After he bought me a laptop—which I insisted on not taking, but he maintained I’d make use of after the tour ended—we took a ride. Moscow was cold, gray, and old, like a stern grandmother. When I got back to the hotel, I immediately installed Skype and tried to call Natasha, but she didn’t answer. Then I stared at my crack-screened phone and willed it to ring, feeling hope slither out of me like blood from an open wound. Finally, I threw in the towel and started working on my Paris dress. It was well after eleven p.m. local time, and I was just starting to relax, the hum of the mini sewing machine lulling me out of my anxiety about Craig. Only two more months until I’d get back and take care of them. Already, the bi-monthly payments helped pay for so many necessities back at home.
This particular dress I was working on was a difficult one to make, because I had to write on the patches with a fine pen. It took twice the amount of time to produce, but I knew too well that things we earn through hard work are always more precious.
My window overlooked the Red Square, which I’d been to earlier that day with Alex. We had a driver, and that made me feel like some kind of a princess, and not in a good way. When we were walking toward the Kremlin, Alex gave me the brief history of the place. He said it costs two hundred thousand dollars a year for the museum to maintain Lenin’s corpse in perfect condition, and that it was already one hundred forty-seven years old.
“I’m telling you, Stardust, I’ve seen pictures. He doesn’t look a day over fifty-six. A little waxy, sure. But no more than the average Hollywood starlet.”
Alex told me he’d been to Moscow three times before, and if the tour wasn’t so condensed, he would’ve loved to have shown me around. I didn’t believe him at all, knowing he was a liar, but it was still nice to hear. When darkness blanketed the Russian capital, Alex asked the driver to take us to see “the ugliest, most awesome thing in the world.” I laughed as I tucked myself in the back seat of the Renault Duster and tried to swallow down my excitement when butterflies cartwheeled in my belly. He scooted so close I could feel his breath on my skin again, and my thighs clenched when I thought about the last thing he’d said to me about being on my knees for him.
“It’s pretty dark out.” I tried to sound indifferent to spending time with him. Alex wasn’t wrong, I decided, when I drank in Moscow like bitter coffee with a bite. It looked new, with skyscrapers and manicured parks and smoggy air, virtues of a fast-paced city. At the same time, it looked old, with trains of mass-built buildings from its Soviet past stretched out for miles.
I found out what Alex was talking about when the car rolled toward an embankment. The driver cut the engine and sat back. The monument was unmistakable, because it hovered over the Moskva River like a monster. Winslow, once again, had been correct. It was huge, elaborate and…scary. Yes. Plain creepy. Like something out of Game of Thrones. Of a man on a ship. The statue was holding something in his hand, staring in the distance.
“That is…” I started.
“The tenth ugliest building in the world according to the Virtual Tourist,” Alex finished for me, sticking his head near my shoulder and grinning to catch a glimpse of the statue, too. “Peter the Great. The irony is, not only is it quite ugly, but Peter the Great didn’t even like Moscow. He changed Russia’s Capital to St. Petersburg before they switched it back. Welcome to human logic.”
Our driver started texting, making himself invisible, and it was easy to forget we weren’t alone.
“How do you know all these things?” I asked.
“I like history.”
“Why?”
“Because it gives me better tools to understand the future.”
I nodded. Alex wasn’t being patronizing or blabby. In another rare time since the first time I’d met him, he showed genuine interest in something, and was sharing it with me. It frightened me. The idea that he could be open and real. Because the very thing that held me together was the idea that Alex Winslow was, in fact, a pile of stereotypes sewn together into a persona even he couldn’t distinguish anymore. He ticked every single box: rock star, troubled, drug addict, tattooed. It was embarrassingly familiar.
I swiveled my head to the window again.
“Can we go back to the hotel?”
“Why?”
Because I want to survive you.
“I would like to call my family.”
Alex shrugged in a women-huh-what-can-you-do, catching the driver’s gaze in the rearview mirror, who returned the same international ‘man, woman’ signal.
