I’m guessing it was the latter.
Groaning, I run my tongue over my teeth.
Feels like something up and died in my mouth.
Blindly, I reach out to my nightstand in the hope I had the forethought to bring a bottle of water.
My hand collides with a lamp.
I don’t have a lamp on my nightstand.
I force open one eye.
Yep, definitely not my nightstand. Or wall.
I’m not in my bedroom.
Where the hell am I?
I force open the other eye and slightly turn my head to survey my surroundings.
Hotel room. Well, suite by the looks of the size of it.
Guess I was feeling generous last night.
Not like you can’t afford it, Slater.
Yeah, and it’s also Jonny’s money.
Was Jonny’s money.
Money that went to my grandpa when Jonny died, and when Grandpa found out about my existence, he had the money put in a trust for me, which I got when I turned twenty-one.
Grandpa and I used to disagree on it all the time. I’d tell him I didn’t want the money. He’d say it was mine by right. I’d say it was his. He was Jonny’s dad after all. Jonny might have been my father by blood, but I never knew him.
Grandpa would always say to me, “Well, I ain’t taking it to the grave with me. So, it’s yours whether you want it or not.”
I stare at the wall, my head pounding.
I don’t even remember checking into the hotel. I’m guessing making it home must have been out of the question for me.
At least I’m not in some strange chick’s house. Always a plus. Because leaving a woman’s house is always awkward as hell.
I’m always up-front that I’m only in it for the night, but not all women listen, and that makes the morning after not worth the night before.
On a few occasions, I have encountered some women who are basically using me as much as I’m using them. Which is awesome. Whether it’s just for sex or so they can tell their friends that they fucked the guitarist from Slater Raze.
Although, that one time, there was a woman—a lot older than me, but fit as fuck—who only had sex with me because she was obsessed with Jonny.
I know; it was creep factor one hundred.
Waking up in a room covered in pictures of Jonny Creed after a night of screwing someone was quite possibly the creepiest thing that has ever happened to me.
And there I’d been, thinking she didn’t want to turn on the bedroom light because she was shy.
No, it was because my biological father was plastered all over her fucking walls.
A feminine sigh from behind me has me turning my head all the way around.
Seems I didn’t come here alone.
Dark brown hair is splayed over the white pillowcase.
Brown hair?
I screwed a blonde last night. I know that for sure. I was sober when I did it.
We banged on the sofa after she finished sucking my cock. Well, technically, she banged me. Cowgirl-style.
Don’t worry; I made sure she got hers too. I’m not a total asshole.
After we fucked, we put the clothes back on that we’d removed—well, I pulled my pants back up and zipped away the goods, and she put her panties back on and righted her tits back into her bra.
We left the dressing room and went back to the green room where the boys still were.
I remember Raze putting a beer in my hand. Cash put a shot in the other, and we started drinking.
The blonde …
Fuck, what was her name?
Mindy? Morgan?
Actually, it doesn’t matter.
Whoever she was, she stuck around. Well, she stuck to me even though I’d been clear as day that it was one fuck and one fuck only.
Looks like I shook her off at some point in the night.
Slowly, I sit up. My head is pounding like a bitch.
I glance over at the brunette.
Ah. The blonde’s here too. She’s lying asleep on the other side of the unknown brunette.
Guess I didn’t shake her off after all. I just upped my numbers.
I should feel good, waking up in bed with two women.
I don’t.
I feel … nothing.
Empty.
Tired.
Bored of the same old shit.
Yet I keep doing it to myself.
Moving carefully so as not to wake my bed companions, I hold the duvet back and swing my legs over the edge of the bed.
The nightstand is littered with condom wrappers and a … dildo?
Where the fuck did the dildo come from?
Actually, I don’t want to know.
My ass doesn’t feel sore, so at least I know it wasn’t used on me.
Hilarious, Slater.
My cell and wallet are among the condom wrappers. I grab my phone and check the screen.
Couple of texts. One from Tru to the family group.
One from Cash in our band group.
I slide my finger over it, opening it up.
Picture message.
What the hell is that?
Jesus Christ. It’s my bare ass.
For fuck’s sake, Cash.
I’m guessing the legs hooked over my bare ass belong to one of the women lying right behind me.
Not that you can see any faces.
Just my ass.
Where the fuck was this taken?
I scan the picture, zooming in on it.
I can’t tell. It could be anywhere.
Maybe it was taken here, and the fuckers left after.
Well, wherever it was, Cash was there. Probably Raze and Levi too.
Not the first time I’ve banged a chick in front of one or all of them. Or shared a chick with one or all of them. Probably won’t be the last.
I fire a text back to the group.
Me: Cash, delete the fucking picture.
He texts back almost immediately.
Cash: Okay.
Huh. That was easy.
Then, another text comes in.
Cash: Let me just send it to Tru-Mom before I do.
For fuck’s sake.
Tru-Mom is what the guys call my adoptive mom, Tru. Funny they call her that because I’ve only ever called her Tru.
