Midnight Blue

by L.J. Shen

  “We need to keep him offline and away from the tabloids,” Lucas said, adding, “and make sure there are no paparazzi or journalists anywhere near him.”

  “The second part is a piece of cake. Alex is known for being a cagey motherfucker. But how do you tell a bloody grown-up not to go online?”

  “You give him a reason he can’t argue with.” Lucas’ voice flirted with panic, and I tried desperately to connect all the dots in the conversation.

  Blake let out an exaggerated sigh. “Sometimes it feels like I’m raising a goddamn baby. Remember the Tamagotchis? Alex is like having a hundred of them chained to your neck.”

  Five minutes later, the British Tamagotchi walked inside, and Blake handed me my electronic room key, instructing me to be at the lobby at 6:00 p.m. Normally, he’d explained, there were a lot of rehearsals involved, but this tour required a sound check and a mostly-sober singer. When I walked into my suite—the whole floor had been reserved for Alex Winslow and his crew—the first thing I did was fall headfirst onto the queen-sized mattress and make a bed angel with a squeak. I choked the creamy satin sheets between my fingers and moaned. Every muscle in my body was tense from the long flight, and I didn’t even have the strength to admire the marble floors or golden-framed murals of the desert hanging on the walls. All I wanted was to fall asleep and wake up three months from now.

  My phone buzzed in my hand. I stared at it through narrow eyes, as if it were a living thing and we were having a heated argument. Lucas had helped connect me to a network and the Internet. Not that it mattered. The screen on my personal phone was cracked and I couldn’t see anything, including who was calling. I pressed my phone to my ear and inwardly prayed it wasn’t my credit company.

  “Hello?”

  “Indie, it’s Nat! I just wanted to know everything’s okay,” she sang from the other line. What was the time in Los Angeles? The middle of the night was my educated guess. I rolled to my back, staring at the high, arched ceiling and wondering how come all the beautiful things in the world came with a hefty price tag.

  This hotel.

  The money I was going to get paid.

  Alex’s seemingly miserable life.

  “Everything’s awesome.” My voice pitched high, and I mustered a smile just so she could hear it. My family didn’t need to know I was being semi-bullied by a rock legend. They had bigger issues to deal with.

  “Are they treating you well?”

  “The best,” I confirmed. Liar, liar, pants on fire. But if there ever was a white, pretty, hurts-nobody lie, it was this one.

  “Did you hear about Winslow? Well, I guess they were talking about it the whole flight…” Nat fished. I wrinkled my nose, eyeing the mini bar from across the room. Life was too short not to eat minibar food on a billionaire rock star’s dime.

  “Nope. He’s not much of a talker. I doubt he’d address it even if people claimed he was an alien who came here to suck the life out of nuns. Why? What’s up?”

  “The thing that’s up is his dong, girl. A Hollywood starlet had her phone hacked—hell, if I can even remember who—and of course, she just happened to have saved pictures of Winslow’s cock. Apparently, horses have nothing on this dude. They showed some pixelated images on TMZ, but it could have been his arm for all I know.”

  I chuckled into my fist, feeling my cheeks staining red. Classic Nat. Before she became a mother and a wife, she’d been a funny, happy-go-lucky cheerleader who was always down for a good dick pic.

  “So, seeing as you’re single and he’s single and you’re both hot and you’re about to spend three months together on the road, I’d love a confirmation of that rumor.”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” I muttered.

  “Why not, Indie? At least think about it. If you love riding your bike so much, just imagine what riding a celebrity would feel like.”

  “Hardly the same thing.”

  “How do you know? You’ve never ridden a celebrity.”

  I’d never ridden anyone, and hell if I was going to start with Mr. Cocky Rock Star. Not that I was a virgin. I’d slept with my one and only boyfriend junior year before…before I’d lost my libido. Men had been low on my priority list since my family had crumbled.

  I glanced at the time on the overhead clock. Half past five. I needed to take a shower and make it to the lobby in time for the pickup to the arena. How the hell Alex and the guys were supposed to do a show after a long flight, I didn’t know. Then again, they were professionals, even if they never acted like it.

