The past ten years blurred together like a training montage from a Rocky movie. Now I carried a heaviness with me all the time. I didn't know what to do about it besides keep moving forward like I'd always done. I couldn't tell one day from the next, and it was fucking with my perception of reality. I didn't know what day of the week it was, but I guess it didn't matter as long as I got up on that stage and performed. My only escape came in a bottle and burned on the way down.
Walking the tightrope between a comfortable buzz and blackout drunk was a challenge I took on with enthusiasm, one that gave me a twisted sense of purpose. Finding myself nestled between a pair of long, silky legs helped distract me from the nothingness that settled inside my chest, even if it was only temporary.
The nameless stream of conquests didn't matter. The women who had the privilege of spending the night with me used me just as much as I used them. They got bragging rights because they spent the night with the Zen Taylor. I handed out orgasms like I was Oprah motherfucking Winfrey. Why should I feel bad about it? My personal assistant had standing orders to round up the hottest groupies he could find and deposit them wherever the band would be. The chase didn't exist for me.
The last notes faded into the applause, and the lights went dark. I handed my mic off to one of the roadies and moved to the side of the stage before the audience lights came back up. Sweat poured down my face, burning my eyes. I grabbed a towel and swiped it down my face as I made my way back to the dressing room. The cheers behind me were quickly replaced by the low murmur of shouted conversations and clothes rustling as people made their way out of the arena.
My mind shifted to the afterparty, the same party we had to endure every night. After high school, I thought the parties would change, and they had. The women got more plastic and aggressive, the drugs and liquor got harder and more expensive. And yet it still felt like the same damn thing every fucking night.
Tonight the party would take over my house in Malibu, just like it always did when we played in LA. It was a tradition for Shadow Phoenix to play our last tour stop in LA so we could finally go home after it was over. We all had our vices, and tonight would be filled with indulgence and distraction like always. Patrón would flow freely. Smooth, tan skin would be plentiful and on display, ready for whatever my soon-to-be drunk ass could imagine for the night. Maybe I'd take two women to my bed tonight. It wouldn't be the first time and probably not the last either. Maybe Maddox would want to join in.
Swinging my front door open, I tilted my chin up at Jericho. He lifted his beer in greeting, the Xbox controller already in his hand, and his headphones over his ears. He wasn't into the whole party scene anymore, but he always came anyway. Women threw themselves at him, but he didn't give a shit about them. Soon a joint would be hanging out of his mouth, and he'd play until he passed out.
Despite how tired the parties had become, I wasn't sure what else to do. I accepted a shot glass from True, who looked as worn down as I felt now that the tour was over. We clinked glasses and tossed them back, not bothering to exchange words. I scanned the room, finding Maddox on the couch with a blonde girl in his lap, his hand already up her skirt. These guys were my brothers, and we'd seen each other in every compromising position you could imagine over the last twelve years. Maddox and me, we'd shared more women than I could count over the years.
The four of us were feeling the effects of living on the surface, though. At one point, the music had been enough to fulfill us, but that wasn't cutting it anymore. The adrenaline rush of putting on a concert to a sold-out stadium of people screaming your name kept us buzzing until the first rays of sunlight signaled the morning so we might as well try to enjoy it even if I was drowning in the pointlessness of it all.
The pounding in my skull started before I was even fully awake. The floor-to-ceiling windows in my bedroom suddenly seemed like the worst idea ever. I raised my arm, lifting my middle finger toward the window as if that would somehow help the intense throbbing in my head. It wasn't my finest moment. I wondered who the fuck left the curtains open and then realized I was home. Cracking one eye open, I groaned and slammed it shut again. Hangovers fucking sucked.
The California drought had nothing on my mouth. I blindly reached for my nightstand, feeling for the lukewarm glass of water I sort of remembered setting there last night. I tried to remember what the fuck happened last night, but I only got a couple of images flashing through my mind.
Shot glasses filled with Patron.
Swaying bodies surrounding me.
A woman in a tight red dress.
It must've been a good time. I couldn't find the will to care either way.
I finally found the glass and lifted my head just enough to pour the stale water down my throat. When I was done, I tried again to force my eyes open, but prying my eyelids up was almost impossible. Every throb inside my skull brought me one step closer to praying to the porcelain god. My stomach lurched precariously as the water I just drank sloshed around.
