by L.J. Shen
“Absolutely not,” I snorted out.
“Then why are you asking?” Lucas’ voice was so calm, it was easy to let my wall of defense roll back down.
“Because,” I said, the drummer falling in step with me. We started walking toward the hotel, which turned out to be very close to where we were. “I can’t believe you’re keeping him in the dark about her engagement.”
“It’s for the best, trust me.” He shoved his hands into his pockets again, his signature good-boy posture.
“I don’t think he’d agree.” I shivered slightly. I’d bought a jacket in Sydney, but Melbourne was even colder.
“It’s complicated.”
“What’s complicated?”
“The subject of Fallon. And I do mean the Middle East type of complicated. I shouldn’t even be talking to you about it, because, frankly, I don’t think there’s one person in the world Alex doesn’t blame for their breakup. Other than himself, of course.”
I swiveled to Lucas, still light-jogging to raise my body temperature. “He blames you for their breakup?”
“And he’s partly right.”
“Why?”
“Why do people do stupid things?” Lucas sighed, shaking his head. “Never mind.”
The rest of the walk back to the hotel was silent. My heart was in knots. Rusty wires coiled into themselves around it, making it hard to breathe. Alex had a hidden vulnerability. He was like Halloween. Scary on the outside, but when you looked within, there were good intentions there.
Lucas and I parted ways in the hotel hallway. When I pushed the door to my room open, the first thing I did was collect my hair into a high bun and walk to the kitchenette to get myself a glass of water. When I turned around, I dropped the glass to the floor before the water touched my lips.
Alex.
In my room.
In my kitchenette.
Naked from the waist up, with only a black pair of jeans and dirty boots. Oh, and his guitar. If he could staple it to his back, he would. I was sure of it.
Worse than anything else—he was unsupervised, hence he might’ve relapsed. I took a deep breath, closing my eyes.
“Where were you?” His voice boomed, even though he was not shouting, somehow taking up space like it had a body of its own.
I stole a quick glance at the mini sewing machine, thread and fabrics by the window, and cleared my throat.
“Went to get some Band-Aids. Sewing accident.” I didn’t know what prompted me to lie. Maybe the fact I was partly afraid he’d kick me off the tour. If he did, all the plans I’d made would be flushed down the toilet.
I knew he wouldn’t ask to see the Band-Aids. He was too self-absorbed to even register what I was saying. He was just being a possessive prick. I diverted the subject quickly. “First things first, please tell me you’re sober,” I uttered as calmly as one could, considering my heart beat so fast it nearly blew up on the carpeted floor. At least it was the same red as the lush rug, hence no extra dry-cleaning bill.
“As sober as a Mormon baby.” He made a Scout’s honor signal with his fingers, before flipping me the bird with a grin.
“So now to the burning question—what in the hell are you doing here, Alex?” I dropped to my knees, collecting the sharp pieces of glass.
He was still standing there, stoic as a statue, glaring down at me like I was his subject.
“I mean, Jesus Christ, you can’t just come in here without warning…” I mumbled to myself, feeling my ears pinking.
Don’t look up. You’ll only end up ogling his crotch again.
“The hotel doesn’t offer laundry services today for some bizarre reason, and Blake is busy taking care of the fact my dick is getting more exposure than The Kardashians, also known as ‘Cockgate.’ I don’t have any clean shirts for the show tomorrow.” He waved a ball of black fabric in his fist. Hah. Blake was cleaning up the mess he’d created. The irony wasn’t lost on me. I turned my back to Alex, mainly so my eyes wouldn’t assault his chest. He had the most vivid tattoo I’d ever seen. A black raven, its broken wings shattering into miniscule feathers that peppered his entire back and ribs. Symbolizing the dark, broken angel that he was. I disposed the broken glass in the trash.
“Don’t you have people on call for that? You seemed to be surrounded by them at the Sydney show.” My teeth sank into my lip again. My phone was dancing on the kitchen counter where I’d left it. I knew it was Nat, who’d probably woken up and wanted to check on me. I hated not answering her, but couldn’t risk her listening to our exchange. There was no knowing what’d leave this man’s mouth.
