by L.J. Shen
Alex had said he wanted to stay at the hotel and write. But really, all he did was lie in bed and chain-smoke to the sound of Cage the Elephant and The Strokes while staring at the ceiling. He didn’t talk to me, and I made no effort to strike up a conversation, either. It was hard to tell whether he was depressed or simply being an artist. One moment he’d be charming and engaging—like in the laundromat—the other he would be brooding about nothing and everything, keeping the world at arm’s length.
Today was especially hard for me, and all I wanted to do was lock myself in my room and cry myself to sleep.
Which was exactly what I did the minute Blake came back in the early afternoon and discharged me from my duties.
I treated myself to two hours of crying, then consumed everything made of chocolate I could find in the minibar to calm my nerves. After I was done with my mini-meltdown, I picked up the hotel phone and dialed Luc’s extension. I wasn’t the type to ask for favors, but some situations called for exceptions, and this was one of them.
Lucas showed up at my door an hour later, freshly shaven, smelling like the inside of a fashion magazine and armed with his laptop and a sultry grin. He was easy on the eyes. And the heart. Not to mention the mind. I’d meant it when I’d told Alex I liked Lucas. But it was unfortunate I didn’t like him in a way that made my whole body buzz and come alive with need and heat. In a way that made me groan every time his face popped into my mind. In the way I hate-liked Alex.
“You’re a lifesaver, Luc.” I snatched the laptop from him and plopped down on my bed. My room was already in shambles, not looking much better than Alex’s, and at least he had an excuse—he was rooming with someone else and had a rock star reputation to uphold.
Luc gave himself a tour of the room, while I logged into the Skype account I’d opened the day before we flew to Australia, and called Nat and Craig. They answered immediately, Ziggy sitting between them with a big smile on his chubby face, his wispy blond hair falling down in waves on his forehead.
“Auntie Stahduh!” he cooed, flinging his Pillsbury arms.
I felt my heart swelling in my chest, a grin spreading all over my face.
“How’s my favorite boy?”
“Gooood,” he drawled.
“I’ll let you guys talk.” Nat picked Ziggy up and ushered him to take a bath.
I wanted to protest and ask for more Ziggy time, but knew I needed to talk to my brother. Craig remained seated, pulling at his light brown hair. He looked so tired I wanted to wrap my arms around him in a suffocating hug. I was a notorious hugger, but he was…well, not.
Lucas was standing in the corner of the room, running his palm through the different fabrics of my next dress. It was a dark green number with black lace cleavage. I was just about to finish it and start on The Paris Dress, the project for the Halloween event at the chateau. I wasn’t even supposed to know about it, but now that I did, it was the only thing I looked forward to on the tour.
Part of me wanted to ask Lucas for privacy, but that seemed rude when he was lending me his laptop—and had only ever treated me with kindness. “How’re you holding up today?” I asked Craig.
“Our day just started. Ask me again in twelve hours. How about you?”
“Good,” I lied.
Today marked the anniversary of our parents’ death. Four years ago, we got the call and rushed to the hospital. We’d really thought Mom was going to make it, but the internal bleeding had won the battle. Dad, on the other hand, had stood no chance. He’d died on impact, and his body had been sent straight to the morgue. Craig had refused to let me see him. I was mad at him for years, but now I got it. Apparently, the car nailed him to a tree before fleeing the scene.
“I hope you’re not going to act all crazy and angry today. Nat and Zig don’t deserve it.”
Craig sighed, running his hands through his hair some more. The accident had changed him more than it had changed me, because he was the one who’d had to drop out of college, find a job, and pay the bills. I was the same person with a broken heart. He was a broken person who’d begun to act like he had none. He didn’t mean to resent me for it, but it didn’t take a genius to know he did.
