I like Sam, I do. At times I wish she weren’t my manager because I’d probably date her. She’s confident, feisty and sexy as hell. But she’s a valuable asset and she’s helping me make a name for 4225 West and that’s far more important.
The Vogue after party is in full effect when we arrive. How Sam scored us tickets to this event is beyond me, but I love it. Keeping with the façade, Valerie and I hit the dance floor. There’s an elite league of photographers allowed in so we are afforded some privacy at least.
I spin Valerie around and hold onto her hips while she grinds against me. It’s either flashbulbs or the strobe lights, either way I’m sure our pictures are being taken. This will appease everyone for a while until it’s time for both of us to move on.
I catch sight of Sam sitting at the bar. She’s not working the room trying to score us another deal or tour, she’s staring at me. It was probably a mistake, me flirting with her earlier, but she makes it so easy. She’s like putty in my hands.
Valerie turns in my arms. “I need a drink.”
I nod and place my hand on her waist as I guide her to the bar. She’s of age, I’m not, but I don’t get carded. Hell, I haven’t been carded since I arrived in Los Angeles. This place is a haven for turning a blind eye on underage drinking. I order her a martini and some whiskey for me. It blows my mind how I went from beer to hard liquor so quickly. The hard stuff numbs the pain and takes longer to wear off.
I hand Valerie her drink and notice a photographer getting close so I lean in and act like I’m telling her a secret. The flash goes off and now he’s moving on to his next pay dirt photograph.
Valerie leans into me and almost spills her drink. I rub my hand up and down her back. “Are you okay?”
Her head rests on my chest and barely moves. “I’m not feeling so great, Liam.”
I down the rest of my drink, placing it on the bar. Once I set her glass down I take her hand in mine and walk toward the exit. I’m hoping some fresh air will do her some good.
When we’re outside, I lean her up against the wall, but her head falls forward. “What the hell, Val?”
“I don’t know, but I’m sick, Liam.”
“Do you think someone spiked your drink?” I try to think of who would’ve had access, but the truth is, anyone. The bartender, the guy next to us where we were standing, hell even the waitress brushed up against us. The possibilities are endless.
She barely nods and it makes me want to go in there and punch the shit out of him. I know I have to take her home, but can’t just leave the party.
“I need to go tell Sam we’re leaving, but I’m not leaving you outside by yourself, can you walk back in with me?” Valerie stumbles two steps before falling into my arms. I’m more carrying her than she is walking at this point. As soon as we step inside, Harrison is at the bar, his lips attached to some blond.
“Hey man,” I say loudly enough to get his attention.
He turns and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. I have no idea who the chick is, but he’s digging her, so good for him.
“Val’s sick. I think that douche spiked her drink. I’m taking her home. Can you tell Sam what’s going on?”
“Yeah, no problem.” He slurs his words and turns his attention back to the blond. I eye her up and down and can’t really blame him.
I all but carry Valerie to a waiting limo. The driver hurries to the let us in. “Where to?” he asks. I give him directions to my place. There’s no way I’m letting her go home alone.
We arrive at the hotel where my penthouse is located. Sam found this place for me after my grandma died. It’s perfect for me. I don’t have to cook or do my own laundry and I have all the privacy I need. The security is also top notch.
I slide my keycard in and carry Valerie into the elevator. “I’m going to make you throw up when we get to my apartment. You need to get this shit out of your system.” She just nods. Her arms are limp around my neck. As soon as the door slides open I’m opening my door and rushing her to the bathroom. I set her down, helping her bend over.
“You have to stick your finger down your throat, Val.”
“I know, but leave please.”
“What?” I question.
“Leave me. I don’t want you to see me puke.”
It takes a moment for me to realize what she’s talking about, but when I do, I bolt out of the bathroom and turn on the stereo so I don’t have to hear her either. I don’t count the minutes while she’s in there, I just pace. Who the fuck spikes people’s drinks? Hollywood is a mecca for sex. Hell all you have to do is ask.
The bathroom door opens and I can already tell she’s better. There’s color in her cheeks and her eyes seem more focused.
“Better?”
“So much. Thank you for bringing me here.”
“I care about you, Valerie. You may be my pretend girlfriend, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care.”
Valerie walks toward me and places her hands on the lapels of my tuxedo. She rises up on her toes and her lips brush lightly across mine. I wish I felt a jolt or a yearning, but I don’t.
“You’re going to make a damn good husband someday, Liam Page.” With that she walks away and out my door. I don’t know how long I stand there, staring at the spot where she was, but it must be long enough for my legs to stiffen. Her words reverberate through me and thoughts of home filter through my mind.
I’m going home in a… I head for my wet bar and grab the bottle of Jack, forgoing a glass. I kick my chair over to the floor to ceiling window and sit my ass down. The liquid burns as it coats my throat, but I welcome it. I finish the half empty bottle and throw it against the wall. The sound of it shattering against my wall does nothing to curb the foul mood I’m now in.
I told myself I’d have a year in California and then I’d go home. I would get her back or I’d make her tell me how much she hates me. I dig around for my phone, pulling it out of my inside pocket. I scroll through my saved voicemails and press play. The screaming and crying, the hurtful words, the hate and venom from her telling me how much she hates me cut like a knife. If I go back now, it will be worse.
