by Vicki James
The video footage—taken by a supposed fan—was rewound, played in slow motion, rewound, played with sound, and then the process was repeated over and over. MTV were taking polls and phones calls from fans, asking stupid questions like:
Do drugs and alcohol ruin all the best talent in the music industry?
Should Presley West get away with it just because he’s good looking?
Is he heading straight for rehab?
Should musicians receive harsher punishments for lashing out in a bid to curb their ridiculous rock star behaviour?
How can society prevent superstars from seeing themselves as above the law?
Regardless of the fact that I knew tabloids shouldn’t be trusted, I found myself perched on the end of my sofa anyway, staring at my TV screen like it was supplying the very oxygen I needed to survive. The remote hung limp in my hand as I continued to change channels over and over again, the fingertips of my other hand pressed against my bottom lip in worry.
Presley’s band, Youth Gone Wild, had been leaving a nightclub in the very early hours of the morning. It was daylight, with the burning, rising sun highlighting every smoker’s line and dark circle under the band members’ eyes. They were wasted and tired, that much was clear.
Rhett Ryan was the gravelly lead vocalist leading the way as they streamed out of the black, heavy-looking door where they had a car waiting only a few meters away. His dark hair was shaved around the back and sides, with a shaggy black mop on top styled to stand high on his head like a damn landing tower. It was obvious to everyone that Rhett was the sparkling personality behind Youth Gone Wild. As he walked out, swaying and smiling like he’d just received a blowjob—possible—he flashed a wink at the camera phone he was been videoed on and waved to the small crowd of fans that had been waiting to see their superstars.
Big D was next, Dave Stripe, the long-haired bass player with jet black eyebrows and a short, jet-black beard. Despite his dark features, he always looked friendly and approachable, even when he was clearly drowning in alcohol at six thirty in the morning.
Behind Big D were Hawk and Coops—Hawk being the lead strummer and Coops being the rhythm guitarist of the band. Otherwise known as Haley Axel Wilkins, you can see why he chose to christen himself as the bad boy of rock by calling himself Hawk. He had eyes like a hunting bird, bright yet narrow, but his head was practically bare aside from the tattoos of music notes mixed with lightning and fire that ran down either side. Coops’ choice of name was always the butt of every magazine interview the band ever did. Named Bradley Cooper at birth, he had to go by his schoolboy nickname to avoid being confused with the actual Bradley Cooper—although they were hardly easy to mix up. The real Bradley Cooper was insanely good looking. Coops was… all right. He was fairly plain with a mousy brown haircut seen on most men of this era. A typical man from the streets, neither devilishly handsome nor ugly. Just… there.
Then he stepped out.
Presley West.
The lonely, smouldering drummer, always at the back.
As soon as I saw him, my heart skipped a beat.
Presley’s head was down, as usual, and he used his long hair to try and hide his face as he followed his bandmates. But I saw. I saw it every time I pressed pause at the very moment he looked up from under his thick, perfectly-structured dark eyebrows. I saw the moody stare and the sheen of sweat that made his forehead glisten. I saw the rough stubble on his jaw and the unlit cigarette he had dangling loosely from his dry lips. When I pressed play again, Presley leaned to one side, his foot misjudging the step and causing his boot to go over on one side, making him stumble before he corrected himself.
I ached, and the longing hurt.
If I could have reached through, stroked his cheek and held him for just a breath, I would have given up a month’s salary to do so.
Wearing loose, ripped-jeans and a white T-shirt that literally clung to the abs beneath it, every inch of Presley looked like the rock star of the century. He was the one they all wanted. He was the face of the band—always up front and centre on photo shoots to attract the attention of the women around the globe.
I’d kissed him. He’d been inside me. He changed my life in one night.
My eyes fell to the leather jacket hanging loosely around his shoulders—like he couldn’t be bothered to push his arms through the sleeves. He was so broad that the jacket hooked itself in place, not moving an inch.
Someone in the crowd soon realised it could be removed too easily, and the second the super fan reached out and ripped the jacket from Presley’s shoulders, all hell broke loose.
The bad side of the good boy was revealed to the world.
Presley froze instantly, as though someone had just stolen his heart, ripped it from his chest and tossed it aside. His head slowly turned to the thief who was now waving the jacket around like it was a victory flag—smiley, happy, and gloating, while Presley’s face hardened, and his eyes narrowed.
My fingertips closed over my mouth the second I saw him launch himself at his fan: uninhibited, crazy, and unforgiving. The crowd screamed in shock, but over the noise of the chaos, Presley’s words were clear.
“That’s all I have left, you motherfucker!”
The person videoing must have been knocked in the crowd then because the footage rattled around like it was caught up in the aftershocks of an earthquake right after Presley’s fist took down his opponent.
“Presley West, the drumming, hard-hitting sensation of the decade, and poster boy of the world-conquering rock band Youth Gone Wild, was arrested this morning in SoHo, London after an eager fan grabbed a feel of Presley’s famous, unchanging leather jacket.”
