My cheeks were starting to go numb from all the smiling when the last fans from the meet-and-greet were ushered out the door by Sebastian.
I was so exhausted from the excitement of the day that at one point, I just wanted to go back to the hotel room and sleep for five days straight. I was getting ready to do just that as we walked back to my dressing room when Troy came up behind me.
“Party in your dressing room?” he suggested. “I invited a few friends.”
A few friends in Troy’s world could only mean a few girls. I shrugged, too tired to even protest. But Troy wasn’t even looking for my permission. He already had a handful of women waiting eagerly in my dressing room.
One thing led to another, and somehow, I ended up back at my hotel room with the horny woman that’s currently next to me.
Her hand slides down my naked torso now, creeping down to find me still without pants on from the night before.
I push her hand away, not even fully awake enough to think about having sex. Plus, the pounding in my head is doing nothing to help turn me on.
“Who are you again?” I ask gruffly, pushing up and resting my back against the headboard.
“Samantha.” She bites her lip, running a hand through her blonde hair.
“Well, Samantha, I think the party is over. Can I call you a cab?”
Her face falls, a whine coming from the back of her throat. “I have my own driver, thank you very much.”
My phone vibrates from somewhere on the floor, but I can’t even muster the energy to try to look for it
Jesus Christ, my head hurts.
Rubbing at my temples, I don’t even look at her. If she wants to prove that she’s somehow famous in her own right and has a driver, be my guest. I just want her out of my damn hotel room. “Perfect. Then leave.”
She slaps at the down comforter. “You’re a dick.”
I chuckle, my fingers still digging deep into my temples to try and relieve the pressure. “You’re not the first person to call me a dick, honey. You sure as hell won’t be the last.”
There are loud noises as she picks up her belongings. I expect to hear the slamming of the door, but it looks like my morning is only going to get shittier.
“Monica, I’m not in the mood.” Sighing, I look up to find her at the foot of my bed, her phone inches away from her face.
She reads from the phone in front of her. “It turns out Nash Pierce hasn’t changed one bit. His bad boy tendencies picked right up after giving the crowd of New Jersey a spectacular show. Fans speculated if one of the dancers on his tour, Nora Mason, was a new love interest, but Nash quickly put that rumor to rest. Sources say Nash was seen leaving the venue with an heiress to one of the biggest tech companies in the Garden State. Sources said Nash looked like he’d had a few drinks to celebrate the start of his tour. He and Samantha were all smiles as they got into a waiting car. Nash’s dancer, Nora, was not spotted.”
Every now and then, Monica paused to look up from her phone to give me a frown before continuing to read the article from some stupid gossip magazine.
“What’s your point, Monica? I’m allowed to have fun.” I stretch my legs under the comforter, waiting for her to leave so I can get up and shower. All I can smell is vodka and the scent of Samantha’s overly sweet perfume.
Monica stuffs the phone into her purse. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen the woman use the same purse, but she always has some new, fancy one with her. It wouldn’t shock me if she had a full meal, a survival kit, and her laptop all in that bag. I’ll give her one thing: she’s always ready for anything.
Well, except me, because I still manage to get on her nerves, all these years later.
The feeling is mutual, but she’s the best in the business. She and I were both nobodies when we first made our partnership. I owe a lot of what I’ve achieved to her. She’s like a big sister to me, the one that always annoys the fuck out of me.
She lets out a shrill laugh. “My problem, Nash, is that your team is working tirelessly to clean up your image. You’re getting older. This whole rebellious teenager phase has got to go. Would it kill you to be seen with the same woman twice? And not stumble out of the bar, alerting everyone you’ve been over-served?” Her thin arms cross over her chest, the fabric of her jacket bunching at the shoulders.
“I’ve told you guys this already. I don’t want a relationship. Not since my last one.” My thumbs twirl around each other in my lap as I watch her carefully. I’m confident that here in a second, I might see steam shoot out from Monica’s ears like in the cartoons.