  “Gotta go. Send the boys my love. Also, please email me pictures of Ziggy. I’ll find a laptop sooner or later. I miss him already.”

  “He misses you, too. Have fun and take pictures.”

  “I will.”

  “Of his dick.”

  “I won’t,” I deadpanned.

  “’Least I tried. Love you. Go forth and prosper.”

  “All the love, Miss Horny O’rgasm. Ciao.”

  The big irony was that the opportunity to see Alex Winslow’s privates presented itself an hour and a half after I hung up with my sister-in-law.

  We were hanging out backstage before the first gig of the tour. To my surprise, Alex didn’t ask for a lot of riders. The dressing rooms were spacious and clean, platters of fruit and bottled water lined over rows of white-clothed tables, but that was the extent of it. No alcohol. No fancy food. No Jacuzzis. No strippers swinging on wrought iron chandeliers. Winslow was humble by nature. He only hired people who were considered close childhood friends, which was probably the only positive attribute to his otherwise tyrannical personality.

  I was shadowing his every move in the Sydney arena and he, in return, played a game called let’s-tell-everyone-Indie-is-my-psycho-fan. Every time we passed by a colleague, an assistant, or a technician, he pointed at me with a serious expression and said, “Can someone please call security to escort her out? This bird’s been following me everywhere and she isn’t exactly my taste.” I ignored him, knowing full well that by not answering back, I was brewing a mini heart attack or developing multiple ulcers.

  Don’t feed the troll, Indie.

  The rest of his band was in their dressing rooms, drinking pop and warming up.

  “Why do I play for the only rock star in the world who actually tries to stay sober?” Alfie moaned from his room at some point, loud enough for all of us to hear.

  Blake was talking on the phone and pacing back and forth in the hallway next to us, and Alex looked like he was patiently waiting for the world to end. He was perched on a loveseat, frowning at his guitar like it let him down by not producing fresh, original tunes for him to use. At some point, he got up and walked aimlessly down the hall. The warm-up band on the other end of the blackened curtain was well into their fourth song, and Alex winced every time the lead singer referred to the crowd as “babes.” Other than that, his cool demeanor never once cracked or wavered, at least not until he took a sharp right to a smaller, narrower hallway and I stood up silently, following him to the restroom.

  “And where do you think you’re going?” Alex sneered.

  Alex turned on his heel, staring me down like I was a rancid cloud he couldn’t get rid of. To him, it probably wasn’t that far from the truth, which made my physical reaction toward him even more pathetic. Every time he looked at me, I felt warmer. Like his eyes were sunrays, caressing, kissing, and melting my logic and inhibitions away. Don’t get me wrong, I still hated him with passion I usually reserved for political villains who started world wars, but those rich amber irises weren’t even bedroom eyes. They were everywhere eyes. I bet girls let him bend them over in every single room in the house, be it the kitchen, bathroom, or the garage. And let’s admit it, maybe even the front yard for the whole world to watch.

  “You can’t go to the bathroom alone, especially before a show. I’m required to accompany you to make sure you don’t do drugs. You’d know that if you bothered to read the manual.” I squared my shoulders, bracing m
yself for another argument. The sound technicians were walking back and forth between us. They skipped the heaps of cables snaking on the floor and nodded at Alex nervously like he was the principal of their strict, Catholic school.

  “What if I have to take a shit?” Alex jerked his chin up, watching me through the length of his nose. His droopy, everywhere eyes shone with amusement.

  I crossed my arms, jutting one hip out. “Then I’ll have to remind myself of how much I need the money and hope to God you don’t share the love for spicy food with Alfie.”

  He chuckled, shaking his head, and resumed walking. I followed him. He walked fast. Maybe it was because he was skyscraper tall. Or maybe because he’d found another way to make my life less easy. Either way, my ragged breath made him smirk as I tried to catch up with him.

  “You’ll have to see my cock,” he said mid-stride, his back to me.

  I was practically running at this point. “I’ll close my eyes.”

