by L.J. Shen
I opened my mouth, knowing the truth would come out, but afraid of hearing it.
“I always knew my life would have this big, colossal catastrophe. Even before it actually happened. It was like I was waiting for it, in a way. For something to define me. I spent my youth sitting in my room sewing clothes, content with being a weirdo, as you so diplomatically put it. My brother, Craig, was just the opposite. Hotshot football player with the cheerleader on his arm.”
“And did it?” Alex asked, his army boot caressing the inside of my ankle, riding up my calf. The worst part was that I let him do it. Yesterday, I wouldn’t have. And tomorrow, I would swat him away. But today, I was fragile enough for him to make me feel good, even if it was a bad decision. “Define you, I mean.”
“No. It didn’t. I have this chip on my shoulder I carry with me everywhere I go. Of the girl who’s been robbed of her parents. But I still smile, and laugh, and spend time with my nephew and friends. My tragedy is like an ugly scar that’s hidden from the world. Only I can see it.”
“Mine’s the opposite.” He smirked, fingering the strings of his guitar absentmindedly. “My tragedy is an open wound every fucker in the universe can poke and look into. My fiancée left me for my ex-best friend publicly, after it was revealed in the tabloids that she’d been fucking him while we were still together while I was on tour. I’m an addict, a knobhead, and a bitter arsehole who can’t even sit still when his enemy receives a Grammy. Everyone can—and does—see my scars. No exceptions. My soul is empty, because I whored it out. I signed fat contracts with huge labels to get big money. For the last six years, they’ve dictated my every move. And whatever they didn’t suck out of me, the crowd did. Because every night you go on that stage, Indie, you give your fans your everything. Every. Fucking. Thing. Then you wake up the next day and do it all over again.”
I was so surprised at his admission, the fact I uttered anything at all was nothing short of a miracle. “Is that why you act this way?” Not that it gave him an excuse, but the need to understand him better burned me from the inside.
Alex rolled his head against the wall. “Enough with the philosophical bullshit. So. This is not inspiring at all. Tell me about your sex life.”
I gave him a look, my walls stacking up again, brick by brick. “No.”
“That ’cause you don’t have any? Because that could be rectified.”
“It’s because it’s none of your business, and while we’re on the subject, I’d appreciate it if you stopped hitting on me.”
He put his guitar down, snatched a cigarette from his open pack by his feet, a notepad, and a blue Sharpie and started writing. Blue Sharpie. Just like in the article. Alex was a creature of habit. I wondered what it was about the color.
There was something incredibly sexy about seeing him, an unlit cigarette hanging between his straight teeth, making art in front of me. I had no idea what he was writing, and I doubted he’d let me know if I asked. But the idea that I might hear it on the radio someday made me shiver.
“If you want me to believe you about not wanting me to fuck you raw, you should probably stop looking at me like that. Like you’re already mine,” he said, his eyes still focused on his notepad. I looked away, my face growing ruddy and hot.
“You’re crass.”
“And you’re full of bullshit.” He looked up, catching my gaze. “You really like Waitrose? Really, really like him? I don’t believe that. Not for one second. Know what the difference is between you and me, Stardust? You watch me, but I see you. And what I see is your truth. You wear your heart on your sleeve, and it bleeds into the real world, which means you’re a remarkably terrible liar. You look at Waitrose fondly. Like you would at a stranger’s baby down the street. You look at me with dynamite in your eyes, waiting for me to light up the match and finally set you on fire.”
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.
The. Only. Girl. On. The. Tour.
If anyone was going to fuck this girl, it’d be me, not my backstabbing drummer and frenemy.
Rising up from my open suitcase, where the champagne had been placed carefully on the side, covered by clothes, I walked across the darkened room—the wrought iron chandelier looming from the ceiling like a devious monster. The wallpaper was black, with Japanese letters smeared in red. I stopped by the kitchen island, flipping over my notebook with the notes from last night.
Progress.
My soul didn’t feel quite as empty when I strode over to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Tokyo.
Clean. Busy. Sophisticated. Tokyo was built high, wide, and in long strokes, like she’d been painted by a confident artist. I’d been here once before and had made some pretty sweet memories in the form of a foursome and a dirty underwear vending machine I’d emptied.
When my phone rang, I didn’t immediately move. The only people I spoke with were already on the tour, as pathetically tragic as it may sound, and Jenna and the rest of my management usually liaised directly with Blake, because he was less likely to be a volatile tosser. I withdrew my mobile from my back pocket, frowning.
Mum.
Not today, Mother Dearest.
I let the call die, watching as the screen lit up again with another call as if on cue.
She hadn’t called when I broke up with Fallon.
Or when I’d been thrown into rehab the first time.
The second time, she hadn’t even answered said phone when I’d been desperate enough to want to talk to anyone, her useless arse included.
In fact, the only time she had picked up the phone to talk to me was after the Grammys’ incident, to tell me I had circles around my eyes and that blue is not my color.
