by S. M. Shade
“As requested,” Clark replies, exiting the room.
The women giggle and make themselves a drink while Sully regards me again.
“I’ll be in touch about the visit, but now I need to go put out the fires you lit tonight. Do me a favor and stay the fuck here when you aren’t at the studio.” He grins at the two women who are already stripping one another’s clothes off. “And text my assistant whenever you’d like some company.”
Before I can tell him to kiss my ass, the door that Clark failed to close completely swings open. For fuck’s sake, it’s Grand Central Station in here tonight. Kinley walks in, stopping abruptly when she sees the two nearly naked women. They’re now dancing to one of my songs the brunette plays from her phone.
The blonde walks over and runs a hand up my chest, but I ignore her. “Kinley—”
She rushes in and places a bag on the table. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. We didn’t get to eat, so I had them deliver. Please contact the desk if you need anything.”
She’s resumed her customer service voice while talking to me, but I can hear the disappointment hiding under the fake tone.
Sully glares at me, and the brunette joins the blonde, running her hand down my back. Fuck this. She’s better off not being dragged into this anyway. I don’t know what I was thinking. Plastering a predatory smile on my face, I take a step toward her. “Stay and join us. We’re just about to have some fun.”
Her expression flattens, and she shakes her head. Without another word, she flees the room like she’s being chased by wasps.
She’s been stung, there’s no doubt about that.
Better now than later.
The look of satisfaction on Sully’s face makes me want to punch him. “I’ll just get out of your way. Try to stay out of trouble,” he says, closing the door behind him.
“Ooh, you’re all trouble, aren’t you?” the blonde groupie coos. “Did you really throw a guy off a balcony last year?”
“He did!” the brunette exclaims. “I saw the video! The guy landed in the pool though.”
“Out,” I order. They both stare at me like they may have misheard me as I grab several articles of clothing and throw it at them. “Get the fuck out. Both of you.”
“Uh,” the brunette scoffs. “You don’t have to be so rude! We came here for you.”
“You came here to ride a rock star’s dick. It’s not happening. Get the fuck out now.”
Grumbles and name calling go right over my head as they round up their stuff and rush out the door.
Finally, I’m left alone, and I flop onto the couch, rubbing my forehead. The last few hours seem to have lasted a week. My gaze travels to the bag on the table, and I reach over and open it to find two entrees, a bottle of wine, and two pieces of cake.
Happy birthday to me.
Sully is right about one thing. Within days, the tabloids have pictures of me with Kinley circulating with fantastic headlines like:
New Girlfriend or Another Flavor of the Week?
Is Singleton Cheating on his Supermodel Girlfriend?
And the most infuriating.
Has Bad Boy Marcus Settled Down or Just Settled?
People are such dicks. And I’m including myself in that statement because I brought this down on her. Kinley is a sweet, beautiful woman, and now she’s getting insulted by a bunch of judgmental assholes because she isn’t the typical model type the great Marcus Singleton is known to date. Not date; fuck. That’s one reason the papers are going crazy. Marcus took a woman out to dinner? Quick, take a picture. Document this rare occurrence and spend days ruminating over what it might mean while simultaneously tearing the woman to shreds.
Fucking Vultures.
Sully doesn’t seem to think it’s a problem when I call him, but he’s going to straighten this shit out whether he wants to or not. I’m not having Kinley pay the price for my stupidity.
“Have you seen this shit?” I demand, once I get him on the phone.
“I tried to warn you.”
I step out on to my balcony and perch on the edge of the railing. “You need to do something. One paper says she’s pregnant with my kid and is taking bets on whether the baby will be beautiful or look like her. What the fuck, Sully?”
I can hear the rumble of his engine as he starts his car. “It’ll blow over. Just give it another week and no one will even remember.”
“She will. You need to release a statement. Call it a business dinner or something. Give them an explanation that doesn’t put her in my bed. If you don’t, I will.”
“Whoa, okay, calm down. Don’t make any statements. I’ll take care of it. We need to keep up the story of you and Alicia anyway.”
“Today,” I insist.
He heaves a long suffering sigh, then agrees, “Today.” There’s a pause before he adds, “I’ve managed to arrange a visit with your brother. We’re going to bring you in the emergency entrance, then sneak you into a visitation area. If pictures get out, we’ll claim you had a migraine that required treatment.”
“Great. When?”
“The day after tomorrow. So behave yourself and don’t fuck it up.”
The prick hangs up on me, and I resist throwing my phone.
A silent nod is all my driver gets before I climb into my waiting car for another day at the studio. Sully warned me they want more upbeat, happier songs for the next album, but with the mood I’m in now, today’s work is not going to meet that criteria. This mood is conducive to two genres; hard rock or blues. I’m leaning toward hard rock.
We get waved through the studio gate and travel around the massive building. At least inside, the paparazzi can’t get to me. They’re stationed outside the fence, and I’m sure their cameras are clicking away as I sling my guitar over my back, grab my bag, and head inside.
“Good morning, Mr. Singleton,” the security guard working the door says.
