“When you’re bummed you drink like a fish,” Logan answers honestly, “and this is gonna bum you out.”
The statement isn’t comforting in the slightest.
“Just spit it out already, Logan,” I urge, one of my feet fidgeting anxiously.
“You know Reggie’s a buddy of mine. We coordinate events sometimes, especially with bands that play at both our venues.”
He’s stalling, trying to dance around whatever terrible news he doesn’t want to give me. Every second that passes makes my throat grow tighter. I give a grunt, unable to speak.
“Well . . .” Logan drawls, “we were out for drinks last night and Reggie told me some bad news about the agents who were supposed to come to the stadium for the Battle of the Bands show you’re in.”
My stomach lurches up and then down, making me slam my feet against the plush carpet. I stand, fingers pinching the bridge of my nose. “Don’t say it—” I hiss, but Logan is already speaking.
“They backed out. Every single one. I guess there’s a pretty high-profile indie festival that just got put together in Cali. Everyone in the biz is rearranging their schedules to be there to scope out the talent. That’s pissed off a lot of the bands planning to play Reggie’s Battle of the Bands gig at the stadium with you guys and now a bunch of bands have backed out.” A beat of silence hangs between us. “I’m sorry man, I know you were hoping to get a shot in front of some reps.” He sighed. “I wanted to give you the heads-up.”
I didn’t have words.
Logan spoke again to fill the silence. “Look, you’re out of luck this time but it doesn’t mean that you’re out of the game. Keep playing . . .”
His words fade, vanishing in my aching head. I don’t answer, my mind spinning as I hang up the phone while Logan is mid-sentence and collapse back against the couch so heavily that the furniture creaks. My palms press down hard against my eyes, drowning out the evening light spilling in through the murky windows of my tiny apartment.
No way.
This can’t be happening.
Everything is falling apart right in front of me.
First, I lose out on the woman I’m meant to be with and now my band’s one chance at success has just gone up in smoke. This can’t be real. Everything we’ve worked for, it was all for this moment. Even though singing at that little rock bar had drummed up a small bit of business, it’s nothing like this big show at the stadium was supposed to be.
When would we ever get a chance like that again?
We’d been waiting for it for years!
How was I going to break it to the guys?
They would be crushed.
Unable to even start processing this news, I grab the bottle of whiskey that I opened at breakfast. I’d had a few drinks here and there throughout the day to take the edge off this horrible date I was going to be forced to go on, but now I need the whiskey more than ever. I don’t want to feel like this. I don’t want to hurt. I just want everything to go away. I want it all to disappear, and alcohol is the only magic eraser that I know of.
Just a few more shots, then I’ll be able to put on a brave face for Chloe and Donovan and their friends.
Yeah . . . just a few more sips to dull the pain and shove this dread away.
The bottom of the bottle lifts toward the ceiling, overhead lights reflecting through the glass like shimmering stars. My heart aches because I know a few more sips will never be enough.
Chapter 14
Morgan
One of our bathroom lights flickers while Stacy and I crowd into our single bathroom. Chloe’s on her way but running late from the office. It’s sweet that she’s coming all the way over here to get ready with us.
Stacy grins at me, holding three different shades of lipstick next to my face before clicking her tongue. “You’ve gotten some nice sun this summer. I’m thinking you might want to try out this bright red. I know you prefer pink but it’ll match your complexion so well. Ugh. You’ve got such gorgeous skin, Morgan. You were born to be a model.”
My fingers lift subconsciously, brushing against my jawline. Today had definitely not left me full of confidence. “You don’t think I look swollen or anything?” I ask hesitantly.
After my confrontation with Charlotte, I came home and spent the better part of the afternoon staring intently at myself in the mirror picking apart every flaw in an attempt to pinpoint whether Hanson was right about me gaining weight.
If anything, I looked even more slender than normal, to the point where even I was a little disturbed by the gauntness of my eyes and collarbone.