“I’ll try to make an effort.” He placed his elbows on his desk, knotting his fingers behind his head. The accident was a hit-and-run. If tragedy had a face, at least we could hate it. I wasn’t the feel-sorry-for-myself type. Even when it was evident that with less than stellar grades and non-existent funds, the closest I’d ever get to college was if I cleaned one. I didn’t care that my destiny had been written for me. I edited the bastard. And, frankly, up until Clara had retired and sold Thrifty, I’d been content with my small life. Craig, on the other hand, didn’t like staying small. Especially since he’d been on the verge of making it to the NFL before tragedy struck our family.
And that was why I hated alcohol. There was no chance the person behind the wheel had been sober. There just wasn’t. Which made Craig’s affair with alcohol drive me even more insane.
“Thanks,” I whispered. “Be strong for them, okay? Nat’s given up on a lot to be with you.”
“So you keep reminding me. Constantly.”
Lucas was coughing from the corner of the room, and that was my cue to end the conversation.
“Is that Mr. Coked Up?” Craig’s eyes lit for the first time since we’d started the conversation, but he was more excited by the idea of insulting a celebrity than being starstruck. “Did I just hear Alex Winslow cough?”
“Nope.” I flushed red from the mere idea of Alex walking around in my suite. “It’s Lucas, his drummer. He loaned me his laptop.”
“Right.” Craig’s voice dropped down to its usual arctic chill. “Anyway, hope you’re done with your annual crying fest.”
“I am,” I confirmed. I wanted to say something more, to end the conversation on a positive note, but the connection was cut from his side and I ended up staring back at a blue screen.
Lucas appeared next to me, squeezing my shoulder. No words needed to be spoken, and I found myself pressing my cheek to his hand, closing my eyes.
He was there.
He was nice to me.
He understood.
And for the first time since I’d left US soil, I was still alone, but somehow, together.
The whole world felt different that night. Like a wonky picture on an otherwise naked wall. Life was illuminated in a way that only tragedy brings out. Being an orphan wasn’t just a state, it was a feeling, a type of baggage, and maybe even a personality trait.
I shadowed Alex silently. He let me have my space, but then again he never really tried to talk to me anyway, other than that time in the hallway. When he stepped onto the stage and started the show, I let out a sigh of relief. I needed my alone time. As soon as Alex left my vicinity, I plopped on the couch in his dressing room—brown leather this time—and used Luc’s laptop to scroll over pictures of Flora and Bruce Bellamy. Craig had made his profile public on that day because he knew I’d want to see them.
My mother’s smile had been infectious, and Dad used to laugh with his entire body. I ran my fingers over Luc’s laptop screen, sighing. “Don’t hate me for leaving them. I’ll come back with enough money to get us out of trouble,” I told them, but I knew it wasn’t as simple as that.
When the show was over, Alex walked in, dripping sweat. Drops trickled from his chin onto his bare chest, and my stomach clenched and knotted in an unfamiliar way when his tight abs constricted with every step he took. I bit my lower lip, setting the laptop aside.
“Good show?”
“No,” he grunted, scooping a bottle of water and unscrewing the cap. Instead of drinking, he splashed the water onto his face from above, then crushed the empty bottle on the table with his palm. “Bloody amazing show.”
I didn’t even have a smile to spare him, so I got back to staring at the wall. Alex nudged my foot with his boot, plopping beside me and nearly breaking the laptop in two.
“Midnight in the hallway, Stardust. I reckon tonight’s gonna last a bit longer. I’m behind schedule with the songs.”
“What are you talking about?” I mumbled, rescuing the laptop and placing it on a stand by the couch.
“Gig night is Muse Night. That’s what we do after a show.” He stared at me like I’d grown a second, green head from my shoulder.
“We’re doing that again?” I blinked, trying to kill the butterflies dancing in my stomach.
He rolled onto his side, giving me a spectacular view of his inked chest and abs, his head propped on his bulging arm, his stare as intense as his husky, drugging voice.
It felt different. So different.
Different from the way he usually looked at me.
Different from the way anyone had ever looked at me.