“Morning,” I mumble, not bothering to remove my sunglasses. They provide an easy way to hide from the world, and I’m not ready to face any more people today. It’s not an issue since my routine has me by myself most of the time.
A short elevator ride later, I let myself into my workspace for the next few months, locking the door behind me.
I can feel the urge to write pulsing inside of me, the words bouncing around my brain, begging to be poured out on paper, the tune arranging itself to match the emotion I’m trying to convey. It always seems like some kind of supernatural process. Like I’m only letting these ideas escape, not creating them.
I don’t understand it. I only know not to fight it, to go along. Sometimes it turns into a song and sometimes it turns into shit. Shit or song, I never know, but there’s only one way to find out.
I lean my guitar against the couch, grab an iced coffee from the mini-fridge, and settle on the couch with a notebook and pen.
The words burst out faster than I can scribble them down and a tiny bit of frustration sneaks in when I have to stop and pick up the guitar, trying to get the music to match my vision. Back and forth. Write the words. Play the chords.
Bring something to life so I can escape from my own.
It isn’t until my stomach growls that I realize over four hours have passed and I’ve only had coffee today. Still, I need to run through this part one more time before I get some lunch.
Screams nobody hears
Fits of laughing tears
Beautiful daydreams surround
The absence of light and sound
Take these empty days
Take these dazed eyes
Take these silent ways
And make them my life
Chorus
There’s someone who doesn’t matter
No, not everyone counts
There’s someone swimming alone
Let’s see if he can drown
Shit or song, I’m not quite sure. I don’t know whether I like it or not, but I know I need a break before the urge hits me again.
Part of our deal was that I work at the studio at least four days a week when I could do this just as easily at Foxhaven. I’m not going to argue. If I didn’t get a little change of scenery and conversation, I’d go crazy.
The fridge has the ingredients to make a sandwich, but I’m in the mood for something different. When I step out of my office, a rare grin jumps to my face. “Vince! What the fuck are you doing, man?”
Vince is the brother and personal assistant of an up and coming blues singer called Dante. We’ve spent plenty of time together, trapped in studios, waiting for stuff to get done. He’s one of the few people in this business I genuinely enjoy hanging out with.
“Dante is here laying some tracks. You know how it is.”
“I do, yeah,” I laugh.
“I heard you were working here this summer.” He drops his voice a little. “How is your brother?” Vince is also one of the most trustworthy people I’ve met, which is why he’s always in the loop. He’s one of only a handful of people who know where my brother is.
“I don’t know. Sully is arranging for me to visit soon.”
Vince slaps my shoulder. “Well, tell him hi for me.”
“I’ll do that. I was just heading down to see which food trucks are here today. Want to join me?”
Vince shrugs, and we step into the elevator. “I could eat. As long as it’s not the taco truck. Shit my brains out for two days last time.”
Neither of us noticed the young woman behind us until a snort of laughter draws our attention. She looks vaguely familiar. Probably one of the executive’s secretaries from upstairs. “Sorry, but it’s true,” Vince tells her. “Avoid them unless you’re a fan of e.coli.”
His flirty smile is completely lost on her, mainly because she’s gazing at me like she’s remembering me naked. Considering I don’t know her at all, this is not a situation I want to deal with. Her lips purse a little when I face the front and don’t try to talk to her, and she stalks away in a huff when the doors open.
“You don’t appear to be her favorite person,” Vince remarks.
I push open the door, leading us out into the sun baked parking lot. “I don’t even know her.”
“Ah,” he replies, understanding dawning on his face.
My desire for human contact is short lived because I’m already wishing I could go back to my office. Or Foxhaven. Or anywhere that I don’t have to interact.
“Score! Italian or Chinese?” he exclaims when we approach the trucks.
“Dude, do you even have to ask?”
We order our food and take it over to an outdoor picnic area. A few other employees give us a nod or wave, then go back to their food. At least here, fame doesn’t mean anything. There may be people outside the fence, snapping pictures of me eating a calzone, but I’m not going to get pestered for autographs.
We eat in silence until Vince speaks up. “The new Force9 game is out today.”
“Oh shit. I forgot all about it. Did you pre-order yours?”
“Nah, I’m going to Gameshop after work.”
I’m already making a mental note to send Clark to buy the game when Vince asks, “Do you have plans tonight?”
My laugh sounds bitter. “No, no plans. The resort is surrounded by paps. And you know they’re waiting outside the gates here too.”
“Why don’t I bring Force9 over and kick your ass in multiplayer? We’ll need some practice before joining the online battles. Unless we want to be called newbs by a bunch of squeakers.”
I swallow my food and dig in my pocket for some money. “Here, buy me a copy too. I have plenty of booze. We can get trashed and I’ll teach you how to play.” I pause for a moment. “Or is your chick going to want you home?”
“Darlene? I broke up with her a few weeks ago. Bitch was crazy.” He grins over his food. “Maybe I’ll just dip into the groupie pool.”
“Go for it. They’re right outside the hotel fence.”