Stacy frowns at me. “God, no. You’re flawless, you know that. Since when do you doubt yourself? Chloe might be Miss Independent, but you’ve always been Miss Confident.”
Had I? I felt so out of touch with myself lately. There had been a time when I loved what I saw in the mirror and when I felt proud of myself for pursuing my modeling aspirations . . . but I hadn’t had that feeling in a while. Being with my rockstar was the last time I remember feeling like myself—strong and sensual and confident.
When did I let that get stripped from me?
“Right,” I say with forced certainty. “I was just fishing for compliments.”
“That’s my girl,” Stacy teases. “Now, what do you think of my outfit?”
Stacy spins in a circle, showing off a modest lace dress that falls just an inch or two above her knees and doesn’t show off too much cleavage. Her hair is pulled into an elegant bun, her makeup subtle but glowing. Even though she claims that I’m the gorgeous one, it’s clear as day that Stacy is a natural beauty with her creamy white skin, sparkling hazel eyes and thick brunette curls.
She’s short, curvy and cute. Features that are only accentuated by her stubborn sass. Stacy is going to make some lucky guy very happy someday. But someday will never come if she keeps covering up.
“Your date would enjoy your company a bit more if you were willing to show off that body of yours,” I say tugging on the cuff of her full-length sleeve.
“We’re not all supermodels like you,” she says playfully, gesturing at the skimpy couture dress I’m wearing.
The neckline of the red gown plunges between my small breasts which are taped perfectly into place—a little runway trick I’d picked up. I wanted this blind date of mine to drool over me. God knows I could use the attention after all the rejection lately.
So what? I wanted this guy to like what he saw—but I wouldn’t let him have it. Not unless he helped me forget my sexy rockstar . . . then maybe.
I’d just have to hope he had some industrial glue dissolvent to help me free my boobs first.
We migrate to our tiny kitchen once we’re dressed. Stacy starts to clean up our mess from earlier. “Did you get any pizza?” she asks, eyeing the box of leftovers trying to remember how much of it she consumed herself.
I snap the lid closed to distract her from the greasy box. “I’ve got to keep up my figure for my auditions this week. Besides, Chloe will be here soon and we’ve got to save her some.”
Stacy frowns at me. “But I got extra mushrooms and peppers just for you.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be craving it tonight after our amazing triple date.”
She laughs, concern fading. “If you say so.”
The door bangs open and we turn in time to see Chloe burst through, slamming it shut with a distressed look on her face.
“Guys,” she pleads with a gesture to her buttoned blouse and office-worthy skirt. While her outfit is adorable for the workday, it isn’t quite suitable for a red-hot date at La Folie. “I need your help!”
“You sure do!” Stacy quips before I can stop shaking my head at Chloe’s ensemble.
“Look at you!” I scold. “You look like you’re headed to the convent, not to a date with your billionaire. Get over here so we can fix you.”
With a giggle, Chloe nods and rushes over, allowing us to take her into our arms as we start pulling at her clothing, replacin
g her office-chic look with one that will drive Donovan wild.
By the time we’re finished fluffing her hair and doing her makeup, I realize I’ve laughed more in the last forty-five minutes than I have in the last three weeks. It’s hard not to feel a little optimistic about tonight when I’ll be spending it with my best friends. I cling to the feeling that they’re right, all I need is a new man to help me forget the last one.
Besides, what do I even know about my rockstar? Sure, he knows how to use his hands and his smile will live in a dusty corner of my memory forever, but we only had a few minutes of perfection together. Maybe in the real world we’d have nothing in common other than animalistic attraction.
My heart thuds in protest.
Fortunately, I don’t have much time to listen to my heart. Our dates await!
Before I know it, we’re climbing out of our Uber, walking down the Manhattan sidewalk arm-in-arm, heels clicking against the concrete beneath us.