We rolled forward.
A soft knock on the door made me snap out of my reverie. I frowned, turning off the sewing machine positioned by the drawn curtains. I stood up, knowing it couldn’t be Alex. He was never lenient, always rough and dirty, and maybe that was why my heart throbbed fiercely every time I did as much as hear something drop in the other room. I opened the door, staring back at Lucas.
“Hey, sleepyhead. Where have you been?” Lucas flashed me a tentative smile.
I took a step sideways, leaving it for him to decide whether he wanted to come in. I didn’t give a damn about Alex warning us both off, but I wasn’t sure where Lucas stood on our boss’ threat. He’d probably come here to grab his laptop, anyway. I turned around to seize it from the desk, but Lucas snagged my wrist.
“Can you tell me one thing?”
I looked up at him. His face was angelic, even while tense. Open, fresh. He was Alex’s age, but he didn’t share the same internal hardship, and that somehow made him look so much younger. Alex was wrong. There was no way Lucas could be bad or vindictive. I read faces the way bookworms reread their favorite paragraphs. Religiously. And I knew that whatever Lucas was doing, he had his reasons.
“Maybe,” I answered. “I need to know what it is first.”
He licked his lips. “If—and I’m not asking you to tell me what’s going on between you and Alex because that’s none of my business—at some point he’s too much for you, would you let me know? It probably looks like we hate each other, he and I, but trust me, we go way back.”
I stared at him blankly.
“I’m just worried.”
“For who? Me or him?” I asked.
“Both of you. In different ways. You’re a strong girl. He’s like a black feather. Less resilient than he appears.”
Pause. I stared at my feet. It looked like Lucas didn’t want us together, and I was starting to feel like maybe Alex had a good reason to think his frenemy wanted me.
“Never mind.” Lucas shook his head. “Just let me know if you need me. He thinks I want in your knickers—hell, you probably feel the same way, too—but trust me, I just want to be here for you,” he said.
My eyebrows nearly touched at this. Maybe the tour was forcing me to embrace my inner cynic.
Luc rushed to add, “You’re on the road with a bunch of blokes you’ve never met before, and your boss is giving you crap. Whatever’s going on with your family back in L.A., I’m sure it’s not easy on you.”
“It’s not,” I admitted.
“I’m here to help.” He offered me his hand.
This time I took it, unaware of the chain reaction it would prompt.
Unaware of all the secrets we held between our palms.
In my defense, Ozzy Osborne snorted ants and Keith Richards snorted his dad, so, in comparison, I wasn’t being that crazy.
Having said that, I had, indeed, been pretty fucking out of my mind when I’d decided to turn around in the middle of a gig, walk over to Lucas’s drum kit, and smash my silver boot right into the bass. It had collapsed right into Lucas’ spread thighs, and he widened his eyes, his arms still mid-air holding the sticks, watching me like this came as a great surprise. It shouldn’t have. Fucker could have seen it from three countries over, and he’d kept pushing and pushing until I had no choice but to shove him out of my life.
But I digress.
It had started half an hour before the show. I’d already been on edge because Blake had lo
cked us both in my dressing room and launched into one of his self-righteous monologues that served to stroke his own ego. It had taken me a few minutes to understand what, exactly, he was yelling and sweating about.
The champagne.
He’d sifted through my shit and found it. Which was quite ironic, because the past few days were the first in a very long time where I hadn’t wanted to drown my sorrow in alcohol.
“When I find the cunt who keeps sending them to you, I’ll kill them. But in the meantime—why play into their hands? Why, Alex? You have so much going for you. You have everything going for you. You’re rich and young and talented and adored. You’re a religion, for fuck’s sake. You’re writing what might be your best album yet. All you have to do is not fuck it up. Is it really that hard?”