This meant she either needed to break some bad news or ask for more money to nourish her plastic surgery/gambling habits. Unfortunately for her, I was working on not letting people screw me over. Since Mum was about as constructive in my life as fucking leukemia, I chose to cut her out.
Blake walked through the door, talking to Jenna on the phone. “Jenna. Jenna. Jenn-a,” the last one was peppered with exhaustion. “I’ve got it all under control, trust me. And if, by any chance, I need to leave him for a few hours, Indie will take over. Girl watches him like a hawk.”
I flicked my cigarette into the trash, the amber tip still burning. The scent of something unnatural melting—plastic or polyester—spread around the room and I plopped down on the low, black couch and stared at the ceiling.
“What’s up?” Blake asked, boomeranging his mobile across the black marble island.
I stole a bottle of champagne, and I’m probably going to drink it in one gulp next time you take a shit.
“I wrote a song.” Much better.
“Is it any good?”
Blinking slowly, I tried ungluing my teeth from my tongue. “Think I would’ve told you if it was shite? Of course it’s good.” Though, really, who the hell knew? Art is like love. It’s too subjective for you to see it clearly.
“Wanna play it for me?” Blake collapsed on the loveseat across from me.
As if on cue, Alfie and Lucas walked in the main door, waltzing toward the sofa I occupied and taking their seats. The new track was ten minutes long. Way longer than the average song, but for the first time in ages, I believed in something I’d done. It felt good.
“Yeah, play it for us, Winslow. Serenade us like you mean it.” Alfie batted his eyelashes, clutching the fabric of his shirt over his heart.
Lucas looked tense and didn’t say a thing, which was probably good, considering how our last conversation had ended. I smirked.
“I still need to polish a few things, but I’ll give you the notes soon.”
“Notes for what?” Alfie shoved his bacteria-infested hand into a bowl of chocolate-coated strawberries in the middle of the coffee table. No way was I touching those strawberries, or that table, or anything else in the fucking suite now. I wasn’t much of a germophobe, but the bloke was made of fifty percent flesh and blood and fifty percent jizz.
“My new song.”
“You wrote a song?”
“I wrote a song.”
“Let me guess,” Lucas said. “Indie helped?”
I paused for one second before deciding I was above acknowledging his existence.
“I told Lucas I saw you guys hugging down the hall yesterday,” Alfie volunteered, his mouth full, red juice dripping all over his chin. “Just, you know, to spice things up.”
“Wanker,” Blake muttered, shaking his head.
Lucas continued to stare at me like I’d killed his fucking kitten. The fact he had feelings for Stardust was bizarre to me. They’d known each other for less than a week. Where had he acquired all those feelings? His newly found vagina?
“She was there when I wrote the song,” I said noncommittally, refusing to make her a bigger deal than she was.
Lucas’ jaw was tight and square. “The moment we saw her at the Chateau, you knew I had my eye on her.”
“Yeah, well, maybe that inspired me to have my eyes on her, too.” I shrugged, turning on the TV and flipping channels.
Waitrose closed his eyes and fell back on the sofa, releasing a sigh.
“It’s not a good idea, Alex. Even if it wasn’t for me, you are not in the right headspace to start a relationship. You need to battle your demons first.”
“Relationship?” I laughed. �
�Who the fuck wants a relationship?”
The end game—Will Bushell—was waiting for me around the corner, in Paris, in just a few weeks’ time. Lucas’ presence reminded me that Fallon was going to be with him, and it was time to reclaim her. Lucas reminded me of a lot of things, but most of all, he reminded me I was a competitive bastard, and every single thing I did, I did to prove one thing—I was still number one.
Best artist.
Best musician.
Best lover.
I got up from my seat, peeling off my wrinkly tank top.
I was a semi-automatic weapon, fully loaded and ready to fire. I was my own downfall, and deep down, I knew it.
Yesterday I lay with you in a bed of glass
We broke together trying to survive your past
Still, in your pain I found magic
The beauty in something so raw and tragic
When life feels banal and ordinary and beat
Run to me, my blue-eyed girl, to the place where pleasure and pain meet
The. Crowd. Went. Nuts.
A veteran artist knows how to recognize a real buzz from miles away.
There’s the usual buzz. The we-like-everything-you-do type of excitement. Then there’s the promotional buzz. The one that smells of glossy brochures and PR women in pencil skirts and brunches at The Ivy to close a nice, fat deal with a top-notch radio station. Then there’s the real buzz. This buzz. It hums in your veins—not unlike morphine—floods your entire body until every hit of oxygen feels like downing a shot. I watched my fans beneath my boots, clawing out of their own skin with elation. They skulked over security, desperate to get to me. Yelling, screaming, begging.
More. More. More.
The flashes blinded me as I finished playing “Secondhand Love,” the song I wrote after I left Stardust standing in the hall. Nine minutes and twenty-three seconds of anger, frustration, and passion.
I could have kissed her.
And another bloke probably would have kissed her.
But where was the fun in that? I liked playing with my food, and that included driving her crazy until she could take no more of it. I wanted to make her cunt ache and drip for it. Because when I finally touched her, the star would turn into dust.
