror anymore. All I see is this shell of a human being with empty eyes looking back at me. I don’t know if it was the drinking, the drugs, or the sex—or the fact I sold out my own blood to get where I am—that did it to me, but somewhere along the way, I lost who I was. I gave up on myself.
I’m lonely as fuck.
Lonely. I used to have friends. I used to have family. I even thought I was in love once. Now, all I have are hangers on and staff who are paid to nod their heads and make sure I’m happy.
But I’m not. I’m not happy at all.
This all started with that fucking video where I threw a tantrum on stage because I wanted my brother’s girl. I loved her. For me, she’s the first and last woman I’ve had real feelings for. And she didn’t want me. I gave her my heart, and she didn’t love me back. Now my heart is cracked.
Love. I sing about it all the time. But in my entire over the top, gregarious life, I haven’t had the chance to experience the real thing. I’ve never been in a relationship. I’ve never cared enough for a person to put their own needs above my own. I take and I cast aside and sometimes I destroy. All because I can. All because people let me.
My mother cries into the phone whenever I call her.
She’s ashamed of me. I’m this huge star but she’s ashamed of me as a son and a brother.
In the beginning, I refused to call her at all. I mean, who needs that kind of stress bringing them down? These days I call once a week and let her wail at me for thirty minutes. Why? Because there needs to be a time when a man quits pointing his finger at others. Mamma often said that when you point your finger, there are three more pointing directly at you. I thought the analogy was stupid at the time—just another thing parents say to kids—but now I understand it for what it is. Our lives are reflections of our choices. How we handle our hardships depends on our strength of character. Do we tear others down so we can step on them to climb up? Or do we lift ourselves along our own path without damaging others on our journey?
I built my career tearing my brother down. My brother built his after picking himself off the ground, climbing while helping others climb with him. And so my mother cries.
To be honest, I’m sick of seeing my face plastered on screens and billboards. I’m tired of seeing myself on the side of a bus, tired of my face on the covers of magazines, in newspapers and online. I’m sick of myself. I’m sick of my name. I’m sick of hearing it chanted, hearing it moaned, seeing it in print. I’m even sick of my own voice, my own bullshit.
I need a break.
I need to be a regular person again.
Both are impossible now. I can’t be regular when I’ve become one of the most recognisable faces on the planet. If I don’t hide my face, I get mobbed walking down the street for fuck's sake. And I can't take a break because I’m locked into a five record deal. Between writing and recording, I'm promoting and touring. It never ends.
Although, a man can dream. I’m home in Sydney for a brief stint while we hit the recording studio to wrap up my third album. It almost feels like a holiday after months of non-stop travel. I can sleep in my own bed, shit in my own toilet, zone out in front of my own TV. I'll even get the chance to visit Mamma and Pappy. My mother can cry at me in person while my father lectures me about respect and blood bonds. He'll tell me I have to apologise to Theo then I'll make some excuse and head back to my place, enjoying how it feels to drive myself along familiar streets. If I have time, I can swing past Theo’s and park across the street, watching the lights turn on and off as they move around the house—Theo’s always been a stickler for conserving energy. Maybe I'll catch the old band at rehearsal and get the chance to listen to them play. Or maybe I'll drive straight home, telling myself they're all better off without me. They probably are. But am I better off without them?
Funny how life works out. But that’s another thing Mamma always said; be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.
I wanted to be a rock star. Now that I'm a rock star, I want to be the guy in the garage band. Not that I’ll ever apologise for my actions or admit that I miss my old life. No way, I’d rather die first.
A buzz filters through the audience as they murmur to each other while I take a seat on the stool in the centre of the stage. A stage hand brings me my guitar, and I slide the strap over my head while he adjusts the height of the microphones.
"Thanks," I say as he finishes up. Then I run my thumb over the strings on my acoustic and clear my throat. The audience goes quiet. "Good evening. This is the first time I've done one of these
intimate unplugged shows. No band. No backing vocals. I’m kind of nervous." I let out a short laugh as I adjust on my stool. The audience laughs with me. It’s filled with invite-only guests curated by my label. There are industry people, fans who’ve won competitions, and anyone else lucky enough to get their hands on a ticket. Maybe fifty in total. The atmosphere is… reverent. Which is a little disconcerting. I’m used to the screaming when I walk on stage. This quiet… it's surreal.