Something happened to my body that prompted me to cross my legs and clamp my inner thighs. His lips were close to mine, ruddy and plump from screaming into the mic. I needed to get up. Why wasn’t I getting up? Jesus, it was like my ass was glued to the sofa.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Stardust? You’re weirder than usual, and that says a lot.”
“I don’t wanna talk about it.” My eyes dragged up to the window. There was always a window. In each and every one of his dressing rooms. I wondered if he specifically asked for it, and if it made him feel less trapped. Trapped in a situation. Trapped inside himself.
“Well”—he slapped my thigh lightly, and fireworks, in different colors and sizes and shapes burst inside my chest—“I’m not asking you courteously. You’re on my payroll, under my wing. You’ll be singing like a canary.”
I sniffed, ignoring the dull headache that came hand in hand with crying for hours on end. “Technically, you’re under my wing.”
“Impossible,” he said, lifting my limp arm. His touch was like a blanket. Warm and oddly protective. My body felt like a phoenix rising up from the ashes of dormancy and rediscovering it had muscles, and nerve-endings, and flesh that craved to be touched and bitten and nipped at. I swallowed hard.
“You can’t fit me under this thing. My knob is probably the length of your leg. You’re under me. All puns intended. Now tell me what’s wrong. Trouble in Lucas and Stardust paradise? Finally figured out he’s a knobhead?” One of his devilish eyebrows arched sarcastically. He made it sound like Lucas and I were a couple, which wasn’t the case, and I wanted to believe there was an edge in his voice, but why? He wasn’t interested in me, and even if he was, Jenna had warned me about him. The world warned me about him.
“Seriously, Winslow, you don’t want to know.” I gave him one last fair warning, waving him off tiredly with my hand. It wasn’t my job to protect him from the truth. The truth was ugly, and real, and open like a wound full of puss. The way I figured it, Alex was used to the photoshopped version of women. Not the likes of me, who came with two tons of baggage and actual flaws.
“Spit it out, Bellamy,” he enunciated.
“It’s my parents’ deathaversary.”
“Come again?” He leaned forward, his muscles taut with…what? What exactly was he feeling?
“Four years ago today, my brother and I got the phone call that they were involved in a hit-and-run near a restaurant in Koreatown. My parents worked three jobs between them and never went out. But every wedding anniversary, Dad took Mom to an all-you-can-eat buffet to celebrate. Some psycho ran them over when they crossed the road into the reservoir to take a walk, and took off, leaving them to die. They lost their lives on their anniversary. Hence the title, deathaversary.”
We just stared at each other. I couldn’t read him, but for the first time, I didn’t care. This was my heartbreak. My pain. My life. I didn’t need to try to make it fit his. And so what if he looked tortured by my confession before darting up to his feet, walking over to the virgin mini bar across the room.
“You were…what? Seventeen?” He schooled his voice, steeled his expression, put his usual poker face back on.
“Junior in high school.” I nodded. Up until then, I’d been a straight-A student. I’d soared. I was going to ride my grades all the way to a full scholarship, but after the accident, they started slipping, fast. Partly because I needed to get a part-time job that ate into my studying hours, but mostly because I lost the drive without Mom’s support. By senior year, things got so bad, I barely graduated. I flunked Spanish and am pretty sure my English teacher took pity on me. Alex scratched his chin, downing tonic water with lime and staring out the window.
“You probably hate me a little extra for getting arrested for DUI.” He sounded like nice, normal Alex tonight.
I collected my bag and Lucas’ laptop and started for the door. If I stayed, I would tell him the truth—yes, I hated alcoholics, and I loathed people who thought it was okay to get behind the wheel when drunk and put not only themselves in danger, but innocent people walking home from their anniversary dinner. As I was heading out, Lucas was coming in. We bumped into each other, and he chuckled, running his fingers through his brown hair.
“Been looking for you.” He offered a sweet smile, his gaze jumping to Alex momentarily before landing back on me.
I handed him his laptop. “Thanks for that. You’re a lifesaver, Luc.”
