by L.J. Shen
Last but not least, Winslow was the most antiauthority mainstreamist in Hollywood. Not too long ago, he was arrested for DUI, and I hated, despised, loathed drugs and alcohol. Which basically meant that our “organ transplant,” as Jenna had referred to it, would likely result in two casualties and one epic failure.
I cradled my face in my hands, letting out a breath.
“This is the part where you say something.” Jenna’s cherry red lips twitched.
I cleared my throat and straightened my posture.
Time to put on your big girl panties and make sure they stay dry for three months, despite him looking like Sean O’Pry’s hottest brother.
“I promise to keep him safe and sound, Ms. Holden.”
“Good. Oh, and I’m going to say this once to keep my conscience clear: don’t fall in love with the guy. He’s not the white picket fence type.” Jenna waved a hand and scrolled her phone, pressing her thumb onto it and making a call.
“I’ll try my best.” My jaw muscles twitched as I swallowed a sneer. Alex Winslow was beautiful in a way storms were—only from afar. Just like them, he had the power to sweep and ruin you, two things I was too busy surviving to entertain.
“If your best is good enough, then you should survive this. I’ll have my assistant print out the paperwork. Any questions?” She fired some instructions on the other line to said assistant, then ambled toward the door.
“When are we leaving for his tour?” I peeked over my shoulder, my fingernails burrowing into the armrest.
“Wednesday.”
“That’s two days away.”
“Good at math.” She sneered. “That’s an unexpected plus. I’ll get the paperwork. The tour is called ‘Letters from the Dead’ and is supposed to revive his career. Be right back.”
I remembered that song. It was the soundtrack to my senior year, when everything looked so final and wrong.
Love is just a fraud,
Excuse me for being goddamn bold,
You asked me to believe,
As if I had some fucks to give.
With the door closing behind her, I sat back and blew a lock of blue hair away from my face. Crazy laughter bubbled in my throat, eager to pour out.
I was going to make three hundred thousand dollars and hang out with the biggest rock star in the world for three months. I looked up, and the chandelier winked at me mischievously.
I thought it was a sign.
My soul was dying.
It wasn’t an exaggeration.
It bled the last of my hopes and dreams onto the sticky floor, smeared in cigarette ash and pussy juice. My mobile chimed with a text message, forcing me to peel my gaze from the ceiling.
Unknown
Hey, Alex!
Me
Arse pic/ tit pic/ face pic.
Unknown
???
Me
You got my number. That means whoever gave it to you told you I don’t sext without checking the assets beforehand.
Unknown
This is Elsa from The Brentwood Club. You are supposed to make an appearance tonight for the fundraising evening event for children with ASD. I contacted you directly to extend my gratitude…
I was doing something for free tonight. Why was I doing something for free tonight? Most nights, I didn’t even do stuff for money. In fact, it’d been a long time since I’d done shite. At all.
Fuck my manager, Blake, and my agent, Jenna, and my life, sideways scissors-style, for making me leave my room, my sanctuary, my personal space. And fuck Elsa, who now knew my true colors—fifty shades of dick.
“Oi, Waitrose. A new charity case.” I threw my mobile at Lucas, who caught it in the air, groaning. Technically speaking, Lucas was my drummer, so covering my arse was not part of his jurisdiction. But Lucas—dubbed Waitrose after the fancy supermarket chain he grew up posh enough to afford—was notoriously nice to Suits. Me, I hated Suits. Loathed them. Because when you’re a rock star and make a crap ton of money, everyone wants a piece of the pie. A pie you baked. With ingredients you bought. None of the Suits had given a shit about me when I sat, day in and day out, outside King’s Cross tube station with Tania, my acoustic Tatay, and played, and begged, and shoved demos into people’s hands just to watch them slam-dunking them to the nearest bin. None of the Suits were there when I knocked on doors in the pouring rain, and pleaded in the bitter snow, and bargained, and argued, to get myself heard. They also weren’t there when I got booed in Glastonbury three years in a row opening for bigger bands, or when mostly-empty beer cans were thrown my way for a good laugh, or when a drunk girl puked on my only pair of shoes trying to tell me I sounded like a Morrissey knockoff.