“Liam,” the voice is soft, soothing. I lean my head back over my chair to find Sam standing behind me. I sit back up and look at the lights of Hollywood twirling through the night sky. “You okay?” she asks as she surveys the broken glass on the floor.
“Fine.”
“Where’s Valerie?”
“Home, I guess. Someone drugged her, I think. Who does something like that?”
“Desperate people do desperate things sometimes.” She kneels before me, her hands spread out on my thighs.
“What’re you doing, Sam?” my voice breaks.
“I just want a chance, Liam. I know I’m your manager and if you want I can hand some of my duties over to my dad, but we deserve a chance to see where this can go. I know you feel it.”
“I’m fucking twenty and you want me to commit?”
She shakes her head as her fingers deftly undo my belt and slide down my zipper. I close my eyes when her hand reaches into my boxers. I should tell her no, but I can’t. I won’t. “I just want to try.”
“Fine,” I say gruffly. I’m giving in and I know it, but the resistance isn’t worth it. I’m attracted to her and I have been for a year now. There’s that word again. Year. I stand abruptly, pulling her up by her arms.
“Turn around, lift your dress and bend over. I want all of Hollywood to watch us.” She does as I say, painstakingly slowly. She turns her head, eying me over her shoulder. Her plump ass is bared for my taking. I slap her once and slide her thong over. She’s glistening, ready.
I thrust into her with wild abandon. She screams out, but doesn’t stop watching me. I pull out and plunge deeper into the darkness that is threatening to swallow me. I rip her dress away from her body and lean forward, pinching her nipple. Her cries encourage me. Spur me to take complete control of her body.
I fall back into th
e chair, still buried deep in her. Sam knows what to do as she rides me into oblivion. I close my eyes and imagine she’s someone else. Sam has become her behind my closed lids and for the first time in years I’m letting myself go.
The sunlight filters through my window, waking me slowly. I roll over onto my side and immediately regret moving so suddenly. Last night’s activities play like a black and white movie in slow motion. I’m the star, of course, but so is a blond haired, brown eyed woman that I don’t want starring in my life.
I scrub my hands over my face and groan. I don’t need to see her to know she’s in the other room watching TV. I can picture her clearly. She’ll be in my t-shirt, her feet tucked underneath her legs. There will be a bowl of fresh fruit on the table, but she’s only picking at it. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun and she’s wearing her librarian glasses. Papers are spread out all over the table and a pen dangles dangerously close to her mouth.
I’ve seen this image so many times before when we were on tour. She doesn’t feel the need to hide herself and I can’t really blame her, she’s beautiful. Harrison and Way didn’t seem to care, but I did for a time and it looks like last night I started caring again. I think I have two options: I can get up, head right to the shower then rush out the door to the studio or to Harrison’s or I can get up and walk out there like nothing has changed, except everything has. I can tell my heart over and over again not to feel anything, but the sad fact is, it does. Sam gets me. She understands the industry. She knows about this life. As much as I’ve been resisting her, my body responds to her with admiration. I’ll just never accept that I love her, I can’t.
I sit up and swing my legs over the edge of my bed. My sheet barely keeps me covered. I look on the floor for something to wear, knowing I left sweats there last night before I left for the red carpet and find nothing. Of course when I need Linda, my housekeeper, to not be so efficient she is.
The closet it is, which ends up being option three. I find a clean pair of sweats and put them on, leaving them loose at my waist. I give my body a once over, barely looking at the tattoo on my chest. That one pains me the most. Each day that I live, I feel the needle tearing my skin so I can bleed ink.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath before I pad out to the living room. Sam is exactly as I thought she’d be. It’s Sunday and she’s working, trying to make her clients the most money. For all of Sam’s faults, and believe me there are many, she’s an excellent manager.
I don’t know what protocol here is. I could lean over the couch and surprise her from behind by kissing her on the cheek or I can go about my morning as if she’s not here. I know if I kissed her – if I made the first move – she’d be happy. A happy Sam, means a less stressed out Liam. But it also means I’m doing something I’m not sure I’m ready for. I don’t want a girlfriend. Valerie reminded me of that last night when she said I’d make a good husband someday. I won’t because I’ll never ask anyone to marry me. I don’t even want kids. At one point in my life I did. I could see myself standing in my front yard with a white picket fence, a wife and child. But not anymore, I destroyed that part of my life and I’m in no way eager to even start reconstructing it.
I’m too young to be tied down. I want to have fun. I want to live and wake up one morning and decide to take a drive and not have to report to anyone. I don’t want to worry about what’s for dinner or if I’m going to be home by a certain time. Relationships do that to people and that’s why I’ve taken the route I have this past year. No strings, no feelings. Two adults enjoying each other’s company without the touchy-feely shit getting in the way.
I don’t know what to do, so I sit down next to her. I see her smile even though she’s trying to hide it. I know she wants a relationship with me, but I’m not so sure I can do this with her. I pick up the remote and turn the volume up on the television, waiting for the commercials to stop so I can see what she’s been listening to.