“Fuck, Nash, at this point I’d be happy with you having a consistent fuck buddy. A friends-with-benefits thing. Anything to let the media know that your dick is not an amusement park, free for anyone to ride. I get it. Taylor was a shitty girlfriend to you. She broke your heart. We all get our heart broken, Nash.”
Like Monica has ever let anyone in her heart to break it. For twenty-six years old, she has her heart locked up like Fort Knox.
“Why does it matter who I stick my dick in? I’m clean. They sign NDAs. What’s the issue here?”
She takes a deep breath, counting back from ten under her breath. “The issue is that you’re making a point of being seen with these different girls. Honestly, if you could just hide that you’re planning to screw your way through this tour, I’d be good with that. But when you let the paps capture you with each new girl, it doesn’t look great.”
I don’t see what the huge problem is here. I’m not in a committed relationship. I’m allowed to fuck whoever I want. Just because I’m famous I’m supposed to pretend I don’t like getting my dick sucked.
Yeah, no.
I have needs. Everyone has needs. These damn gossip columns need to stop acting like it’s a big ass deal. Everyone fucks. I’d like to get ahold of the people who write these articles and ask if they’re celibate. With the way they patronize me, they sure as hell better be. If they’re getting their rocks off just like me and calling me out for it, that would be some shady shit. But let’s be honest, most of these people behind computer screens think it’s okay to openly judge celebrities just because we’re famous, when they’re probably doing the same things we are.
“Why don’t you start going out with Nora?” Monica offers, slowly, as if she’s talking to a caged animal.
“Nora?” I ask sarcastically, wondering where in the hell she’s going with this.
I’m drawn to Nora in a way I’ve never been to a woman. But I’m not going to use her to appease Monica. If I take Nora on a public date, which I don’t know if I even want to go down that road, it’s not going to be because Monica told me to.
“Yes, Nora, the girl on your dance team that the fans are already loving. The one who hasn’t been a part of some scandal or was caught last weekend crashing her daddy’s lambo, high as a kite.”
“Shit, Samantha?” I ask, not one to ever stay in touch with the tabloids, even when they don’t include me.
Monica points toward me, then goes to sit in a chair by the hotel window. “Bingo.”
“She didn’t mention it,” I respond truthfully. Or if she did, I was too drunk to remember her admission.
Monica pulls her phone out of her bag. Her fingers zip across the touch screen until she smiles up at me. “Everyone is loving Nora on social media, Nash. They’re eating up that dance like candy. She’s the good kind of publicity you need.”
Figuring that Monica is here for the long haul, I get out of bed, using the pillow to shield my dick from her. I strut into the bathroom, turning the water on as hot as it will go. I grab the navy robe from the hook by the shower and wrap my body in the soft material.
I find Monica in the same spot I left her, her nose inches away from her phone.
“I’m not using Nora for publicity.” The words are sharp as they leave my mouth, sharp enough to have Monica quirk her brow.
“And why not?” she asks, clearly unaware that I’m no longer interested in this
conversation.
Propping myself in the doorway, I stare across the space at her. I don’t owe Monica any kind of explanation. If I say I don’t want to use Nora for publicity, then that’s my fucking decision. “Because I don’t fucking want to, Monica. End of conversation.”
Not caring what else she has to say on the matter, I leave her staring at me as I walk back into the large penthouse bathroom.
This bathroom is as big as my childhood bedroom, the shower probably large enough to fit a queen-sized bed. There are two shower heads on opposite sides of the wall. The water that falls out of each head steams as it meets the air. Stepping onto the cold black stone of the shower, I walk all the way in until I’m under both streams.
The water is blistering hot, but it’s exactly what my body needs. I wash the night before off me, using the hotel issued loofah to scrub away at my skin.
Once my skin feels clean, Samantha washed clear off it, I lean against the shower wall. The water falls directly on my head, cascading down my face. I close my eyes, leaning forward and taking a moment for myself.