“I do. I don’t like talking to any of them,” Alex confided.
“Pretty sure I’m not your number one conversation partner, either.”
“The devil you know.” He tapped his nose, eyebrows raised, as though he was sharing some great, inspirational advice. “And so, it looks like you’re about to do Alex Winslow’s laundry. Congratulations, and you’re welcome.”
“You can tell Alex Winslow—whom you refer to in the third person for a reason beyond my grasp—that doing his laundry is not in my job description.” I strode over to the vast Roman-styled bathroom, reappearing with a towel to dry off the kitchen floor.
He stood in the same spot like he’d grown roots I would’ve been happy to pluck with my own hands. If he moved slightly, I wouldn’t have to brush my shoulder against his arm to squeeze past him. But, of course, he remained motionless. Our skin touched. I dropped the towel to the floor, ignoring the sizzling nerves where we made contact, and moved the towel back and forth with the tip of my shoe.
“Actually, it is,” he said, his voice saturated with something I didn’t recognize. He was larger than life. A one-man show, even when he was off the stage.
I turned around, my face blank. “Huh?”
“Took the time to read your contract today. Jenna gave Blake an extra copy, and I was bored—you know, no Internet, no drugs, no Hudson to yell at. It’s in your contract to help me with any additional personal assistance services I may require.” He smirked, cocking his head to the side. “Looks like you’re in quite a pickle, Miss Bellamy.”
My eyes widened, and flames of hatred licked at my stomach. Or was it adrenaline? I wasn’t entirely sure. I stomped toward him, grabbing the balled shirt in my hand and waving it at him.
“If you want me to do your laundry, you’re coming with me to watch, because next time, you’ll be doing it yourself. There won’t be a second time, Alex. I’m not your maid.”
“You want me to go to the launderette?” The look he gave me was priceless. Like I’d asked him if he wanted to spontaneously join me in a trip to outer space.
I nodded, throwing his dirty shirt into a paper bag I’d gotten when I’d purchased a jacket. “Now let’s go to your room and pick up the rest of your clothes. We better get going before the clock hits five and all the mortals get off work to do their laundry. It can get pretty chaotic out there.”
I should know. We don’t have a washing machine at home.
“I can’t leave the hotel, you little nutter.” He chuckled—chuckled!—blocking my way to the door. His shoulders were wide and lithe. Still, I was small enough to slip through the gap between his narrow hip and the doorframe, heading for his door.
“You can, and you will.”
“Shit, you’re mental. Did Jenna do the whole check on you? Psychiatric, personality assessment, etcetera?”
Lord, give me strength.
“Save the jokes for someone who finds them funny, Winslow. You’re coming with me.”
“I could get sexually harassed,” he called after me, laughing.
The worst part was, he was vain enough to actually believe it. I threw the door to his room open and started collecting his scattered clothes from the billiard table, kitchen counter, and the TV stand. There were boxers hanging from a lamp. I wished I could charge him extra for picking them up.
“I have a pepper spray in my bag, and I took
some Krav Maga classes last year. Between you and me, we should be good fighting off the thirteen-year-old girls with dubious musical taste who buy your music,” I quipped. It wasn’t fair, nor true. Not only was Alex Winslow one of the best songwriters to grace the earth since Dylan, Springsteen, and Jagger—but he was actually one of the few artists to try to bring something different to the table with every single he released.
“Wait.” Alex braced his arms over the doorpost, frowning. “You think my music sucks?”
I shot him a look. He was different today…lighter. At the very least, he acted like he was making an effort to not be a wanker, as his friends often referred to him. It occurred to me that maybe this was his true self, the one he’d been hiding from me in an attempt to make me leave. And his true self was cute. And funny. Whatever his motives were, I didn’t care. I craved a truce, knowing it would make my job so much more pleasant and eliminate some of the sexual tension that made the little hairs on my arms stand on end every time his brown-green eyes zoned in on me.