I rolled over, trying to escape the asshole sun that wouldn't go the fuck away. The weight and warmth of a body part that wasn't mine made me freeze. Squinting, I slowly moved my gaze down and sucked in a breath as I saw the red pointed nails that led to golden brown skin that was slung across my waist. My head dropped back to the pillow, and I studied the ceiling while considering how the fuck to get out of this bed without waking up the woman curled up against my body.
Goddamnit. A cold sweat broke out across my brow as nausea rolled through my body again. I couldn't deal with this right now.
Tossing the blankets off, I shifted slowly away from the arm until I freed myself. I stood up and swayed, the stabbing pain inside my skull making me dizzy and threatening to take me to my knees.
Why the fuck did I keep doing this to myself? I woke up this way more mornings than not, and I hated it every time.
I grabbed my phone off the nightstand, tapping out a message before unsteadily making my way to the bathroom. My staff would take care of last night's leftovers while I showered.
Finding a woman in my bed in the morning happened more often than I liked, and I liked it somewhere around never. To me, the types of women who came to our parties trying to hook up played a role. They distracted me with a night of mediocre fucking until I passed out. Rinse and repeat. Meaningless sex with random women left me with red scratches down my back, bite marks on my body, and a reputation for being as much of a god in bed as I was on stage, so it wasn't all bad.
I still had no interest in making it anything more than it was.
After the shower, I hesitated just inside the bathroom door, a towel wrapped securely around my waist, catching the droplets of water running down my chest. I peeked out around the door frame just enough to check the bed. I let out the huge breath I'd been holding when I took in the rumpled sheets but empty bed. For some reason, the girls who stuck around always left me on edge. I couldn't take a deep breath until they left.
My housekeeper, Anita, would clean up the mess because it was her job. I hired people to clean up my messes, and no one complained. I understood why so many celebrities acted out. When no one told me no, and I never faced any consequences, I started to wonder how much I could get away with, how far I could push. It became almost a game.
I threw on some clothes and shuffled into the kitchen, pulling the fridge open and searching for breakfast. I pulled a container out and shoved it into the microwave. I absently pressed a series of random buttons without really paying attention. My head still throbbed with every heartbeat, so I pulled out a beer and twisted the top off, drinking half of it while waiting for the telltale microwave beep.
I picked my phone up off the counter and unlocked it, scrolling through my texts. While my eyes scanned the screen, the phone began to vibrate. Harrison. There were only a couple of people who bothered to call me anymore, and when they did, it was never for a good reason. My publicist was one of those people.
I swiped, lifting the device to
my ear. "Hey, Harry. What's going on?"
"How many times do I have to tell you not to call me Harry?"
I pulled the phone away from my ear, wincing. "Goddamnit, Harry. Some of us are trying to die of our hangovers in peace. You don't need to scream. Besides, you know I do it to piss you off, right?"
Harrison sighed. "Mate, you've already pissed me off. Now you're just making me want to punch you right in your pretty-boy face."
I stood up a little straighter. "I woke up half an hour ago. What could I possibly have done to piss you off at this hour? And I'm not a pretty boy. I'm the bad boy. Tattoos, remember?" I inspected the ink running down both of my arms.
"Maddox is the bad boy. Anyway, get to my office." Harrison said. "Now." It sounded as if he was clenching his jaw.
"I'm kind of busy to-"
"I don't care if you're scheduled to meet with the bloody Queen of England herself. It wasn't a request. You're either here, or you find yourself a new publicist."
I winced as he hung up, gripping the counter so tight my knuckles turned white. Harrison had never once threatened to quit working with me no matter what I'd thrown his way over the past five years.
I pushed off from the counter, the microwave forgotten as I slipped my phone into my pocket and grabbed my keys. I wasn't ready to deal with whatever shitstorm Harrison was about to rain down on me, but I didn't have a choice. This was the life I'd always wanted after all.
Continue Finding Zen Now
Also by Heather Ashley
The Shadow Phoenix Series
Finding Zen
Loving True
Saving Maddox
Playing Jericho
(Coming October 2020)
Shadow Phoenix: A Rock Star Romance Prequel Page 11