These days, showers are about the only time I’m completely alone. Most nights there’s a woman sleeping next to me, and during the day my schedule is planned out for me. I go where they tell me to go—well, most of the time.
I’ve always hated mornings, using the excuse of a hot shower to try and cleanse myself of the night before. Unfortunately, no amount of hot water can rid me of my sins. You’d think I’d learn that the alcohol, the drugs, the money, the girls, all does nothing to make me feel better about myself.
Underneath the face that everyone loves, and all the money and fame, is a man that can’t even tolerate himself.
I haven’t always been this way. I used to be able to look at myself in the mirror. Somewhere along the way, I got lost. I lost sight in who the hell I am and what the fuck I want. Now? I have no fucking clue. I have so many other opinions running my life, that I don’t know what mine are anymore.
I do know some things.
The feeling on stage, when I’m connecting with my fans, it’s the best high I could ever chase. But as soon as I perform the encore songs, after the confetti has fallen to the ground and the crowd ushers out, the self-loathing snaps back into place like a leash firm around my neck, choking me. Then I’m gasping for air until I can take my first drink of alcohol. My first hit of a drug. The moment I enter a woman. These are all ways I think I’m chasing that high again. It’s always just out of reach, coming close but never enough.
Recently there’ve been times—even when I’m not on stage—where the voice in my head has finally quieted down. The voice that usually tells me I’ll never be good enough. And, it’s only when I’m with Nora.
Something about her puts me at ease—all of me, even the bruised and ugly parts. Because of that, I don’t want to use her just so the media thinks I’m growing up. I don’t want to taint the friendship we’ve created with the schemes of the industry.
When I’m around her, I want to forget about the schemes and schemers of the world I live in. I want to be present in the moment with her. In the way she hums under her breath while dancing. In the way she’s always pushing her hair out of her face, unable to tame that thick blanket of hair on her head. I want to be present in the way that, when she looks at me, I don’t hate myself.
I’m a natural cynic. I’d admit it to anyone, but when she told me she’d help me fall in love with my career again—I wholeheartedly believed her.
Trusting her is easy as playing a song on the piano to me. It just comes naturally.
I’m trying to be wary of her, to not become obsessed with her. I have an obsessive personality. My ex constantly pointed it out to me, telling me I’d go from being obsessed with her to being obsessed with music, never being able to balance the in-between.
She also used that as an excuse to fuck one of my bandmates.
I can’t let that happen with Nora. I can’t want her the way I’m beginning to. We’re in an industry that dooms relationships from the get-go, and I can’t lose her. I’d rather be her friend forever, keep her positive attitude in my life, rather than lose it because my lifeless heart decided it wanted her.
But, that’s easier said than done. Even though I can’t remember most of last night, I can remember the way Nora’s face kept popping into my head. I couldn’t rid her from it, no matter how hard I tried.
As the hot water turns lukewarm, I discover that I might not have any say in the matter. Whether I want it to happen or not, Nora is quickly becoming someone important in my life.
And what I’m most terrified of?
In my life, the people that I’ve become closest to are the people that have broken me the most.
The first five stops of the tour go by in a blur. The feeling on stage every night has become intoxicating; I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of it. I’m slowly becoming better friends with the other dancers. Even though I miss Riley deeply, I’m loving my life right now.
And things with Nash? They’re getting more intense.
It’s become our ritual to sit in the empty stadiums each afternoon, the two of us sipping on coffee as we soak in the pre-concert silence. The contrast between our afternoons and evenings is stark. Nash told me an empty stadium is powerful in its own way—and he was right. There’s something to be said in knowing that the silence of the space around you will be erupting in cheers in a matter of hours. It’s the calm before the storm—and it’s beautiful.