“I think your music is great,” I admitted quietly.
He smiled a real smile for the very first time, and Jesus, I wasn’t prepared. His mouth curled upward like Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire. Tough as nails but stunningly beautiful in the most delicate way. How in the world was I going to survive the rest of this tour? I swallowed, scooped the rest of his clothes into two more bags I’d found, and rushed past him through the door. I thought I heard him snickering behind me but didn’t turn around to check.
“Oh my, your fall will be spectacular,” this time he definitely said that.
Considering he’d told me he was going to have sex with me two days ago, I knew exactly what he meant. I needed to throw him off somehow. His hitting on me was nothing short of disastrous, because he was right. If he kept it up, he might succeed, and he was obsessively in love with another girl.
Plus, he was a rock star.
Plus, he was my boss.
Plus, he was a mess.
Plus, we were going to part ways in three months.
I had every reason in the world to stay as far away as my job would allow me.
The elevator ride was silent.
The walk out of the hotel felt like torturous foreplay.
Then the fresh air hit my lungs, and I made up my mind on how to deal with his advances.
“I like Lucas,” I said, pushing the door to the laundromat open.
His mask fell for the second time that day. I knew it without even looking back at him.
The door shut behind us, and I shuddered, keeping my eyes on the washing machines.
“Shouldn’t have said that, darlin’. Challenge accepted, and now you’re in trouble. The kind your innocent arse can’t talk its way out of.”
“Wow. You’re so full of yourself.” Her short, tan feet dangled in the air. She was sitting on top of a washing machine with a “broken” sign plastered on it, staring directly at the one she’d just shoved my clothes into. Hands tucked under her thighs, her indigo eyes fixed on the black mass of fabric spinning lazily through the round glass. I pondered that tan. Her features were quiet and pleasant, like Emma Watson’s. Her tan, I decided, was the product of her L.A. lifestyle. I imagined her cycling around town in a short dress, her hair dancing in the wind. Ignoring my half-mast, I humored her.
“Yeah, well, that’s because people want to be full of me.” I plucked a cigarette from behind my ear and rolled it between my fingers. I needed a fag. But I also needed to get over my sudden infatuation with Miss Bellamy. I was only going to fuck her to get back at Lucas. I was fifty percent certain my interest in her stemmed from the fact she was the only female I had with me on the road. The other fifty was her telling me she wanted to shag Waitrose. Perhaps ‘shag’ wasn’t the right word. Stardust was more of the movies-and-ice-cream type of bird.
Stardust? Stardust. What the fuck!
I was wearing a Burberry cap that Chris, my chavvy mate from home, gave me after I won my first four Grammys—same night. No one recognized me, but that didn’t make me feel less exposed.
“Do you actually believe those things you say?” she asked, pulling at the band that held her blue hair in a bun. Her looks were growing on me every day. Her over-the-top Old Hollywood dresses were intriguing. Her big lips/small teeth situation was undeniably sexy. And I fucking loved that she sassed around like I wasn’t the one calling all the shots here.
“Wholeheartedly.” I parked my hip on the washing machine she was sitting on, scanning her face. “Are you going to ogle my cock tomorrow before the show?”
“If you need to pee, maybe.”
“Then I’ll need to pee,” I said, mentally correcting myself to piss.
She rolled her eyes but smiled. I shifted a little closer to her. The place was growing busier, which wasn’t good news for me.
“Speaking of my cock, what do they say about it in the news? Should I get it an agent? I feel like Jenna is busy with her hotshot clients. I might shop around for someone hungrier who can really make it big.” Every word held some sexual innuendo.
“My phone screen is cracked and I don’t have a laptop. Even if I did have Internet access, your penis would be one of the last things I’d Google. Literally, even after ‘what would a chair look like if your knees bent the other way’.”
Penis. She said “penis” again. How old is this girl?
I gave her an odd look, because she was an odd thing.
She clarified, “It’s suggested in the search bar on Google, believe it or not.”
