If you ever wondered how Indie would look if she found out I killed every puppy on her street, let me tell you: I now knew.
All it took for her to make this expression was telling her she was going to share a room with me. She didn’t like the idea. Not. One. Bit. Indie had only found out about our shared accommodation when we were actually in front of our presidential suite’s door. She turned around, asking for her digital key.
“What key?” I asked with a straight face, prolonging our inevitable showdown.
She rubbed her open palm over her nose, which I thought was adorable—another clear warning sign I chose to ignore—and cocked her head sideways.
“The door to my room. What’s up, Alex? You’re not even jet-lagged.”
I placed the card of our shared room in her hand and curled her fingers around it.
She said, “No.”
To which I replied, “Did you know the world is suffering from overpopulation and vast waste of natural resources? We’re going to save a lot of water and electricity sharing a room for a week.”
“We’ll be saving a lot of oxygen, too, because one of us ought to strangle the other.” She walked over to the opposite door. She thought I was joking. Clearly, we needed to be doing more talking and a lot less fingering, because this woman didn’t understand me. At all. I watched as Indie’s smile evaporated gradually from her face each time she slid her key card into the slot and the red dot blinked back at her, spitting out the card. By the fourth attempt, she turned around, stomped her foot, and released a feral growl. “Alex.”
For the record, I spared her my shit-eating grin when I leaned against our already-open door, arms crossed over my chest.
“Alex,” she said again, her tone warning this time, indigo eyes begging me to put her out of her misery.
I didn’t get it. The only difference between the entire tour and London was that she’d be spending the night next to me. Even that wasn’t much of a big deal. I wasn’t a spooner.
I crooked my finger and motioned for her to come in. She stayed rooted to the floor.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because we’re going to write music together. And get drunk on words. And bone against the glass door. Because we make sense. Because I’m tired of your fears. This is our tour. Our album. Our soul.”
The thing about being a compulsive liar is at some point, you don’t stop and think whether what you said is true or not. But at this point, I knew, we shared a soul. It was inside her, and I borrowed it. And I needed it. Losing Tania was a game-changer. I needed Stardust much more—maybe even after Paris—and I was beginning to accept that the way one accepted a deadly disease. With a healthy dose of disinclination.
She peeked behind my shoulder to the empty room, then back at me, her fingers clutching her duffel bag, knuckles bone-white.
“On one condition.”
God, if you exist, please make her not ask for Louboutins or a Porsche.
“I’m listening.”
“If we do this, I want you to see your family.”
Now, here’s the thing. Stardust and I had talked. A lot. About The Little Prince and about music and, yes, about our families. We talked like our life depended on it when we were writing every midnight. So she knew everything about my gambling mother and drunk father and slag of a sister. She knew I’d never been hugged as a wee boy and that I wrote about love in the same way people write about sci-fi: solely from my overworked imagination. Which prompted me to believe she thought my relationship with my family was salvageable. Look, I got it. She didn’t have any parents. But living vicariously through me was not the way around it.
“No.” I glued my forehead to the still-open door, acutely aware of the fact she was still in the hallway. What was it about us and hallways? Why were we always so reluctant to let the other person in? Note to self: write a song about it. Foyers. Relationships. Metaphors. Blue-haired girls.
“Well, then, you better get me a room.” She spun on her heels, advancing toward the lifts.
I needed to let her go, and deep down, I knew it. But my soul couldn’t, so I ended up grabbing her wrist and jerking her back to me.
“First of all, you don’t know my family.”
A hint of a triumphant smile decorated her lips when she looked up at me. “I know enough. I know you have one. You, Alex, have a family. Everyone needs a family.”
“That’s bullshit. Do you honestly need Craig? Need this wanker’s drinking problem, hot and cold behavior, and stupid violent spurts?” I couldn’t believe we were spending our time fighting instead of fucking. I also couldn’t believe how similar Craig and I were. How could she be attracted to a guy who represented every vice that had made her life a quiet hell for the last few years?
She thought about it—actually thought about my question, not just spat out an answer—before answering.
“Yes, I need Craig. A big part of loving people and feeling loved is taking care of them, even when they infuriate you. You build confidence and security not only in being taken care of, but also by taking care of your loved ones. I want to help Craig. Hell, I want to change Craig. But that doesn’t mean I don’t need him. He’s my brother.”
It was my turn to think. Did I need Carly? No. Or, at least, I didn’t think I needed her. She was never much good at anything, other than popping babies, and I wouldn’t touch that department with a twenty-foot pole. I didn’t need my parents, either. They clung onto my fortune like a skunk’s scent, and I only ever spoke to them when I needed to, or the customary Christmas and birthday phone call. But I needed Indie, at least for this tour. I didn’t have any illusions about her. She was a girl with small dreams and big problems and we had nothing in common. Nevertheless, she did make “Letters from the Dead” bearable, and I needed to keep her close until we finished the tour and I could give her what she wanted, even if what she wanted was to stab my soul until it bled the rest of its vitality. Because that’s what me sitting in the same room with my parents and my sister, watching them drink canned lager and eating unrecognizable fried food from a newspaper funnel would do to me.
“Jesus Christ.” I waved a dismissive hand her way. “I’ll meet them, okay? Just get the fuck in here and stop loitering in the foyer. For all I know, they’re going to sell the security footage to TMZ, and then I’ll be the cock-exposing, washed-up druggie rock star who also has to beg his babysitter not to leave him home alone.”
She took a step in my direction, her grin infuriating and cock-hardening in equal measures. “You’re cute when you beg.”