“It’s so good to see you smiling again,” Chloe murmurs into my ears. “You’re going to love Eric. He’s funny and smooth and really good looking. He can be a bit immature but I’m sure he’s looking forward to this.”
“I’m not looking to marry the guy, I just want to forget about my rockstar.”
“Well, that’s why I picked Eric. He’s always a good time and he’s a musician too!” Chloe says enthusiastically.
I bite back a groan, knowing she’s just trying to be helpful. But the last thing I want is another smooth-talking artist. My heart can’t handle it.
“Perfect,” Stacy gushes, not noticing my expression of uncertainty. “Tomorrow you’ll wake up freshly laid and full of smiles.”
“Hey now, what kind of girl do you think I am?” I tease, making both of my friends laugh.
As we walk up to the front of La Folie, I recognize Donovan instantly. He’s not the kind of guy you forget, with those powerfully broad shoulders and stern eyes that glow like blue embers. Chloe is one lucky lady. Standing beside him is a nice but boring looking man about Donovan’s age in a tailored suit.
“Ladies,” Donovan greets us coolly, striding by Stacy and me to take Chloe into his arms. In one fluid movement, he dips Chloe backward and plants a deep kiss on her lips that makes me want to swoon and barf, simultaneously.
Ugh. To have what they have . . .
I push away the lingering insistence of my rockstar’s lips in the back of my mind, refusing to allow him to bother me tonight.
“My name is Tom,” the man in the suit is saying to Stacy when I stop watching Chloe and Donovan’s embrace and turn around. “You must be Stacy?”
Stacy smiles and nods, letting him take her hand and place a chivalrous kiss on the back of it. She blushes and giggles before she remembers my presence and turns toward me. “Where’s this Eric guy?” she asks, as Tom stuffs his hands in his pockets and Donovan’s expression turns cold.
“He’s, uh, running late,” Donovan says slowly. “Why don’t we go inside and get some drinks. I’m sure he’ll turn up.”
Turn up? Like a lost set of keys or something?
This is just my luck.
What kind of model can’t even get a blind date to show up?
Cheeks burning with embarrassment, I follow both couples into the restaurant. We take a seat and soon the waiter sweeps by, asking for our orders.
“I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” Stacy says softly so only I can hear. “Don’t give up.”
I force a smile, but I already know how this night is going to go. Romance is dead, and my heart is too.
“Vodka,” I demand, sitting up straight and facing the waiter. “A whole bottle. Ice is optional.”
Chapter 15
Eric
Stars spin across the ceiling, wildly dancing and frolicking about like fireflies. It takes me until I lift my hand to block out the glare of their painful light to realize that it isn’t my body or the room that’s wildly revolving, but my intoxicated mind.
How much did I drink?
My thoughts are sluggish and painful, my temples throbbing as though my head is being squeezed between two powerful and unyielding palms.
I wish I could say this is the first time I’ve felt this level of drunken discomfort, but hangovers from hell have sort of become my status quo lately. At least I woke up in my living room this time instead of a back alley without my wallet.
Every movement sends another shockwave of pain rippling through my head but I force myself to sit up on the floor between my couch and the coffee table. The world pitches violently back and forth like I’m on a boat in heavy seas. Bile rises in my throat while an empty bottle of whiskey stares condescendingly at me.
Through an open window, a warm breeze blows, bringing with it the scent of street tacos that makes my stomach revolt, at first out of hunger and then out of nausea. The thought of eating is both tempting and repulsive. For a moment I think I’m going to be sick, but I suck in a shallow breath of air and hold it until my lungs scream. Only then do I let it escape through my nostrils.
The scent of alcohol is heavy in the air. Even in my drunken state, I can still smell it and it makes my stomach heave. I don’t want to drink anymore, but the emotions simmering too close to the surface make me reach for the empty bottle anyway.
How am I going to tell the guys that our big show is a bust? How am I going to finally push that beautiful woman’s face from my mind? When is something going to give?