“A feel?” I scoffed at the screen, raising my arm and pointing at the footage they were showing. “That arsehole tried to steal it. How would you feel if someone tried to steal those chicken fillets from your bra, huh, Winona Ryder wannabe?”
I hurled abuse at every news reporter that dared to suggest Presley was out of line. Okay, so physical violence was never the answer, but could I honestly say that that kind of invasion of privacy wouldn’t get to me, too? I was human. Presley was human. It was a crying shame that so many humans on this goddamn hypocritical, judgemental planet forgot that they were, in fact, human.
“London Metropolitan Police have yet to issue a statement, but after Youth Gone Wild’s management rushed Presley into a waiting vehicle immediately after the incident, it is believed that an arrest was made when Presley had the car stop by a small police station just a few miles down the road, where he turned himself in, with the band’s manager Dicky Bennett shouting wildly behind him.”
I tried so, so hard not to focus on the fact that the band were now back in London, only a short car ride away from me because in my mind it was always better for me to imagine Presley was a million miles away.
“A group of fans have already started to promote a blog called West Gone Wild, with the site having over 700,000 hits in the last few hours alone.”
“Fans, my arse,” I growled. “Opportunistic rat bastards.”
I continued with my own commentary, convincing myself I didn’t really care all that much one minute, only for me to see his action replay again the next minute and hear my heart pining for him like a newborn puppy pines for the nipple.
My phone rang several times, Molly’s name popping up over and over, but I ignored the calls for now. She knew what I would be doing. She knew how addicted I was to him.
I think she referred to it as ‘poetically pathetic.’
After gnawing my thumbnail down to a sore, swollen, sorry mess, my phone rang again. It was a blocked caller, and I never answered those. Never, ever, ever.
I let it ring out, and when the vibrating stopped on the sofa, I glanced at it and frowned. A bad feeling swept over me. It was a slow tingle up the spine that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.
A warning, almost.
The phone began to ring again. Another blo
cked call.
And then again.
And Again. And again.
That’s when I knew it could be the press trying to contact me. Presley was all over the news, and they were trying to get any scoop on him they could. I managed BB’s, the one place he spoke publicly about like it was his church. They could get hold of my number easily.
They can go fuck themselves, I thought.
I began to pace when the calls wouldn’t stop, and for a split second, I contemplated switching the bloody thing off, but I had this fear of switching my phone off completely and not being contactable. I’d lived enough to know that Murphy’s Law meant that that would be the exact time when a family emergency would occur, making you live with regret for the rest of your life.
Just as I blew out a breath and pushed my hands through the unruly strands of my hair, there was a knock at the door.
My head snapped in that direction, and I froze, eyes wide.
Another three knocks. Slow. Controlled. Firm.
My heart galloped, and I made a step towards it, trying to rehearse a Go Fuck Yourself speech that would make it clear to them that I wasn’t an option as a snitch.
Another three knocks.
Then it sounded like a head slamming against the door, followed by a familiar, gravelly growl of frustration.
“Cherry,” he said roughly. “It’s me. Open up, will you? I need you.”
Presley.
He was back.
And he was standing right outside my door.
Chapter Eight
“Cherry, I know you’re in there. I’ve been out here for fifteen minutes, listening to you shout at the television in my defence.”
“What the fuck,” I mouthed to myself, no sound coming out.
“Please, Tess.” He paused, his voice dropping lower. “Please.”
I moved without thinking, sucking in a very shaky breath before I reached for the door handle and peeked through the peephole. It was him. The top of his head was the only thing I could see as he kept his forehead pressed to the door.
Was I dreaming? Was all this some kind of hallucination?
I opened the door slowly, despite my frantic heart, not wanting him to fall forward or lose his balance. He did so anyway, probably still drunk from the night before. The waft of alcohol mixed with tobacco and topped off with his aftershave sent me dizzy in one hit.
Presley leaned forward, correcting his footing quickly before he looked up at me through devilish eyes.
“Fuck. Still so quirky beautiful,” he rasped.
“Presley?”
“Hey, Cherry.” He smiled lazily, his body swaying.
My eyes fell to the now infamous leather jacket hanging from his shoulders, and I shuffled nervously on my feet, pulling down on my T-shirt. Presley’s eyes fell to my midriff, slowly creeping down my exposed legs before they trailed back all the way up my body and landed on my boobs. I wasn’t even wearing a bra, and I had one of the hottest, most wanted men on the planet in front of me, looking like he wanted to eat me alive.
My God, he was gorgeous. More so now than ever before, and that was saying something. Experience and life shone back at me through his hazy eyes, leaving my heart to fend for itself as it galloped furiously and begged for me to regain control.
I quickly crossed my arms over my chest.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
He swayed again and reached up to grip the doorframe, leaning closer. “Hoping I can come in.”
There was power in those eyes of his—in that self-assured smile, too.
“Okay.” I swallowed and stepped to one side, holding the door open for him.
I suddenly felt like I lived in a mouse hole, and I was trying to house a giant. Everything I’d worked hard for now seemed small and insignificant with the Presley West inside it.
