by L.J. Shen
She stared at me, insolent, her gaze telling me she knew what I was doing. I was pushing her away in a last bid to make her leave, but my heart wasn’t in it anymore. Not all the way, anyway. She was going to stay, whether I liked it or not, and the least I could do for myself was use her until there was nothing left to take. The way Fallon had used me.
“You annoy me so much, sometimes I want to cry,” she gritted through clenched teeth.
I smiled, knowing for a fact I had another set of notes to write down. It was time to finish our session. She’d turned out to be more productive than anticipated. This was all I needed. I’d spend my night writing.
I climbed to my feet, my fingers wrapped around Tania’s neck, and knelt forward, getting into Indie’s face.
“When I finally lay my hands on you—and make no mistakes, Stardust, I will—you will be crying, all right. My name. Over. And. Over. Again.”
Melbourne, Australia
Two days had passed since the hallway.
Two days in which my relationship with Alex somewhat improved, despite his killing every bit of goodwill I had in my body to tell him the truth about the leaked sex photos and Fallon’s engagement. He was no longer actively bullying me. Instead, he chose to ignore me altogether. I shadowed him like a lovelorn puppy, the equivalent of punching my self-respect to death. We spent the next couple days driving from Sydney to Melbourne, with a stop in some desert town that served mean BBQ ribs and iced tea. Alex spent the majority of the drive at the back of the SUV, trying to write and groaning in frustration. Sometimes he was hyper, animated, and conversational. Most times, he was a step away from a sulk. Blake was always on his phone, arguing with Jenna and Hudson, all while throwing me warning glances every now and again. Alfie was in charge of making sure Alex didn’t have Internet access on his phone, a task he took surprisingly seriously. Alex seemed perfectly content being disconnected from the virtual world. Throughout our time together, I noticed he hadn’t made any personal calls, which I thought was peculiar, but also none of my business.
Lucas and I got closer.
Partly because he was the nicest of the bunch, but mostly because my loneliness was starting to feel like a heavy coat I was desperate to peel off my body. Luc was twenty-seven years old. Just like Alex, he was from Watford. His father worked at a local council; his mother was a teacher. He and his two siblings had had a dog named Harvey. He’d known Alex ever since they were kids, and moved to Los Angeles from London only three years ago, after he broke his engagement to Laura, a girl back home. Apparently, Alex had had a thing with Laura when they were teenagers. And apparently, Lucas was still somewhat bitter about it. The SUV was driven by the same silent dude who’d picked us up from the airport.
“Alex loves to tell the story of how he took Laura’s virginity, and I took her baggage,” Lucas said as we zipped through the desert.
I put my hand on his arm and squeezed.
“I’m sorry.” I meant it, but Lucas looked far from devastated. He occasionally threw glances at Alex, as if trying to gauge his reaction.
“Don’t be,” Alfie chimed in from behind us, where he sat with Alex. “Winslow said it once—once—and he was just taking the piss. Besides, I reckon Waitrose was over her before she pulled her knickers up after their last shag. You were never into her, mate. We all know that.”
Something passed between the three men—Blake, Alfie, Lucas—a secret, by the way their gazes swept through one another.
Blake chuckled. “Laura’s the least of Lucas’ problems.”
Alex’s curtain of nonchalance was drawn tight today, and he didn’t offer any commentary on the subject.
Rain began to beat on the rooftops and the sky cracked with thunder when we rolled into Melbourne. It looked different from Sydney. Older, maybe. We went through the motions. Circling around the hotel for a good twenty minutes before the road was clear. Again, Alex stopped to sign fans’ shirts and mementos, squinting against the rain with a smile. Blake distributed our electronic cards. A floor had been closed and reserved for Alex Winslow and his staff. It occurred to me that this was the norm for these guys. To them, this was what a typical day looked like. Was it any wonder they were all cynical and jaded? There was nothing to chain them to the ground, to one place. They floated through life. Gravity meant nothing to them.
“Hey, Indie,” Lucas said when everyone walked into the elevator. Blake was typing a long text message, Alex was moving his guitar strap from shoulder to shoulder and rubbing off the raindrops from his hair, and Alfie was pretending to scratch his nose, even though he was very clearly picking at it.