Was he kidding? Of course it was that hard. Did he think the entire zip code of Hollywood wanted to be addicted to painkillers, alcohol, cocaine, and plastic surgery? Did he reckon I was just so bored with my perfect, wholesome life? Finding happiness as an intelligent person was like finding a real-life unicorn. Blake was pacing the room and throwing his arms in the air, exasperated.
“I’m trying. I really am. Trying to make you and Jenna happy, even though you both give me very different instructions on how to make it happen. I’m trying to respect your wishes not wanting to take Hudson along because you hate big entourages and still make sure that you’re sober. But it’s so difficult. You’re so difficult, Alex. Most of the time, I think the only reason you’re sober is because we’re watching over you all day.”
“It is,” I said from my place on the couch, lighting up a fag. Now that Blake was riding my arse about it, of course I needed a fucking drink. Oh, Irony, you and your twisted sense of humor.
Blake stopped in front of me, hands on his waist, eyes to the ceiling. “It’s not good enough. You need to make more of an effort to change. That means taking better care of yourself. Eating better. Actively trying to get over your addiction. And, yes, talking to your parents. You’ll have to see them soon, so I’m not sure why you keep postponing that conversation.”
He was right. My entire staff—all fifty roadies or so plus my band and my manager/babysitter—were sober because of me, and I hadn’t even made the smallest effort by throwing the champagne in the trash. I’d kept it because I was still an addict. I still thought about alcohol and cocaine every single fucking day. I missed it. I didn’t resent it. I was like a rich, spoiled sonovobitch who got caught doing something bad and had his parents buy his way out. Just because I was physically clean didn’t mean I’d learned my lesson. My only drawback from drinking the champagne was: A) I was never alone, and B) I was momentarily occupied with getting into my hanny’s knickers and was so close to my goal, cocking it up was out of the question.
I needed to grow up, but growing up meant letting go of who I’d been for the past seven years. The last time I was sober was when I was twenty. I didn’t know myself anymore. Not without the drugs. There was a stranger in my house, and that stranger was me.
The only thing I didn’t agree with him about was my parents. I didn’t need to talk to my family. My family did enough talking about me. To the press. Often. Twats.
If Blake thought it was some kind of a pivotal moment where I snapped out of it and finally understood how low I’d stooped, he obviously gave me too much credit. I knew I was in deep trouble, and that I was a piece of shit, but I still had a few more inches of abyss before I really hit rock bottom. Blake dragged the coffee table between us aside and squatted down between my legs. It felt intimate and weird, and I groaned with annoyance. He plastered his hands on my knees.
“My PI can’t track the person who sends you alcohol. Can you? Think hard.”
“It’s Bushell,” I said without as much as a blink. “Who else could it be?”
Blake shook his head, sighing. “Stop it, mate. He’s not after you.”
Bollocks, but whatever.
“Maybe it’s Lucas,” I sneered.
“You’re insane,” Blake muttered.
I decided to bend my mate a little harder, see if he could break. There was something beautiful in fucking up my own life and alienating people by choice. It gave me the illusion that I was in control. That the choice was mine.
“I don’t know, Blake. Maybe it’s Alfie. Maybe it’s Jenna. Hell, maybe it’s even you. Maybe you want me to cut this tour short so you can go back and fuck her like you’ve been planning for the past few years. Who knows? Every single person I work with wants to either fuck me or fuck me over. Some—both. Nothing surprises me anymore, other than the sheer astonishment at finding someone who doesn’t want or need anything from me. You wanted me to go to rehab? I did. You wanted me to write an album? I am. Now you want my trust? That can’t happen, Blake. Not anymore. You’ve done so much shit in the name of saving my brand, you don’t get to keep the fucking friend title.” I stood up, adrenaline running in my veins as I shoved his hands aside. These words had sat dormant inside me for far too long, I realized. Blake always wanted what was best for us. His career was intertwined in mine, and he had good intentions—Billboard hits, sobriety, and stability in mind—but he didn’t think twice or ever stop to wonder before he ran people over on his way there. Including yours truly. He’d covered so many of my scandals by dumping the blame on other people, and putting the blame on me when he fucked up things, I knew better than to think he was the same guy I’d shared a two-bedroom flat with in Clapham. We were both different. Blinded by money and destroyed by fame. Want to ruin a relationship in less than five steps? Put a few million quid between the two people and see what happens.