Shaking my head, I moved on to a saner topic.
“Anything out there I need to know about?” I didn’t do social media. I had millions of followers on Instagram and Twitter, and Blake sometimes posted pictures of me from gigs or at the studio to keep my brand’s flame alive. Other than that, people knew I wasn’t about the celebrity lifestyle. Social media was my idea of licking my own balls.
Look at me.
Check me out.
Pay me attention.
Hear what I have to say about politics/global warming/insert other topic I have absolutely no knowledge about.
Nope. Not my jam. So, when Blake told me to stay off the Internet, I had no objection at all. Indie—guess she was no longer New Girl—rubbed her palms over her face before her teeth reunited with her lower lip, and that’s how I knew she was nervous.
“I don’t have access to the Internet, remember?” She jumped from the laundry machine just when the washer buzzed. She dragged my wet clothes to the dryer and pointed at buttons, explaining things I wasn’t even listening to, let alone trying to remember. My eyes were focused on her bum beneath the flowery swing dress that rode up her thighs when she bent over. Disappointingly enough, her knickers didn’t make a cameo.
“…make sure the whites are separated from the rest of your clothes. I also do the towels separately because they’re heavier, though I guess the hotel provides the towels, so…”
She was moving. A lot. And talking. Even more. It was evident she wasn’t flirting with me, and that alone made me want to fuck Lucas’ crush even more. After she shoved my clothes into the dryer and started the machine, she turned back to me and sighed.
“Guess we have an hour to burn.”
An hour. I could do a lot with an hour. For starters, I could sleep, which I hadn’t done a few nights in a row, composing songs instead. Or watch some mindless TV. Listen to music. Write some. Play some. Fuck some. Or I could do the honorable thing and take my new hanny for coffee to get to know her better. Nah. Taking her places was a last resort. I was going to try to get into her knickers effortlessly first.
We spent the hour staring at the dryer. It was boring, but probably not as boring as spending one more minute with Blake yelling at my lawyers on the phone to send various tabloid sites cease and desist letters. It was only when we got back from the launderette that she actually spoke to me again.
“So, you didn’t learn anything from our time
in the laundromat, huh?” she asked when we were in front of our doors.
I raised my eyebrows, my veiny biceps popping out as I held on to the enormous clean pile of clothes stuffed into three bags. I saw her looking. And swallowing. And gaze-averting, as all good girls did before I fucked them so hard I left them in pieces.
“I did, actually. Your arse is not bad at all when you bend down to pick up my stuff, meaning my wanting to fuck you is still very much on.”
“You’re gross,” she mumbled, unlocking her door.
“And you’re curious. Good night, Stardust.”
Jenna: INDIGO.
Indie: He’s sober. I swear. I can tell by how grouchy he’s been all day. He nearly toppled a technician over last time he had a sound check.
Jenna: Alex told me he’s written a ten-minute song and he insists on putting it in his next album.
Indie: So?
Hudson: So it’s 2017, not ’69 (despite his undying love for the number) and he is not Deep Purple. A ten-minute song is about as marketable as a flat-assed starlet. Talk him off the ledge.
Indie: What if it’s really good?
Jenna: Irrelevant. Tell him it sucks when he plays it to you.
Indie: This feels wrong.
Jenna: Trust me, Indigo, it will feel a lot more wrong when his next album bombs and he officially has to pack a bag and go where all rock stars go to die—guest-judging a reality TV show.
Another day, another box crossed out in bright red ink on my ninety-day calendar.
Since sound check wasn’t until six o’clock, Lucas, Alfie, and Blake decided to go on a cruise before the show. Blake didn’t feel too hot about leaving Alex alone with me for hours. In fact, he’d packed two chargers and his backup BlackBerry just in case, promising the rock star he would be available for him throughout the day. It was only after Lucas and Alfie talked to him privately in the corner of the presidential suite, exchanging hushed profanities, that he’d caved. Eventually, he unglued himself from his client and left, but not before giving me a babysitting list a two-day-old celiac baby wouldn’t even need.