“Yeah?”
“You up for a stroll? Show’s not until tomorrow, and the rain’s about to stop any minute now.”
I whipped my head in Blake’s direction. I couldn’t take time off and wander around. I had to babysit Alex. Unless Blake was with him, which he was, most of the time. Blake scratched his temple with his most important organ—his phone.
“It’s Saturday, mate. Does she not get any time off at all?” Lucas probed, elbowing him lightly.
Alex dragged his fingers over his jaw, his eyes set on Blake, who flicked his gaze toward the singer.
“Let’s talk about it privately.” Blake remained cryptic, tucking his cell phone into his front pocket and evading Alex’s gaze. It made me feel so uncomfortable my skin crawled.
“Right.” I cleared my throat, every feminist bone in my body demanding I do something about it, no matter how small. “Feel free to discuss your plans about me behind closed doors, where I can’t hear you.”
“That’s the plan,” Alex deadpanned.
“Alex,” Blake warned.
“Don’t ‘Alex’ me. He’s been trying to get into her over-the-top dresses since day one. I’ve had it with this wanker.”
The elevator pinged and we all poured out, walking to our designated rooms. Lucas tagged along with Blake and Alex, with the latter refusing to acknowledge the former’s existence. Alex was pointing at things and naming songs about them. “Elevators” by U2 when we got out; “Stairway to Heaven” when we passed by the emergency staircase; and “God Only Knows” when we passed by a huge painting called Portrait of God.
“Don’t tell our old mates Paul and John I was singing the Beach Boys,” he said, cheerful all of a sudden. “Though I guess they wouldn’t give a toss. It was Brian Wilson who was all pissy with the Beatles’ success, not the other way around.”
“Stop being extra.” Blake snorted a laugh.
“I’m not being extra. I despise everyone equally. You think I don’t have any complaints about the Beatles? They inspired the Bee Gees and Oasis. That ought to be illegal in some countries.”
“Of course, you’ll be the only person on earth who has a problem with the Beatles.” Alfie gathered phlegm in his throat. “Tosser.”
When I was in front of my door, and they were in front of theirs, my instinct told me to turn around and look at them. I did, for no other reason than to see if my intuition was right. Alex peeked over his shoulder, staring me down like I was the enemy. That also meant he wasn’t wearing his usual cool façade, and what I saw on his face was raw.
And disarming.
And unbearably pure.
I blinked, swiping my electronic key and watching the small dot flash green.
For the first time since we’d met, I was the one to close a door on him.
Funny how I thought it would feel good, borderline triumphant, when the only thing I’d tasted on my tongue when the door closed behind me was defeat.
“No.” I fell into another foreign bed that smelled of a different detergent, downing an entire bottle of water. “And that’s my final answer, so you can drag your sorry arse to the other side of the floor and lick your wounds in private where I can’t see you.”
Blake and Lucas were standing over me, their faces suggesting I was being unreasonable when, in fact, reason was definitely on my side. I didn’t fault Lucas for wanting to
shag Stardust. She was, as it turned out, quite shag-able. But if I could ruin something for him, I’d gladly do so. Two years ago, when I’d gone on tour and Fallon had stayed in L.A., Lucas—whom I employed and supported, whom I’d grown up with, whom I shared a flat, and a car, and sometimes a toothbrush with—was there to make sure she’d be as close as she possibly could to Will Bushell. I didn’t know why, but my guess was it had something to do with Laura. I’d slept with Laura long before she was on Lucas’ radar. Long before he’d even properly met her. I guess he’d gotten to L.A. fresh out of the ruins of his engagement, felt vindictive and bitter, and decided to take it out on yours truly.
And so, in a straight-to-cable movie villain move, Lucas had befriended Fallon, become one of her closest people, and pushed her deeper into Will Bushell’s arms every day I was away.
Lucas didn’t rest until Bushell’s claws had wrapped around her completely.
When I think about it, Waitrose had no place on my tour at all. He was a deceiving, two-faced cunt. But when Will started dating Fallon, the whole group had fallen apart and I’d needed to assimilate all our mutual friends and make sure they were on my side.