  “That’d beat the purpose of making sure I don’t snort a line or two.”

  “I’ve seen penises before. Yours is nothing special.”

  Did I just say the word ‘penises’? I did. Why? I’m not seventy. Or a prude. Though I can see why he’d think that.

  “Wrong. So wrong. Probably the wrongest thing you’ve ever said. How many?”

  “Excuse me?”

  He stopped by the restroom door, which was only a few feet from the VIP ring. The scent of cigarettes, beer, and hot dogs crept into my nostrils and settled there, and I wondered how he must feel, smelling liquor and not being able to take a sip.

  Crap. He probably feels like crap. And you’re only making it worse.

  “How many cocks have you seen in your life?” His neutral gaze swept over my body. “I mean, you’re, what? Eighteen? Nineteen? And you also look like a lot of work, so I’m guessing between two to four.”

  “Firstly”—I lifted my thumb—“I’m twenty-one, old enough to drink in every country in the world that serves alcohol, which is good, because working with you, I’ll surely need it. Secondly”—I lifted my index finger, even though I’d lied through my teeth—I wasn’t gonna drink. Not tonight and not ever—“it’s none of your business how many penises I’ve seen, or how many men I’ve slept with. If I like to be hung by my nipples from the ceiling or spooned by a gentle lover while cuddling a teddy bear, it’s not for you to know. Last but not least”—I offered him my middle finger on a sweet smile—“I really can’t stress this enough, but I’ll try—your little mind games are not going to work. I’m keeping this job. Get used to me.”

  We stared at each other for a long moment before Alex slammed his balled fist to the door behind me. The door swung open with a bang, and we slipped in. I pressed my back against it, staying as far away from him as I physically could, while he coolly unzipped his low-hanging jeans and took his cock out over the toilet seat. My eyes were hard on the wall. The sound of his urine pouring into the water filled my ears and my throat bobbed with a swallow.

  Nat’s words came back and haunted me like a bad haircut from the eighties. An irrational need to check the goods took over me. It wasn’t like he minded. According to the rumors, his dick had seen more cameras than Kendall Jenner. Slowly—so painfully slowly—my eyes drifted down his sinewy body. I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about. Whatever I had in mind, though, didn’t come close to the real thing. Thick, long but not atrocious. With thin veins running through its length.

  “Nice view?” he groaned, tucking his junk back into his briefs. His profile was glorious. Strong jaw, pouty lips, eyes like sex…

  My eyes snapped up when I realized he was talking to me. “I wasn’t…”

  “Looking? Yes, you were. Next time take a picture. It lasts longer.” He rolled his zipper upward and flushed the toilet with the toe of his boot. He turned around and squirted soap into his palm, washing his hands almost violently—rubbing between each finger and scratching his knuckles like he wanted to shed his own skin. When he was done, he looked around for a towel.

  I cleared my throat, scrambling to regain my wits. “Longer than the glimpse or longer than your performance?”

  Casually—so unbearably casually—he wiped his wet hands over my purple dress. I gasped, moving sideways. It looked like he was about to open the door and get out, but before I had the chance to yell at him for using me as a human towel, he slammed me against the wall, bracing both his arms above my head and pinning me to my spot. I let out a shriek of surprise at the sudden proximity.

  Alex Winslow is touching me. Willingly, my surprisingly pitiful brain squealed.

  Heat rolled off his body, making my back arch and my breath catch in my throat.

  “Let’s make one thing clear—I could fuck you to a point of numbness without even breaking a sweat if I wanted to. Now, careful, New Girl. If you don’t keep your distance from me, I think I just might.”

  I looked up and smiled, ignoring how pale I must’ve been. Inside, my heart thrust against my ribcage, wounded but defiant. It’d never been this way before. So…wild. Like an entity of its own. My heart wanted to rebel, and I wanted to fight back, which could only result in trouble.

  Slow down, heart.

  Relax, heart.

  Take a deep breath, heart.

  “Are you done?” I hissed.

  “Are you?”