Blake shot up, so now we were in front of each other, panting hard, ready to yield our verbal swords. It was liberating to finally let all the shit that bubbled beneath the surface rise.
“Everything I’ve done was to help you. I saved you.” He bared his teeth.
“And I made you,” I said, dumping my lit cigarette on the floor and stomping on it. I balled his shirt and crushed our noses together. “Never forget that, Blake. Before you were Alex Winslow’s manager, you were just a loser from Watford who had to split rent three ways to live in South London. I made you, and I will undo you if need be. So I suggest you find the bastard who sends me alcohol—because by now I think we both know it’s not the hotel staff that brings it to my door. It’s who has access to a lot of people or can bribe his way with the hotel staff. And that’s the last time I hear you talk about my family. If I want to see them, I will. Right now, I’d be more worried about our relationship, mate.”
It was the last word that made his face crumple.
I slammed the door so hard in Blake’s face, I wouldn’t be surprised if his ears rang deep into 2034. Stalking down the corridor, I took deep, desperate breaths, trying to get to the break room without killing anyone on my way. I needed something strong. Or a good lay. Where the fuck was Indie, anyway?
Blake was right. At the heart of it all, I was still an addict. If there had been alcohol or coke anywhere near me, I would’ve consumed the hell out of it without even taking a moment to think it through.
Maybe it was time to call in some groupie favors.
Maybe it was time to live up to my reputation and snort my frustration away.
The only reason I stopped by Lucas’ slightly ajar door was because I heard weeping. It was soft and polite, like the person who was crying didn’t have the guts to do it all the way. I halted, my back to the wall next to Lucas’ door.
“I’m so sorry,” I heard Waitrose say, and to that, Indie cried even harder. What had he done to her? Nothing, most likely. She was crying about something else, which threw my mind in overdrive.
It was probably family-related. She’d been dealt shitty cards in life, but unlike me, she was still deep into the poker game, trying to fool people into thinking she could win. And Waitrose was the person she’d run to when sorrow found her.
The thing about flashbacks is that they really
do your head in. His relationship with Fallon was the first to spring into mind. I’d been on tour, and he’d stayed in Los Angeles to help Blake and Jenna with the demos I’d left behind. He’d been there for Fallon when she’d overdosed, and when she needed to pour her little, black heart out. He’d been there for her the first time she sought out Will Bushell, and he’d been there for them when they snuck around behind my back and started fucking at the very same Chateau Marmont I stayed at these days, because I’d had to sell my L.A. apartment and couldn’t even stomach the idea of calling myself a permanent resident of that god-awful city.
“Let it all out,” Lucas said.
I leaned forward and watched them through the crack between the door and the frame. They were sitting on the same loveseat, her head pressed against his chest.
He kissed her forehead.
He kissed her forehead.
He kissed her forehead.
He kissed her goddamn fucking forehead.
“I love my brother, Luc. But I don’t like him. At all.”
“We’ll sort it out, Indie. We will.”
We? Since when were they a ‘we’? He was barely a fucking ‘he,’ acting like a pussy every turn of the way.
Stardust sniffed and pulled away, wiping the tears on her face with the back of her hand. “It’s like ever since we lost our parents he’s just this crazy, volatile person. Who does that, Luc? Who does what he did tonight?”
“Your brother is hurting,” Lucas said, and something inside me twisted like barbwire. Her brother sounded a lot like me. Maybe it was premature to think she’d get attached to me. Why would she want another knobhead to stress about?
“Sometimes I think I should just hand in my resignation and go back. Now’s not the time to be away from home.”
“Stay.” He squeezed her palm. “The money you make will be able to help your family more than any pep talk you could give Craig, and we both know that.”