So, really, having Lucas around wasn’t about Lucas. It was about Will not having any relationship with Lucas, or anyone else we grew up with. If I could shag Will’s mum to get her to disown him, I would. But it was too much of an effort, and besides, I liked Will’s dad—save for his strange love for Manchester United. Fuck them.
Anyway, the point was, Lucas wasn’t going to screw my hanny—hot nanny.
“Why not?” Blake asked.
I looked up. Since when did Blake care about anything that wasn’t managing my career and trying to ram his knob into my agent?
“Lucas knows why,” I ground out.
Blake did, too. He constantly talked me off the ledge when the urge to fire Waitrose spontaneously struck me.
“Actually, I don’t,” Lucas said, folding his arms over his chest while resting his shoulder against the door. “Please elaborate.”
“It’s about you throwing Fallon at Will to get back at me for Laura.”
“You need to stop this bullshit. Fallon was a grown-up. She chose Will.”
“Fallon was an addict. She chose whoever was more beneficial to her at that point in time,” I retorted.
“That why you want her back? What a bloody catch. A woman who goes off with whoever would be a better opportunity to her,” Lucas growled. He looked just about as furious as I was, maybe even more so.
“You gave her his phone number, drove her to him when her car broke down, then told Will where to find her. Hell, when she OD’d in my flat, you told Will what hospital she was at while I was on tour. Who does that? Who?”
“A decent human being?” Lucas blinked, feigning innocence. “Will wanted to support a friend in need. You were on a bus heading south, states away. Look, this has nothing to do with Indie.”
I jumped from the bed, the energy coursing through me too much to maintain stillness. My body was tight from the long car ride and stretching it by beating Lucas sounded just about the most appealing thing I could do. “Save it, Saint Lucas. I don’t believe you. No, you can’t take Indie out. No, you can’t flirt with her, pursue her, or have sex with her. She’s mine.”
“You don’t even like her!” Lucas pushed me, and I pushed back. What the fuck did liking her have to do with anything?
“I’m still going to have her.” My taunting smile made an appearance. “But don’t worry, I’ll let you know how she tastes. After all, we’re mates, aren’t we?”
Blake jumped between us, as if on cue.
“All right, lads. That’s enough pissing testosterone at each other’s leg for one day.”
“I’m going to fuck her.” I stared at Lucas, who was grabbing at his hair, pulling it in frustration. Welcome to Random Acts of Meanness. It’s just like kindness, but for cunts. Every muscle in my body flexed as I braced myself for a brawl. Lucas’ pain was real, and it surprised me. Why did he care about New Girl so much? He barely knew her. “I’m going to fuck her and make sure she’s completely ruined for you. Now, how about that, Waitrose?”
He sucked in a breath and stormed out.
I laughed all the way to the bath and didn’t even want to drown myself when I stepped into it. Not today.
Today, I lit up a fag, stared at the ceiling, and thought about another fitting song, exhaling from my nostrils.
“Smoke on the Water.”
Jenna: Indigo. It’s Jenna.
Indie: Hi, Jenna. Please call me Indie!
Jenna: Hudson is in this chat, too. Is this okay, Indigo?
Indie: …
Indie: Yeah, absolutely.
Jenna: How’s Alex doing?
Indie: Reluctantly sober.
Hudson: Hi, Indie! I heard Alex’s been writing with you.
Jenna: ???
Hudson: He stayed up all night writing. Said he had a breakthrough. He voice-messaged me about it at four in the morning Australia time.
Jenna: He is a rock star. He doesn’t need sleep. That’s good. Indigo, tell us about it.
Indie: Nothing much to tell. He’s just asking me stuff about my life, mostly. I can’t see what he’s writing, and asking him is futile.
Hudson: Duh. Alex hates questions. Mostly rhetorical, though he is not a huge fan with straightforward ones, either. Which doesn’t bode well for me as his PA.
Jenna: Hudson—you’re blabbing. Indigo—report back. And soon.
Indie: It’s INDIE.
Hudson: Bye, Indiana.
The knock on the door startled me.