They weren’t there when I sold my soul to some other Suits, who thought I was really talented but wanted, “poppy, short, catchy, with a flare!”, and I caved in and gave it to them. Told you my soul was dying. Or maybe it simply belonged to other people. Either way, I needed a new one. Unfortunately, it was one of the rare things my money couldn’t buy.
I hated everyone I worked with. Record companies, executives, producers, PR staff, marketing mavericks, big corporations using me as their spokesperson, and basically every single cunt who’d ever asked for a raise because they thought they were oh-so vital to the Alex Winslow brand. Newsflash: I was the brand.
I’d bought the ingredients.
I’d baked the pie.
I was going to eat the fucking pie.
All of it. Every single crumb and lick of filling. Mine.
My reluctance to share was, among other reasons, what branded me as a disreputable arsehole in the media. To say I didn’t give two shits was an insult to said shits. The tabloids weren’t my friends, and the day I’d invite a paparazzo to take a picture of me was the day hell froze over and Katy Perry released a decent song. I was still voted Nicest Celebrity to Fans three consecutive years, and that was genuine, and real, and true. I loved my fans. Harder than I loved the money or fame or pussy that came along with them.
“Mate. I can’t believe you tried to sext a fifty-year-old chairwoman of a non-profit organization. Have you no shame?” Lucas nudged my shoulder with his foot, his thumbs already flying across my touch screen furiously, offering a profound apology in my name. I didn’t even know why. At this point, my image was as wholesome as a Serbian war zone. Waitrose huffed but still cleaned up after my shit. It was partly why I kept him on my payroll.
I didn’t like him. I barely even tolerated him after everything that had gone down two years ago.
We were all sprawled on my auburn velvet sofa. I’m saying ‘mine,’ but really, it belonged to the Chateau Marmont. I stayed at the cottage-styled room whenever I was in L.A. Which, granted, was seven months out of the year, but I refused to call this place my home. Los Angeles was like a B-Grade prostitute. She let anyone in, looked less than average, and once inside, you realized there was too much traffic and that whoever’d been there before you had left a mess. Add to this the pollution and white-toothed starlets who wanted to ride your anything—be it your knob, reputation, or black American Express card—and what did you get? My very own definition of hell.
I lit another cigarette and flipped through the channels. Reality show. Cooking show. Makeover show. TMZ. A bunch of people renovating a house and crying about it. A fake-tanned bird having a meltdown over her wedding invitations, which were sent in the wrong shade of pink. I threw the remote across the room. It crashed against the flat screen, cracking it into a spiderweb impression. No one batted an eyelash.
Alfie, my bass guitarist, farted. Then he said, “I need to scratch my arse, but I’m too knackered to move.”
“I need to fuck, but I’m too knackered to go to the hotel bar,” Blake countered, lying. He only had eyes for one girl, and she was the wrong girl.
“I’m sure Lucas is a willing candidate. Getting fucked over is his national sport.” Alfie snorted, to which Blake responded by flicking his ear.
Why they were tir
ed, I had no clue. At this point, we were collecting sleeping hours like they were antique typewriters. Dutifully. Indulgently. The next three months were gonna be rough.
I grabbed my mobile, since Lucas was done successfully extinguishing another fire I’d created, and scrolled down my contacts list. I’d had a few dozen regular bells in L.A., but I didn’t want to wine and dine any of them, and that was a problem. They all nurtured some kind of a celebrity career, and they all wanted me to walk hand in hand with them at The Grove or stroke their cheeks adoringly at The Ivy. Unfortunately, I’d rather ram my cock into a roughly-opened tin than humor their millennial dreams, which made my sex life about as exciting as a beige painted wall. I didn’t do groupies—respected my fans too much—and didn’t do romance—ex-girlfriend from hell, more about that later—and that meant I’d normally settled on what I called ‘Compromise Pussy.’ Lonely stewardesses, mid-thirties career women sitting at the Chateau’s bar, and the passing tourist who didn’t care who I was. They weren’t always the best looking, but at least they didn’t make me feel like the plastic product my record company had shaped me into.