I don’t know how much longer I can struggle like this. I’ve failed my parents, letting my drunk of a father destroy everything good about my mother and now I’ve inherited his problem. In a way, I’ve failed him too. I couldn’t put aside my anger long enough to make him get help, or take the help he finally gave me when I inherited his house and fortune.
Who knew my drunk of a dad had squirreled away a almost a million dollars? That money is all gone now—even with the sale of his house. It’s what I’ve been living off. And if I’m honest, I’ve pissed it away on booze, the band and this bachelor lifestyle. I have nothing to show for myself and nothing left to keep the band afloat. I’ve failed them too.
I’ve failed myself.
It’s getting harder and harder to find a reason to hold on.
Something creaks behind me and I freeze with my hand still extended toward the empty bottle of booze. There’s a faint noise coming from the kitchen and then I see the hazy figure walking toward me. I open my mouth, trying to speak, but only garbled words come out. When the figure bends closer, I recognize a cup of water and the familiar expression of a very unhappy Donovan Dunn.
“Why ‘er you here?” I slur hoarsely, pushing away the cup of water with a grunt of disgust.
I turn toward the empty whiskey bottle instead, determined to get at least one more drop from it.
“You’re drunk,” Donovan answers matter-of-factly, moving to take the bottle away from me.
With a scowl, I curl my fingers around the neck of the whiskey bottle, tipping it over my face and begging a few more drops to hit my tongue, though all that does is dry summer air.
Donovan tries to take the bottle again but I refuse to let it go.
“Come on, Eric!” he grumbles impatiently, “You don’t need this stuff. Believe me, you’ve had plenty. If you drink anymore you’re gonna end up with alcohol poisoning. You’re not a camel. You can’t store this stuff up for the winter.”
“And you’re not my father!” I yell. “You can’t tell me what to do.” Not that my dad ever cared how much I drank.
My father had always been an angry drunk, as quick to lift his fist as he was to pop a beer can. How many times had I stood between him and my mother, even when I barely reached his knee?
Not enough, I think as I picture my mother’s battered face the day she left us.
I always prayed I’d never turn out like him, but I’m just like my dad—never knowing when to stop.
It makes me sick.
Donovan scowls at me. “Not only
did you flake on me tonight, but you made that poor girl Chloe was trying to set you up with feel like crap. She was so upset she got totally blitzed and completely humiliated herself. I had to help Chloe and Stacy get her home so they could take care of her—”
“She’s lucky to have such good friends,” I spit out. “Not that I would know how that feels.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he shoots back, his heated frown drawing deeper over his chiseled jaw.
“Drop the act, D. No one’s here for you to impress. You don’t have to pretend you give a crap about me.”
“I don’t give a crap about you?” Donovan shouted. “Are you kidding me, E? I’m here, aren’t I?”
“For the moment.”
Donovan looks like he wants to hit me, instead he grinds he teeth and throws his hands up. “You know I think of you as family, E, but enough is enough. I was trying to help you tonight. I was trying to set you up with someone nice so you could forget about that girl at the show.”
“The show that you weren’t even at!” I shoot back.
“E, I have a busy schedule.”
“Yeah, well families make time for each other, D! I’m tired of trying to pretend like I don’t feel anything! Booze is the only thing that’s there for me! How pathetic is that? It’s the only thing that doesn’t let me down!”
I stagger forward, reaching for a new bottle of whiskey on my bar, but Donovan is faster. We wrestle over the bottle and in the end it flies from our hands, crashing against the glass coffee table and bursting into what seems like a thousand sharp shards, scattering the carpet like diamonds while the whiskey soaks into the floor, stealing my hopes of escape.
“Happy now?” Donovan growls.
I’m not happy at all. That word is as foreign to me as success.
We stare at one another, both fuming.
“What’s this really about?” Donovan finally asks. “Why are you acting so crazy? Some girl doesn’t want you, so you drink yourself into a stupor?”
Eric: A Clean Billionaire Romance Page 7