A safety pin pricked my fingertip, and I sucked the blood between my lips, rising up from my sewing corner by the window. Yeah, I was the girl who packed a mini sewing machine to a trip around the world. I always made myself dresses, because buying the kind I loved would cost a small fortune. Clara, my ex-employer, was kind enough to give me leftover fabric every time she worked on a piece. And she always had leftovers, which meant I always walked around looking like I was ready for a Victorian ball.
I opened the door expecting to see Blake. Whenever Blake had to leave the hotel room he shared with Alex, he would either call me or show up at my room while Alfie or Luc babysat the rock star, silently watching me put on my Oxfords as I grunted to myself with displeasure. This time, it wasn’t Blake. It was Lucas.
“Hey.” His hands were tucked in his front pockets and his smile was apologetic, like he knew he shouldn’t be here.
“They let you come here. That’s a huge step. Maybe I’ll be allowed to vote next.”
Lucas rubbed the back of his head, then moved his palm to his face and scrubbed his mouth.
“Blake was never the problem. He doesn’t care about much other than his phone, and maybe Jenna. Alex, on the other hand…he’s got a bit of an anger issue.”
“You don’t say.” I sighed, poking my head out the doorway to make sure Winslow wasn’t there, ready for an ambush.
“He has his reasons, Indie. Give him a chance.”
A chance at what? I decided not to ask.
“I don’t appreciate being treated like trash.”
“No one thinks of you as trash, trust me. This has more to do with me than with you.”
I left Luc at the door, falling onto the queen-sized bed and slipping my shoes on. Five minutes later, we were outside, hailing a taxi and heading downtown. Lucas was not someone you’d recognize. He was the drummer for a solo artist, not a part of a well-known band. But he still looked every bit the rock star, with his deep blue eyes, sculpted face, distressed denim, and pea-soup green blazer. His red-brown hair was messy to a fault—not as tousled as Alex’s, but still rocking the I-just-finished-a-threesome vibe—and I wanted to ask him how they did that. How they always looked like a walking, talking PocketRocket commercial.
Despite the foul weather, downtown Melbourne was bustling with tourists and cyclists. Carriages with couples and packs of teenager
s roamed the streets, flaunting their youth. We grabbed Spanish donuts from a food truck and people-watched, sitting on a bench. Lucas inhaled the food like it was the first time he’d been introduced to the concept of eating. I took my time, mulling over the last few days in my head and mostly feeling guilty about being there. Knowing that thousands of miles away, my brother and sister-in-law were still struggling to make ends meet and counting their discounted pasta packs. But all that would change in just a week and a half, when I was due to get my first paycheck.
“How are you liking your new job so far?” Lucas asked, tossing our paper plates into a nearby trashcan.
I shrugged, following the movement of a teenage couple in beanies kissing under a lamppost in the drizzle. I longed to be in their story, not mine. Mine sucked. Plus, I wanted to sleep with my villain while my prince—Lucas—looked at me so platonically, he made me feel as sexy as a tablecloth.
“I don’t really do all that much. Just pester Alex, basically.” I was about to bite my lower lip but managed to stop myself from doing so.
Lucas shook his head, staring at me, not the crowd, like he was trying to assess something.
“Trust me, you’re not. I mean, maybe you are, but he needs this. I’ve known Alex ever since he was a little lad living in a council house in Watford with his parents and sister. He’s always had a flare for addiction. Don’t mistake the lack of drug and alcohol in his system for sobriety. He’s still very much an addict, consumed by resentment and driven by fury. Just look at the way he talks and reacts to Fallon’s name.”
Every time I heard her name, my heart slowed a little.
“Bad breakup?” I asked. I was sniffing around. Why was I sniffing around? The less I knew about him the better.
Luc shifted on the bench, his velvet tongue peeking out to wet his lips. “You’re not interested in him, are you, Indie?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Answer me with words,” he said.
I stood up, wanting to do something with my legs. With my body. At this point, Googling the hell out of Fallon’s name and finding out what had happened between them was a violent impulse, but my phone screen was cracked, and the new one Jenna gave me was blocked. Besides, how was it smart to nurture whatever fixation I had with the biggest train wreck to walk on earth? One I had to save from himself, by the freaking way.