I already had a mom, who I loved more than anyone else on this shit-for-fuck planet. Even if I did spend a lot of time being angry as hell with her before and after she died.
I guess I just feel it would be wrong of me to call anyone else Mom. And Tru’s never seemed to have a problem with it.
Me: You’re fucking hilarious. You send a picture of my bare ass to Tru, and Jake will kick yours.
It takes a minute for him to respond.
Then, a video drops in.
I turn the volume on my phone off. Then, I hit play.
Me: Jesus fucking Christ, Cash.
He videoed me fucking her too.
Although I’m not even surprised.
It’s not like I haven’t done similar kinds of shit to him or the other guys.
Me: Delete the fucking video, Cash.
Levi: Wait. Let me watch it first.
Great. Now, Levi’s getting involved.
Me: Seriously, bro. You want to watch me bone some chick?
Levi: Porn is porn, man.
I actually start laughing at that. Quietly though. I don’t want to wake my bed buddies.
I might be feeling off lately, but I can always rely on my boys to make me smile.
A reminder flashes up on my screen, covering up the sex tape.
Interview. Jasper Marsh, Amped magazine. Brunch @ Republique, 11:00 a.m.
Ah shit, I forgot about that.
What time is it?
Swiping off the text app, I check the time on my phone. Just after ten a.m.
I’ve got less than an hour before I have to be there. Not that I’m looking forward to going.
I hate interviews. W
ith a fiery passion.
They’re a whole new level of hell.
Being Jonny Creed’s kid saw to that.
I could skip the interview.
Nah, Zane would hang my ass out to dry if I did.
An hour should be plenty enough time for me to go home, shower, change, and get to the restaurant.
Considering we played the Microsoft Theater last night, I’m hoping this hotel is somewhere not too far from there. My place in Beverly Grove is only thirty minutes from there. Republique is fifteen minutes from home. Yeah, I’ll do it, easy.
Shame.
Although, depending on where the hotel I am in right now actually is, there’s still a possibility that I could be late.
Fingers crossed.
Or maybe I should just pray for a natural disaster to stop me from getting there.
Leaving my cell with my wallet, I push to my feet and quietly walk through the still-darkened suite, dodging the beer and wine bottles scattered on the floor—how fucking much did I drink last night?—as I locate the bathroom.
The light in here is bright as fuck. It makes me wince. I have to rapid-blink to get my eyes to adjust.
Hangovers suck ass.
Still squinting against the light, I take a piss.
While I’m washing my hands, I catch sight of myself in the mirror.
I look like shit.
I feel like shit.
Cupping cold water in my hands, I splash it over my face and run my wet hand through my hair. I dry my face and hands on a towel.
Turning off the light before exiting the bathroom so as not to wake anyone with the laser light, I crack the door open and poke my head out.
The suite is silent.
They’re still sleeping.
I locate my clothes in a heap by the bottom of the bed. Clearly, I was in a hurry to strip because I dropped the lot there in a pile. That, or drunk me was readying myself for this morning’s great escape. I get dressed in relative silence, which for a guy of my size is no mean feat.
I’ve gotten proficient at this shit. Sneaking out of hotel rooms.
Not something I’m wholly proud of, but obviously, I don’t learn.
I tiptoe over to the nightstand and retrieve my cell and wallet.
My apartment keys are in my pants pocket, which is a relief. There have been a few instances when I lost the keys to my apartment when I got trashed. Meaning I either lost them or someone took them—quite possibly the someone I’d slept with. So, I’ve had to have my locks changed more times than I’m proud of.
I pocket my cell and wallet. Find my boots by the door and push my bare feet into them.
I glance back over at the still-sleeping forms.
The brunette has rolled over and is sleeping where I vacated.
Dark hair covers her face.
I don’t even know what she looks like, let alone know her name.
And I barely remember what the blonde looks like even though I was pretty much sober when I met her.
I used to be proud of this shit when I was younger.
Younger … fuck, listen to me. I’m twenty-four years old and already jaded as hell.
And I know I should feel bad for skipping out on them, but I don’t. I just want out of here and away from the reminder that I’m just rinsing and repeating the same old shit again.
All it serves to do is remind me of how very little I feel about this—or anything at the moment.
With a quick turn of the lock, handle down, I’m out of there. I quietly close the door behind me.
A glance around the hallway, and I spot the Exit sign and follow it to the elevator.
I press the call button. The elevator arrives almost immediately. When I reach the stylish lobby, I look around to see where the fuck I am.
The Ritz-Carlton.
Guess I was feeling plush last night.
Honestly, I’m surprised they even let me in. I was definitely trashed, clearly up for partying and not alone.
But then celebrity gives you all sorts of powers that non-celeb folk don’t have. And being the only child of Jonny Creed and the adopted son of Jake Wethers has its pull and perks.
Honestly, I feel like a jackass, just thinking it.
I walk over to the reception desk and settle up my bill. I tell them to send breakfast up to the suite for my two remaining guests.