For the first time in two years, I'm sweating.
“This one’s called, He’ll Never Be Me.”
The room claps as I play the intro, and a female voice yells over them all. “Whoo, Marcus.” I find the familiar set of eyes immediately, grinning when she hoots and sets off the room. Some things never change. They clap and yell as much as a room of fifty can manage, and I play the intro twice over to accommodate. “That’s more like it. Thank you, Amy.”
She salutes me from across the room. I’m surprised she’s here. Amy ran the Instagram fan account when I was a member of Matiari. She and her friend, Erica went on to create their own social media marketing company off the back of that. But they made it known they wouldn’t affiliate with me after my onstage stunt almost ruined the band. Amy left me a long expletive voicemail about her thoughts on my behaviour, and I haven’t heard from her since. Still, I’m happy to see her here now. I could use a friendly face. Failing that, I could use an honest one, and Amy has never been one to mince words.
“I wrote this song during an angry moment in my life. It’s about losing out on the chance at love and watching that person move on with someone you feel is wrong for them.”
When you come
I’m sure it’s my face you see
You don’t belong with him
You know you belong with me
While he is dark
I am your light
He’ll never be me
He’ll never be me
I’ve sung it so many times it’s lost some of the meaning it originally had. I wrote it to be spiteful because I always thought I was better than my brother. I couldn’t fathom why Naomi would choose him when she had the option of me. And when I learned of their engagement, I set pen to paper, and this is the first song that came out of that rage. I couldn’t stand the rejection. And I hated them for being happy.
When you kiss
I’m sure it’s my lips you feel
You don’t belong with him
What we had was real
They say that success is the greatest form of revenge. I’ve had plenty of it. Far more than they ever could. Normally when I sing this song, it’s like this huge middle finger sticking up at them. But lately when I sing it, I feel hollow. I’m tired of being angry. But I don’t know how to stop. It’s all I have left.
Let me be your lover
Let our hearts beat as one
You can’t possibly feel alive
With the sorry beating of his drum
Leave him.
Be with me.
He’ll never be me.
He’ll never be me.
As I finish the song, I place my hand over the strings on my guitar to silence it. The room erupts in applause and a few wolf whistles. I nod and thank everyone for coming. Out of habit, my eyes scan the crowd, looking for a face that captivates me.
A pit forms in my stomach when my eyes land on Naomi. She’s sitting a few seats away from Amy. How didn’t I see her there before? My chest tightens and my mouth turns dry.
Water. I need water.
Reaching for the bottle set beside me, I busy myself with taking a drink as my mind reels. Who the hell let her in here? I’m sweating. This feels a lot like guilt. I don’t like this at all.
I’m about to signal my manager to tell him to get her out of here, but I stop myself. There are cameras rolling and flashes firing. If I react publicly, the whole thing will be caught on camera. And although my public break up launched my solo career, I’m not interested in the media becoming obsessed with my relationship with my brother and his fiancée again. I don’t want to be angry anymore.
I force myself to look at her. She’s smiling. After everything that’s happened, everything we’ve put each other through, why is she smiling at me? She should hate me. But that isn’t who Naomi is. She’s all about love and happiness, I don’t think she believes in hate. What about Theo? My eyes drift to the surrounding seats, expecting that maybe he’s with her. But she’s with a group of women. My chest thuds. What is that? Is it…disappointment?
Fuck him then.
Tearing my eyes away, I clear my throat and lean into the microphone. “This one is called, Dreams on Fire.” I should be explaining the song, interacting with my audience a little more. It’s why they came—An Intimate Evening with Marcus Bailey. But seeing Naomi has me shook, and I’m lucky I can remember the words to the song. Just make it through the set, Marcus.
When I’m done, I’m going to find out how the hell she got tickets, and then I’m going to fire whoever was responsible. No Naomi’s allowed. It’s on my goddamn rider for fuck's sake. In bold fucking letters. How much clearer do I need to be?
I don’t want to be angry anymore. But anger is all I fucking have left. I can’t let go.
* * *
“Marcus? Great show tonight. You sounded amazing.”