The doorbell rang. Maybe God had heard me and sent a bodiless cunt. Another thing I’d pay good money for and wasn’t for sale—note to self: Google pocket pussy. Apparently, it is a thing.
“Expecting anyone?” Alfie gathered phlegm in his throat and spat it into an ashtray on the coffee table. Wanker had the manners of a used tampon.
I continued scrolling my mobile, ignoring him.
“Mate.” Lucas shoved his foot into my chest—again—lying across from me, using one of his drumsticks to scratch his back under his tee. “Are you too famous to answer people’s questions now? Who’s at the door?”
“The Grim Reaper. Or Jenna. Same difference.” I took a swig of my Coke—the drink, not the drug—regrettably—my finger halting over a name on my phone.
Fallon.
Fuck you, Fallon.
And I was. Going to fuck her, that is. Again. But this time on all fours, after she had my name tattooed across her ankle like a shackle, a punishment for what she’d done. I had a book-long list of things I wanted from Fallon Lankford, and she was going to give them to me, because deep down, she still loved me. It was etched on her face. The face that kept transitioning with the years to fit Hollywood’s standards: puffier lips, smaller nose, longer eyelashes. I remembered the girl behind the mask, and she was crazy about me. Problem was, she was crazier about fame.
Blake stood up, stalking to the door. He looked like he was going to war, every muscle in his body tight with frayed nerves. Blake and Jenna never saw eye to eye, and I never saw the point in making them play nicely. I heard murmurs from the entrance. Growls, huffs, and then the metallic chuckle Jenna produced when she wanted to spit in your face. A few seconds later, they both marched in, a third person trailing behind them.
A girl.
A girl I didn’t know.
Another bloody babysitter.
She floated into the apartment, on the shiny dark wood, the blond hue of the many lamps in the room illuminating her teardrop-shaped face, and all I could think about was how fast I was going to get rid of her arse. She looked…fine. Not my taste. Jenna went for the ones who weren’t quite so pretty as to make me want to bang them harder than the bottom of a ketchup bottle, but still pretty enough for me to tolerate. This one was significantly smaller than a normal human being. Thumbelina-tiny, with olive skin, flat chest, and pointy little nose. Long icy-blue hair—if I wanted a hipster, I’d pluck one from the thousands of screaming fans trying to smuggle their way backstage—and I wasn’t entirely sure what she was wearing, but I found it senseless to believe she actually paid for it. A vintage orange dress with flared cuffs and floral embroidery barely covered her knobby knees. Why the fuck did I know what any of these terms meant, you might wonder? Because my soulless arse did Armani and Balmain campaigns to support a cocaine habit that made Charlie Sheen look like a Boy Scout.
Welcome to my mess, New Girl. It’s a bumpy ride from here on out.
I took another swig of my Coke, then ground my teeth. New Girl was going to be Old News in a week, max, just like the rest of the sitters who’d accepted the position before her. I’d make sure of it. My thumb almost pressed Fallon’s name—almost—before I tucked the phone into my back pocket with a frown.
Not now.
Not here.
Not in front of all these wankers.
Jenna, the number one ballbuster in North America, folded her arms over her chest and awarded me with a look that could freeze hell and its neighboring sections. “Hello, Al. Are you going to continue the fart-fest on the sofa or come say hello to your new employee?”
I respected Jenna. She was the one Suit who’d never ask for a sexual favor or for a photo-op or for a fucking pony for her birthday. Which was why I’d agreed to her attaching a nanny for “Letters from the Dead” in the first place. The position was supposed to have been filled two months ago when I initially left rehab, but of course, I had to make the first nine quit in tears, and one moved to another state in a bid to put some space between us. I’d hoped that by the eighth, Jenna would give up on the idea altogether, but Jenna wasn’t much of a quitter.