I might be a shit. But I’m not a total shit.
The polished thirty-something receptionist doesn’t even flinch that I had two women up there with me for the night.
I guess they must see shit like this all the time, even in a nice establishment like this.
Money doesn’t always buy class.
The doorman gets me a cab. I thank him and give the driver my address.
I moved in my place a year ago.
I was living with the guys in a rented house after moving out of Jake and Tru’s.
I honestly loved living with Jake, Tru, and the kids. It wasn’t my first home. It won’t be my last. But I know it’s a home that I will always be welcome back to.
But I was a twenty-year-old rock star still living at home. The band was taking off big time. It was time to move out, so me and the guys rented a house together in West Hollywood.
But recording and touring together and living together just got to be too much.
I love those guys, but not twenty-four/seven. I needed my own space, so I moved out a year ago to my place in Beverly Grove.
Raze moved out when I did. His apartment is two blocks from mine.
Cash and Levi still live together in our old apartment, which is ten blocks away.
Raze and I didn’t go far.
And I didn’t go far from Jake and Tru’s either. I’m a ten-minute car ride away.
I might not want to live with any of them anymore, but I don’t want to be too far from them either.
The cab pulls up outside my apartment building. I pay the guy and then head inside my building, saying morning to the doorman, Griffin.
I ride the elevator up to the tenth floor where my apartment is.
Letting myself in my apartment, I don’t waste any time. I go straight to my bedroom. I kick off my boots and drop my cell, wallet, and keys on the bed.
I go into my bathroom and get two Advil from the cabinet and sink them with some water.
Teeth brushed, I strip off last night’s clothes and climb in the shower, scrubbing the night off me.
Towel around my waist, I stand in front of the basin and wipe the steam from the mirror.
I stare at myself. I don’t like what’s staring back.
I look jaded.
My eyes are dark. Tired.
I look exactly like Jonny did in the months before he died.
Yes, I’ve analyzed photos of him.
And yes, I have major daddy issues—no fucking surprise there.
In the early photos of Jonny, when TMS had just started, he looked bright-eyed. Like the world was at his feet. I guess it was. Then, as time went on, the light in his eyes was replaced with a cynical look. A drugged-up look.
I wonder if there was a time in those final years of his life if he was ever actually clean.
You’d think that I would’ve learned from Jake and Jonny not to take drugs.
Not that I do it much now. But in the early days, I did.
Drugs are readily available to people like me, and back then, all I cared about was having a good time.
And unlike Jonny and Jake, I don’t have an addictive personality. I can take them or leave them, so it’s never been a concern for me.
But I don’t so much bother with that shit now.
When something is readily available all the damn time, it loses its sheen. Its excitement.
It’s the same with women.
I don’t have to work for it. Any of it.
And it bores the shit out of me.
I know I sound like a whiny ass.
Poor little me, pussy at the ready, but I’m just … tir
ed.
None of it makes me happy anymore.
Only the music.
But even that’s clouded by the constant pressure of living up to the ghost of a man I never knew.
I guess I need to find something that makes me happy again.
Wherever or whatever the fuck that might be.
But for now, I have an interview to get to.
I dress in black jeans and my favorite vintage The Stooges white T-shirt.
I slip on my leather jacket, pocketing my cell, keys, and wallet. I push my feet in my boots, grab a pack of cigarettes from my stash in the kitchen, and leave my apartment.
I ride the elevator down to the parking garage, where my baby is waiting for me.
My girl.
My one and only.
She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
I knew it the second I saw her that I had to have her.
It was love at first sight.
My gorgeous, sexy-as-sin Maserati GranTurismo Sport, custom-wrapped in black matte with a gold vinyl trim and gold alloys.
I love her like no other.
And I don’t ever splurge on fancy things. Well, apart from hotel rooms when I’m wasted, apparently.
I grew up with very little money. My mom did the best she could for us, but she was never going to earn a lot while working at Marie’s bakery. I went from living in a tiny apartment above the bakery to Jake and Tru’s huge house in Beverly Hills, gaining a trust fund with more zeros in it than I knew what to do with.
Going from nothing to that is hard to acclimatize to.
You either go one way or the other.
You spend it like your life depends on it, like Raze does now that he has money from the success of our band.
Or you hoard it, like I do.
Cash and Levi come from money, so they’ve never known anything different.
Although Cash burns through his money faster than Raze does. Levi is just fucking sensible—spends when necessary, indulges a little, and invests a lot.
I need to learn to be more like Levi, especially with my own money.
I’ve earned a hell of a lot from the band. But before that, until we established and started to take off, I had to live on Jonny’s money, and that was hard to deal with.
So, spending excess amounts of Jonny’s money wasn’t high on my list. I would use only what I needed until I started earning real money.
Up until I bought my beauty, I was still driving around in the same shitty Chevy truck that was popular in the 1980s, which I’d bought with the money I’d earned working for Jake at his label, TMS Records.
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