My stomach turns when I see the name of the college that killed my dreams. I’m not talking my football dreams, but the one that took my family away from me.
“What’re we watching?”
“Football,” she says without looking up. Sometimes I wonder if she knows about my past, but I think if she did, she’d say something. I’m shocked that it hasn’t come up in an interview or someone has tried to claim to know me. It’s not like I changed my looks, just my name. Maybe I’m such a disgrace that no one cares.
The announcer says Mason’s name and I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. They show his player profile and his stats. I scan them quickly and match them to what he had in high school. Why I remember those numbers is beyond me. He’s doing okay in college. Not great, but he’s making a name for himself. I block out other noise and focus on what the announcer is saying. He’s married!
“I’ll be damned,” I mutter.
“What’s wrong?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
I turn the volume up a bit more to see if they’re going to say anything else about him, but they move on to their next profile. It must’ve been halftime because they cut to the field and there’s Mason sliding his helmet on and taking the field. A pang of jealousy works its way through my body, stopping at my throat. I know if I start to speak now, nothing will come out.
Mason lines up on his quarterback’s right. The defense is going to blitz, I can see it, but the quarterback doesn’t. He’s not changing the play. The ball is snapped and before he can finish his third step, he’s down. The play is over.
The next play is a hand-off on the left and the quarterback doesn’t see that Mason probably has fifty pounds on the outside linebacker and he could take him. They gain five yards and now it’s third down.
I will the quarterback to give the ball to Mason. I want to see him run again. I want to see him break tackles like he used to in high school.
The quarterback takes center and is shouting something. I wish he were mic’d so I could hear him. Watching this game takes me back and for a moment, I miss it. I miss the excitement and the rush of the crowd. The crowd I have now is nothing like the ones from our games. The camera pans over the fans and I jolt forward to look for her face. The camera moves too fast and I silently pray that they go back over again to show Mason’s wife because surely they’re still best friends.
The focus is back on the field. The ball is hiked and passed off to Mason. He has the pigskin in the crook of his arm and runs like his ass is on fire for a forty-yard gain. Everyone goes wild and I’m looking for that one face again. I just need to see it, even if it’s only for a moment in time. That one moment will tell me everything I need to know.
The announcers come back on to tell us they’re switching games to one that is tied with only seconds left. I want to scream and tell them not to change the channel, but I can’t. I can’t let Sam know that I have a past.
“Are you okay?”
I look at her, her face full of concern. I adjust myself on the couch when I notice that I’m on the edge and barely hanging on. I sit back and relax my posture.
“I’m fine.”
“I didn’t realize you like football. I can get you some tickets to the USC if you want.”
I shake my head adamantly. “No, I don’t like it.”
“Okay, Liam,” she says to appease me. I know she can see through whatever wall I’m putting up. I just hope she doesn’t pressure me into sharing my feelings and shit. That is something I can’t do, not anymore. As far as I’m concerned those are buried deep in my soul and it will be a cold day in hell before I bring them out again.
It’s amazing how quickly one can fall into a routine. When I first started playing at Metro, I’d stay ‘til the early hours of the morning and party it up with Harrison. I’d sleep late the next day, waking in time either to have lunch with my grandma or barely before it was time to return to Metro. On the days I wasn’t performing, I’d be up making breakfast with my grandma. That routine chang
ed when I went on tour. Late nights and sleeping all day became my habit. I’ve kept that pattern for the better part of a year, except for now. Now, I’m up at the ass crack of dawn on a Saturday to go shopping at the Farmer’s Market.
This is Sam’s idea of being domesticated. I hate it. I live in a penthouse above a hotel so I don’t have to do my own laundry or make my dinner if I don’t want to. The last thing I want to do on a Saturday is don a baseball cap, sunglasses and pretend I’m having a blast picking out fruits and vegetables. But I’m here, trying. I told her I would and that’s what I’m doing.
We hold hands as we stroll through the different vendors. Aside from the norm, there’s pottery, flowers, homemade soap and clothes and that’s just to mention a few of the staples you can buy here. I’m not interested in any of it. I want to be home sleeping or lock myself away in my studio writing.
We’re due to cut another album for Moreno Entertainment but I’m having reservations. I feel like I’ve spent most of my life second-guessing everything and my gut is telling me I’m right about this one. This would be our second full-length album and aside from having one song in a major motion picture, we haven’t done shit. Our sales are lackluster and we still aren’t headlining our own tour.
Something has to change and I think it’s the label, but I don’t know how to approach the subject without coming off like a total diva. Harrison agrees with me though. We need something different and if it’s not the label, it’s our sound that has to change. Our first record was gritty, heavy. That’s not Harrison and me. We’re mellow. We prefer to sit on the couch and jam. The screaming shit isn’t for me. I knew the record felt wrong, but Mr. Moreno assured us that was what we needed.
Now I want to change and I’m not sure how to go about doing that. Right now I’m not a fan of talking business with Sam and she must know something’s up since I haven’t been in the studio for weeks, but she’s not asking nor demanding new material. I wouldn’t be able to give her anything. My mind is blank. I get a headache just thinking about writing lyrics down.
Liam's Journey Page 22