The corner of his mouth tucks in. “That sucks. Not being able to go anywhere. It’s getting that way for Dante too, but he doesn’t seem to mind. It’d drive me batshit.”
Shrugging, I gulp down my drink. “It’s miserable, but it won’t be forever.”
My phone beeps with a message from Sully.
Sully: I put out a statement to protect the hotel owner. You’re welcome.
The “you’re welcome” makes me seethe a little since it sounds like he’s doing me some favor when it’s his damn job to handle things like that. Still, I’m glad he took care of it. Kinley doesn’t deserve to be dragged into this mess.
“Everything okay?” Vince asks.
“It is now.” I gather up my trash and dump it in the nearby can. “I’m going to get back to work. I’ll let security know you’re coming tonight.”
The urge to finish the song is back with a vengeance, and I spend the next five hours holed up in my office until I get it just how I want it.
When I get back to Foxhaven, paparazzi line both sides of the drive, along with fans who hold signs.
All I can do is shake my head at the messages scrawled in marker.
Marry me, Marcus.
I want to have your babies.
There’s even one woman with a sign that says.
Mean girls suck but nice girls swallow. I’m so nice.
Classy bunch. If this keeps up, they’re going to need more security in place because the crazy asses always find a way in.
We pull up at the front entrance where more guests have arrived. A very well to do family climbs out of a massive SUV. Two sullen teenagers roll their eyes at each other as if being brought to one of the top resorts in the country is a waste of their valuable time. Their father barks orders at the bellhop, who forces a smile and quickly arranges their luggage on a cart while the mother coaxes a tiny white dog into a purse.
“Thanks for the ride,” I mumble to the driver, and step out of the car.
The teenage girl’s gaze fills with interest, and I know I’m not making it inside without a hassle. The guests are instructed not to bug celebrities for autographs or pictures, but the entitled attitude rolls off these people in waves, and I know they’ll assume the rules don’t apply to them even before the teen girl starts toward me.
“Oh my god! You really are staying here! Wait until I snapchat this to Ginnie! She’s never going to believe it!”
She marches over to me and shoves her face next to mine, holding up her phone to get a picture. No hello or permission request at all. If she’d asked, I would’ve done it, but now, no way.
I sidestep her and stalk toward the entrance, slinging my guitar over my back.
“Hey!” She yells, then turns to her mother. “Did you see that? Does he not know who I am?”
No, I don’t know who she is and generally, if you have to ask that question, you aren’t as important as you think you are. Frankly, I don’t give two shits who she is. Her shrill voice fades as the doors close behind me, but I hear her say the words hotel manager. She wants a manager? What does she think will happen? They’ll force me to be her bestie?
I hate people.
Clark meets me just inside the door and falls into step with me on the way to the elevator. “Your manager called and said you might want a few fans brought to your room tonight. If this is going to be a regular request, you’ll need to ask your security team to handle it.” His disapproving tone isn’t lost on me and honestly, I can’t blame him. He’s security, not a pimp.
“Ignore that asshole. I don’t want anyone brought to my room unless I give you their name. I’m not trying to nail groupies. My friend Vince is coming tonight. He’s the only one—other than the band and my immediate family—who have permission.”
“Got it.”
Finally, the elevator stops and I get off, making a beeline for the silence of my suite. A faint citrus smell hangs in the air as it usually does when I return. The housekeeper assigned to my area does a fantastic job. It occurs to me I should start leaving her a b
igger tip.
A long, hot shower helps me feel human again. It hasn’t been a bad day. The words were flowing for me, and I’m actually going to hang out with a friend tonight. Someone who knows me and doesn’t want anything from me. Sully said he handled the tabloid shit, so that’s one less thing to worry about.
I make a quick call down to the desk to make sure they know to escort Vince up when he gets here, then crank up some music. I still have an hour or so before he’s due to show up, so I fire up a joint and take a few hits.
The plush sofa seems to swallow me up as I lean back and close my eyes. Getting high and listening to music is something that never changes. From sixteen years old smoking in the basement to damn near thirty in a swanky motel room, it’s the same joy it’s always been. Sitting on the couch, stoned, and lost in the music is the real me. Not the disappointing son me, the dutiful brother me, or the second rate me. Right now, I’m just Holt. For a short, golden time, it’s enough.
I must’ve dozed off for a few minutes because the clock seems to have jumped forward, and my stomach growls.
“Dude! You got the presidential suite! That settles it. I’m living with you from now on,” Vince announces, striding in with a fifth in one hand and video games in the other.
“Fuck off. There’s one bed and you’re too hairy for me.”
“I’ll totally shave my balls,” he replies, flopping onto the couch beside me.
Clark nods from the doorway and retreats. That guy really doesn’t like me.
“I’m ordering from room service. What do you want?” I ask, grabbing the phone.
Vince shrugs. “Steak, potatoes, whatever. I’m not picky.” He puts the new game into the console and tosses me a controller. “Let’s get this slaughter started. I’ll go easy on you the first round.”
“Psh,” I scoff. “Bend over. Cause I’m going to fuck you worse than your rent boys ever do.”