  Why did he want me gone so badly? The idea of asking him had occurred to me more than once, but I always came to the same conclusion. No one would want someone shadowing their every step and watching them take a piss before a show.

  “No,” I said.

  “Then neither am I.” He pushed off the wall, giving me his back while lacing his fingers through his hair. And it was true, what they wrote in all the romance novels Nat read in dangerous quantities. Because when he walked away, I felt the loss of him everywhere.

  My body.

  My skin.

  The pit of my stomach where lust resided, dormant and napping.

  “Aren’t you going to wish me luck?” He grabbed the handle and opened the door, his shoulder bumping into someone else’s. He didn’t slow down. Alex Winslow was a tornado, impacting everything and everyone on his way to destruction.

  “Break a leg,” I croaked. The light seeped through the black curtain of the stage, making his hair shimmer gold. Jesus’ pinnacle. I closed my eyes and glued my forehead to the wall, inhaling.

  I told my heart to stop beating so fast one last time. It didn’t listen.

  Twenty minutes after Alex took the stage, I headed into his dressing room, intending to catch up on some sleep. The jet lag was kicking my ass all the way back to North America, and I knew I needed to ride it out, but surely, a power nap wouldn’t be the end of the world. Blake was there, with his back to me, talking on the phone. He couldn’t see me from his position, which was probably why he was yelling and flinging his arms around. I took a deep breath, intending on making myself known, but Blake’s voice boomed in the empty room.

  “Yeah, Jenna. Yeah. For the hundredth time, it’s under control. We leaked the photos and now he thinks we don’t want him anywhere near the Internet because of that. All interviews and media access will be denied for the duration of the tour. He doesn’t suspect a thing. He doesn’t even remember the girl who took them.” He paused, listening to Alex’s agent on the other end of the line.

  My blood froze in my veins. They were the ones leaking those pictures?

  Then I remembered the conversation with Lucas. The talk about diversion…about keeping Alex offline. About meeting with Will Bushell…oh, my God.

  “Listen. Listen…listen! Bloody hell, woman. You’ve got balls the size of watermelons. Do you realize it’s quite unattractive? And before you say anything, yes, I am aware your sole purpose in life is not, in fact, to attract me. We bought enough time to recalculate. He won’t check, because he doesn’t give a flying fuck. Or a driving one, for that matter. No fucks at all, by any means of transportation. His
knob could be on the cover of Vogue wearing a beret with a cigarette sticking from the tip and he would probably not even recognize it as he passed by a newsstand. He’s a rock star, Jenna. Not a has-been reality TV loser. No one knows.” Blake rubbed his face, then he turned around and stared right back at me. His phone was still cemented to his ear when he said, “Well, scratch no one. The sitter knows. I’ll deal with her now. Sext me later?”

  The other line went dead by the way Blake groaned. The need to slap him across the face actually made my fingertips tingle, and I didn’t even know why. I didn’t like Alex, but that didn’t mean I was okay with his team wronging him. Hell, I didn’t even want to be a part of said team, and I still thought this was bullshit. The people he trusted were betraying him. Why would they sell him out? Were they trying to sabotage his recovery?

  “It’s not what it looks like.” He held his palms up, his face creasing into a grimace.

  “You sound like a cheating husband, so I’m going to say what any cheated wife would answer: it is exactly what it looks like.” I found my words somewhere in the back of my throat. They came out thick and angry. “Wow. You’re…ungrateful.”

  “You don’t understand how much is at stake here. Alex is obsessed with Fallon. If he finds out she’s engaged to his archenemy, he will go through the mother of all downward spirals. You’ll fail at your job. The tour will be canceled before it even begins. His career will probably be over, not to mention he’ll have to pay millions of dollars for the damages and loss. We can’t just ask him to swear off the Internet for two and a half months without any explanation. We’re doing what we can to help him. Everyone who cares about him is involved. His family, friends, bandmates. Everyone. You fuck it up, and I swear, Indie, you’re going to make a lot of enemies in Hollywood.” He pointed at me with the hand that held his phone.

  I blinked, incredulous, wondering if he was for real.