My calves are burning as I climb the concrete stairs. We’re in Atlanta tonight and tomorrow, doing a double header. The sun is hot against my cheeks, my sunglasses not doing enough to shield my face from the Georgia heat. When I find a row that’ll work, I shimmy through the seats until I’m right in the center. I plop down into the faded seat, taking in the sight before me.
The crew is working tirelessly at getting the final touches together for the night. I’ll never get over how efficient the people that work on this tour are. They take a football field and completely transform it into a set that makes the crowd go wild each night we have a show. The fans love when the screens move behind Nash as he performs. They move into four different transfigurations, each one more spectacular than the last.
Behind the stage, I’m sure the pyrotechnicians are busy setting up whatever is needed to have all the flashy fireworks and smoke ready for the night. Three crew members wheel out the instruments for Nash’s opening act. I’m watching them pull on different cords when movement catches my attention from the corner of my eye.
My stomach dips when I see it’s Nash climbing the steps in my direction. The large gold aviators on his face cover his eyes, but there’s no mistaking that his sights are pinned on me. I don’t look away—I can’t. Day by day, night by night, I’m falling further into the trap that has caught thousands—millions—of girls’ attention. I can’t help it. There’s something magnetic about being in Nash’s presence. I thought I’d be immune to it, but I was very wrong. He’s got on a backwards ballcap to cover his caramel locks, no doubt a mess from whatever he did last night. The closer he gets, the more I think that hat may be one that was thrown onto the stage by a fan.
I’ve learned more and more about Nash from the few tour stops we’ve had so far. I’ve learned that he takes the time to learn the names of each person at his meet-and-greets, even if he’s drunk. I’ve learned that he chants something to the sky before taking the stage to perform. I’ve also learned that he’ll take items fans give him, and not only that but he’ll wear them. He sports a few different bracelets that made their way onto the stage, the hat he’s wearing now, and at times I’ve seen him wear other items from them.
I blushed the first time a fan threw their bra onto the stage, not realizing it was something that happened often.
“Good morning,” Nash says gruffly, making his way through the aisle of stadium seats.
“Morning,” I respond, looking up at him with a smile.
He reaches out, handing me my coffee. I told him my order once and since then he’s somehow remembered exactly how I drink it. That small fact hasn’t been lost on me. I’m trying to take him off this pedestal the world has him on, but it seems I’m falling victim just like everyone else.
Nash sits down in the seat next to me, his tan arm brushing against mine as he shifts to get comfortable. “I need a fucking IV of coffee today,” he states before gulping down his black coffee.
The corner of my lip pulls up as I look over at him. “Rough night?”
I already know all about his night. It was all over my feed when I woke up this morning. I stayed in my bunk, scrolling for way longer than I’d care to admit, finding out exactly what Nash was up to last night.
He groans, using his free hand to adjust the black hat on his head. “Remind me to never fucking drink again.” His voice is raspy, making me wonder what he’ll have to do to get it ready to perform tonight.
Before the third show, he caught a cold that made him go through extra work to be able to sing. I had never thought about everything singers have to go through to put on a show, least of all how bad it could be for them to sing through a sore throat. Nash’s team had two separate doctors clear him to perform, to ensure he wouldn’t mess up his vocal cords in the process.
I take a long sip of my coffee, letting the bitterness wash down my throat. “I feel like even if I did remind you not to drink, it wouldn’t do much. I don’t think people would know what to do with a constantly sober Nash.”
“You implying I’m drunk all the time, Rose?” There’s a slight edge to his voice, a tone I wasn’t expecting. I don’t know if it’s from the hangover he’s fighting or if I truly offended him.
Planning my words out carefully, I take a moment before speaking. “I’m saying you’re certainly not sober all the time.”
His gaze is hotter than the sun against my skin. I’m itching to fill the awkward silence between us, not wanting him to be angry with me. When I first agreed to take part in this tour, I didn’t think I’d give a damn about what Nash thought of me, but now I’m in a place where it would eat at me if I knew he was upset with me.
Founded on Goodbye: A Rockstar Romance Page 11