Thing was, I was a stubborn bastard, too.
Reluctantly, I scraped my arse from the settee, ambling in their direction.
“For the record”—I puffed my cigarette, shotgunning it from my nostrils like an angry bull—“Alfie is the one in charge of the questionable aroma. He can’t stay away from Mexican food when in L.A.”
“Damn right, I can’t.” Alfie cackled from the sofa, peppering the sentence with a burp. “Tacos for World Peace! I should start a nonprofit organization.”
I offered New Girl my hand. I was six something. She was five nothing. She was practically at eye level with my crotch, which would have been very convenient if it wasn’t for the fact I wanted nothing to do with her. She dragged her head up to meet my gaze. Her eyes, a different shade of blue from her hair, were dark. And wild. Deep like a well-written riff.
Not completely bland. Good for you, love.
“Alex Winslow.”
“Indie Bellamy.”
“Your name is Indie?” My eyes ran her length from the floor up. Her tiny, sweaty palm tried to squeeze my big, cold one.
“Indigo. After the color.”
“Hardly making it better,” I quipped. She’d officially lost my attention, though, and I tossed the still-lit fag out the open window and propped my forearm against the wall, mentally rummaging my mind to find what I wanted to ask Jenna about. Something about a commercial I was shooting mid-year. Versace? Pepsi? Like it made any difference.
“Glad you think so. I’ve been anxiously waiting to hear what you think of my name,” Indie said.
She was still here.
She was still here, and she’d answered back.
What the fuck?
Jenna shifted in my peripheral, scooping her mobile from her Hermès bag and pointing between us with the device. “You two, get to know each other, but not too well, and definitely with your clothes still on. I have a phone call to make. Be right back.” Her heels punctuated the floor with noisy thwacks! all the way to the patio.
Indigo’s gaze clung to my face, not unlike a puppy. I glared back, because I was a petty fuck, and because staring competitions were apparently my forte, along with sexually harassing middle-aged charity chairwomen in text messages.
“Hey.” I leaned down, my lips finding the shell of New Girl’s ear. She didn’t shiver, and most nannies did. It caught me slightly off-guard, but not enough to deter me from my mission. “Wanna know a secret?”
New Girl didn’t answer, so I took it as a sign to continue, “I wet my bed at night. Every. Single. Night. But with the tour jitters and all, I properly piss all over the place. Sometimes it mixes with the spunk from the last girl I rolled between the sheets. Sometimes her juices are a package deal, too. I always ask my assistants
to make my bed because, unlike the hotel staff, they actually sign a non-disclosure. Think you can manage that, little one?”
I straightened, examining her face. This was the point where their eyes widened, their mouths fell open, and their faces paled. Not with this one. No. New Girl’s smile was sun-bright and type-two-diabetes sugary.
“Mr. Winslow, I’d be more than happy to purchase a pack of adult diapers for you. In fact, I think they’d suit you just fine, considering your behavior.”
Where had Jenna found this girl, and how could I send her back to whatever hellhole she’d come from before she boarded the plane with us on Wednesday? I smirked, my elbow still against the wall, raking my callused fingers through my long hair.
“Do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into?” I dropped the bemused tone. Playtime was over the minute she got cheeky.
“Actually, I do.” She took a step forward. “I’m getting myself out of a really bad financial situation, which means your antics mean nothing to me. I need the money. I’ll see these three months through and keep you sober, no matter what.”
“You don’t know what ‘what’ entails, so I wouldn’t go around making promises if I were you.”
Her eyes flashed theatrically, and I was beginning to really lose my patience with this one. “Here I am, making a promise. Sue me, Mr. Winslow.”
Don’t fucking tempt me, New Girl.
I took a wide step, erasing the space between us, and now her small tits brushed against my stomach. Her eyes were kindled with enough determination to burn down the hotel. I was on the verge of tossing her out to the balcony with my very own hands when Saint Lucas, AKA Waitrose, appeared from behind my shoulder, stretching his arm toward her and saving her day.