“No worries. Are you feeling any better? You seemed on edge earlier in your room.” There it was again. The look he gave Alex. He was looking for…something. A reaction, maybe.
I opened my mouth, about to answer, when Alex appeared behind my shoulder. I looked up, getting a view of his chin. He was much taller than me, and although lean, packed with tons of charisma, we didn’t even look like we belonged in the same species. His fingers strangled the doorframe and his nostrils flared.
“Her room?” He rolled the last word on his tongue like it was a curse. “What business did you have being in her room?”
Lucas cocked his head, confusion marring his features.
“She asked me to lend her my laptop.”
“Could’ve stayed in the hallway. No, wait. That’s a foreign concept, right, Waitrose? Talking to a girl without monopolizing her life, time, and space,” Alex retorted.
I was sandwiched between them, my back to Alex, my face to Lucas, feeling hot, and not just from blushing. Both men released enough heat from their bodies to fry a steak, and it was wrong, especially considering the poor timing, but my pulse throbbed in my neck with arousal.
“Oh, that’s rich, Winslow. If your cock had an autobiography, it’d be thicker than Bill Gates’.” Luc kept his voice light but his intent heavy, offering me his open palm.
My eyes widened in disbelief. This was a blunt provocation, and they both knew that. I sidestepped, my back to the wall. They stared me down, waiting for me to say something. Lucas’ hand was still open, but not at all inviting. Alex pushed it away, making Luc’s arm dangle beside his body. He got into his drummer’s face, and before I knew what was happening, Lucas was glued against the wall beside me, the fabric of his damp shirt gathered in Alex’s fist. They were nose-to-nose now. There was no mistaking the bad blood that ran between them, because it was thick and angry like a river.
“Let’s get one thing straight—this girl was not hired as a parking space for your dick. She is my assistant. She takes care of me, caters to me, answers me, and only me. This means if I ever catch you in her room again—and I’m planning to keep a closer look now, Waitrose—I will throw you off the tour without even batting an eyelash. Don’t forget you’re just a fucking drummer. Any roadie with two sticks can replace you.”
My heart was in my throat. For all the evil Alex Winslow exhibited whenever I was involved, he’d never spoken to any of his friends like this in front of me. Lucas pushed Alex away, causing the rock star to slam against the opposite wall.
“Oh, piss off. You’ve been acting like a miserable cunt since the second you left rehab. If your mission in life is to make everyone hate you, you’re excelling big time, Winslow.”
Alex immediately swung
his arm back, preparing to pummel his fist into Lucas’ face, but luckily, Blake appeared down the hall, sprinting toward us.
“Oi! You two, stay away from each other,” he yelled, waving his fisted cell phone in warning. Words couldn’t express how awkward I felt standing there like an idiot and watching the exchange wordlessly. There were many things I wanted to do, including but not limited to screaming at Alex that I wasn’t his possession, then telling Lucas to stop acting like an insecure five-year-old who wanted to get a rise from the hotheaded boy down the street. However, I decided to lecture them both separately when they’d cooled down for better impact.
Blake shoved his body between them and stretched his arms, forcing each guy to a different wall.
“Second time in twenty-four hours. What the hell is happening?” he demanded.
“Same thing that happened yesterday. Waitrose is hitting on my babysitter.” Alex huffed a piece of hair from his sweaty forehead, and damn, he was still shirtless, and I was still trying hard not to ovulate as a result.
Lucas sneered. “Let’s try again, muppet. Officer Cokehead won’t allow Indie to breathe without him around. Apparently, we’re no longer allowed to hang out because of his small dick syndrome.”
“Small dick!” Alex exclaimed, as if Lucas just told him the earth was flat. “My cock already made more money than you this year and will soon need a full staff to manage his career. Don’t you fucking disrespect him.”
Was I really standing there listening to three grown-up British men discussing Alex’s penis?
“Okay, okay, okay.” Blake pushed both of them harder toward the opposite walls as they tried getting in each other’s faces again.