A pang thuds deep in my chest as I turn to face Naomi. “Yeah. Thanks for coming,” I state dismissively, giving her a gentle touch on her shoulder as if she were just another fan and not the woman responsible for stomping on my heart. Her expression falls as I move past her, expecting more with a history like ours. But she doesn’t get more. She made her choice. This is me living with it.
“That’s all you’re going to say to her?” Amy asks, blocking my path. All I want to do is say my obligatory hellos, thank the right people then go bury my cock in some random.
“How are you, Amy?” I enquire, giving her my most charming smile. “Where’s Erica?”
“She doesn’t like you. So she’s not here.”
“Fair enough.” Can’t please everyone. “Are you going to introduce me to your friends?” I plaster a fake smile on my face and shift my eyes to the group of women with Amy and Naomi. One I recognise from school. But the other two I haven’t met before.
“Sure.” She turns and touches the redhead on the shoulder. “You should remember Stephanie from school.”
I nod once “I do. How are you Stephanie?”
She grins. “Your voice is amazing,” she gushes, causing me to smile. Hoes over bros except when that bro is a rock star. Interesting.
Amy jabs her in the side with her elbow.
“What?” Stephanie frowns like she has no idea what she did wrong.
“This is Paige and Katrina,” Amy continues, indicating a voluptuous brunette and an exceptionally tall blonde. “They’re both married to beautiful men, so keep your sleazy eyes off them.”
“Nice to meet you both.” The blonde—I think she’s Katrina—smiles politely while the brunette—Paige—stands quietly off to the side. “Did you enjoy the show?”
“We did. Thank you,” Katrina says. Paige shrugs and says ‘yeah’ like it wasn’t anything special. I like her already. I’m so used to people gushing about their excitement. A little indifference is actually refreshing.
“Well, be sure to stay and enjoy the party,” I say, moving past them once again. I don’t even take a second glance at Naomi, but I hear her hiss at Stephanie to ‘leave it’ as I’m pulled into a conversation with a couple who won tickets on the radio. They’re raving about the show.
“You are by far my favourite artist,” the woman says. “To hear your songs live and unplugged was so special.”
“Thanks for coming. Enjoy the party.”
I’ve done this a thousand times before, smiling for photos, offering platitudes. It’s part of the job. But tonight, my mind can’t focus on what anyone is saying because my ears keep searching out the sound of Naomi’s voice. Betr
ayers.
“He doesn’t want to talk to me. Let’s just go.”
Yes, Naomi. How about you just go? I tip my head back and down the glass of scotch that somehow ended up in my hand. Being who I am, it’s replaced instantly.
“Thanks for coming,” I say to the next person, the flash of a camera phone spotting my eye. “Enjoy the party.” I down my second scotch, scanning the room for a target. I need to get out of here.
“Marcus.” Naomi’s voice calls from behind me.
I keep moving, and a busty brunette in a barely-there top and skin-tight jeans thrusts herself in my path. Ah-ha. Escape.
“I loved the show,” she coos, twisting her fingers around the end of her long ponytail. Word got out a while back that I’m into pulling hair and love a good ponytail, so this happens all the time now. I don’t even carry a hair-band anymore.
“Wanna get out of here?” I ask, not bothering to pull any punches. I’m pretty sure I could just say ‘wanna suck my cock?’ and she’d follow me wherever I want her to. There’s no chase anymore. Pussy is way too easy. But I appreciate it more than ever in this moment. Naomi has never approached me once a groupie was on my arm. They’re like insect repellent but for tiny blondes who prefer my brother over me.
“Where are we going?” the girl asks, gasping for breath as I pull her towards the exit.
“My hotel,” I say, and she squeals. Jesus.
She follows me into the backseat of my waiting car, and without even bothering to give me her name, she’s unzipping my pants and preparing to wrap her shiny red lips around my shaft.
“I have dreamed about this moment, but I never thought—”
“Believe it,” I say, cutting her off while my fingers spear into her hair. Less talking. More sucking.
The compartment between us and the driver slides up to block his view, and I drop my head on the back of the seat and try to let the sweet warmth of her mouth overcome me. Although it’s hard when the only image my mind wants to focus on is the hurt look on Naomi’s face.
Beautiful Boxset: Beautiful Series, books 1-4 Page 122