Which, of course, was ridiculous considering the places he’d already been inside of…
Me.
Presley straightened himself upright as he walked forwards and took a good look around. It must have taken him all of 4.2 seconds to register everything I classed as my worldly possessions. The door banged shut behind us both, and I went to stand in front of the purple sofa I owned, defending my small space while watching him as he took it all in.
Folding my arms over my chest again to cover my obviously-aroused nipples, I tilted my head to one side and waited for him. My hair was a straggly, wavy mess. My green eyes still had last night’s mascara framing them with charcoal smudges. My lips were dry, and I hoped he couldn’t see the rapid flicker of my kneecaps as my nerves got the better of me.
“Nice place.” He whistled, nodding his head and tucking his hair behind both ears.
“How did you know where I lived?”
“Bourbon told me.” Presley turned to me, a sly smile baring his bright, white teeth. “About forty minutes ago when I barged into BB’s and scared the shit out of him while he was doing stock check in the cellar.”
“You went to my work?”
“I needed to see you.”
“Nice to know Bourbon takes staff confidentiality seriously,” I muttered. I was going to kill that idiot. Or buy him a basket of flowers and a Marks and Spencer voucher as thanks.
“I paid him well.”
“You paid him?”
“Never ask for something if you’re not willing to give something in return, right?”
Presley smirked and raised a brow, and I felt my insides tighten. Those were the very words I’d spoken to him that night when he’d asked me up to his apartment after we’d got out of the taxi.
I leaned back and looked up at the high-rise building. “So, this is where you live.”
“For now.” He nodded, and I dropped my eyes back to his face.
“That’s right. Bright light city gonna set your soul, set your soul on fire!” I sang jovially.
He tugged me closer. “Will you stay the night?”
“Until morning?”
“Maybe dinner?”
“That depends. Will you stay in Hollings Hill?” I arched a brow.
“You know I can’t.”
“Then don’t ask for something if you’re not willing to give something in return, rock star.” I stood up on tiptoes and kissed his lips tenderly. “Don’t ask anything of me. I won’t ask anything of you. Let’s just see where tonight takes us. You might have a really small dick, and I could be turned off from you in a second,” I breathed against his lips.
“You’re in for a large, painful surprise, Cherry.”
“You have a good memory,” I eventually said, swallowing down the hope I felt resting in my throat. He grabbed hold of the back of the sofa, pressing his fists down onto it and leaning over, and he looked so comfortable there, it made me hitch in a breath. “Presley, what are you—”
“Damn, my name still sounds so good from your lips.”
“Stop it,” I whispered.
“Sorry, Cherry.” He smiled seductively. He wasn’t sorry at all.
“How are you here? Aren’t you meant to be…” locked up?
Right on cue, the news reporter on the TV behind me started replaying the video footage of Presley swinging his fist. I didn’t need to see it again. I had the entire incident burnt into my retinas, ready to replay at any given moment. But Presley’s eyes widened in front of me, and he stood taller as he watched himself go crazy.
“Shit,” he muttered.
“Is this the first time you’ve seen it?”
He nodded, his eyes darting everywhere over the screen. “Looks bad,” he sighed. “Worse than it felt.”
“Today’s news is tomorrow’s trash, right?”
“Right.” He swallowed, and I watched the large fall and rise of his Adam’s apple.
“I thought you’d turned yourself into the police.”
Presley’s eyes tore away from the screen, and he blinked furiously before he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, the erm… the guy I punched dropped charges alrea
dy.” He shook his head. “Something to do with his girlfriend threatening to end him if he had me locked away.”
“It pays to have super fans.”
“I guess.”
“You okay?”
“Never been worse.”
I hated seeing him so torn up. I could smell the alcohol weaving its way around the air of my apartment, and it was probably the absolute worst thing I could have done, but I found myself stepping closer to him and doing it anyway.
“You look like you need a beer.”
He glanced at me over his hand and stared intensely. “You sound like an angel.”
“That’s a good title for a song. Write it down.” I smiled weakly, making my way around him, squeezing through the small space behind his body and the wall before turning the corner to the kitchenette and hoping with all the hope I had that he wasn’t watching me walk away.
I don’t have any underwear on. I don’t have any underwear on, and these shorts are as thin as tissue paper.
Bending down on an angle so it didn’t look like I was purposely flashing my full-moon arse at him, I grabbed two bottles of Peroni, popped the caps and made my way back to him.
“Thanks,” he said, taking the bottle from me. I could feel his eyes burning into my body as I went back into the middle of the living area and sat down on the matching purple chair in the corner.
I felt better once I was sitting down, knowing he couldn’t see as much of me. Grabbing a cushion, I curled my legs under my bum, placed the cushion on my lap and held my Peroni bottle in both hands, trying to pick at the label edge.
“You can sit down,” I said quietly, nodding to the free sofa he was leaning on.
“Right.” Presley moved slowly like a stalking lion, eventually planting himself down on the edge of the sofa. He kept his legs apart and rested his elbows on his knees as he, too, began to pick at the label on his bottle.