I hooked my finger into her barely existent cleavage and pulled her into me, planting a wet kiss on her smart mouth. “We’ll see who’s going to be doing all the begging tonight.”
Jenna: I’m not keeping it.
Indie: Talk to Blake first.
Hudson: :-O :-O :-O
Jenna: Clearly, the hormones are taking over my brain. I forgot Hudson was here.
Hudson: My baby is having a baby!
Jenna: You’re not my mother, Hudson.
Hudson: I was actually talking about Blake. His Hugh Grant charm makes my panties wet.
Hudson: Actually, it doesn’t make any sense. But still.
Jenna: I swear, I’ll kill you if you tell anyone. This is TOP SECRET. Indie, how’s Alex?
Indie: Good.
Jenna: Elaborate.
Indie: He’s been writing steadily, and he seems to be really excited about his next album.
Jenna: And the ten-minute song?
Hudson: He decided to split it into two songs.
Jenna: I didn’t know he consults you artistically.
Hudson: He does. Sometimes. When he sits on the toilet and gets bored.
Hudson: Where do you think I got the nickname Little Shite? LOL.
Jenna: What made him change his mind?
Hudson: A girl.
Jenna: Elaborate.
Hudson: The right girl. ;)
I’m the first one to admit
that, sometimes, you push things to the back of your head to protect yourself from heartbreak. Like the memory of losing your dog. Or like the time your first crush turned you down. Or that your brother is not completely sane and normal and okay.
Before I’d gone on tour with Alex Winslow, I’d thought talking to Nat and Craig would be the highlight of my day. Turned out it was the last thing I’d looked forward to. Every time my cracked phone rang, I half-wished it was my credit card company telling me to chill.
But it was always Nat, and she was always crying. This time, she’d caught me in a relatively good time. Alex was taking a shower, and I was sitting on the king-sized bed in front of the pale green wall, wondering if he knew how close we were getting to the deep end of feels. I should’ve told him no. Already, I was in over my head, and it wasn’t just my body that wanted to be claimed. The minute I answered the phone, I realized Alex was the least of my worries. Craig was. Craig was always a worry.
“Hey, Nat.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about the shoebox above the cupboard before you left?” She sniffed tiredly. Her voice was different. Wary. Sad. She used to sound like sugar pops exploding in your mouth. Sweet and enthusiastic and open—so open—to hug the world and whatever it threw her way. It enraged me that my brother was the one to turn off the light inside her.
My eyebrows crinkled. I tried to remember what I’d put in that shoebox. I didn’t have too many things of interest or value. Some stupid diary I’d written when I was a kid. Love letters from boys in elementary school, not that there were many. Some pictures…I squinted toward the curtained, wide window overlooking SoHo. Then it hit me. All at once.
The pictures.
Oh, God.
Of Mom holding our neighbor’s baby, sweet and blond-curled like Ziggy.
Of Dad bouncing Craig on his lap, pointing to the camera, smiling.
Of both of them helping us build a faux snowman outside our house one Christmas, when it was so hot out the ice cream my mom brought us melted in our hands, and another photo from the same day where we all licked our sticky fingers and laughed.
Memories. Sweet, precious memories.
Memories I was so afraid I was going to forget, I’d had to put them somewhere safe. Somewhere that was only mine.
Memories I was so afraid to remember, I’d hidden them in a shoebox. On a cupboard. Somewhere I couldn’t reach easily, because going there was toxic. I’d never have them back. They were gone.
“Tell me he didn’t do anything stupid…” I said slowly, hysteria gripping my throat. Craig was not allowed to leave the house. I didn’t even want to know what the consequences would be if he had.
“He did.” She burst into tears, just as Alex walked out of the shower, wearing nothing but a towel and a smirk. His dark hair was dripping, just like it did in his gigs, and my lower belly tightened, despite the fact that my heart and mind were an ocean away, in America. He shot me a questioning glare, to which I replied by turning my back to him so he couldn’t see me at my weakest. With my lip trembling and my nose aching like I’d been punched.
“Where?” I cleared my throat, shooting my gaze to the ceiling, steadying my voice. “Where did he go?” I repeated. “Do you know? And when did he leave?”
Nat was about to answer me when Alex snatched the cell phone from my hand and put it to his ear. He walked toward the master bathroom of the suite, and I jumped up immediately, stalking after him. The jerk was fast. It was those damn long legs. He could outrun me while crawling.
“Natasha, I want you to call my PA in Los Angeles. He’ll help track him down.” Alex jumped into the conversation like he’d been a part of it all along, which made my simmering blood chill a little in my veins. “Yeah, I’m sure. I’ve got private investigators to last for a decade in Hollywood and enough connections with the LAPD to take a shit directly on the booker’s desk and still get out of there unharmed.” He stopped by the bathroom door, his eyes unblinking. When I halfheartedly went for the phone, throwing my arms in the air to try to grab it, he plastered his palm over my forehead and pushed me away, making us look like a cartoon where the giant is blocking the little mouse, who is running aimlessly in the same spot. Even though we were physically comical, there was nothing funny about the way he made me feel. He wanted to help, and right now, I knew better than to refuse him. He owed me absolutely nothing. I’d betrayed him by not telling him about Fallon and Will and about the guys’ plan with his leaked photos, and all he’d done so far was bail out, and now search, for my brother.
“Write it down,” Alex ordered, giving her a cell phone number, then a code you needed to dial to put you through the line. Alex never gave his number out, and, normally, he didn’t need to. Blake and the others were always around. It was weird to think it was just Alex and me now, and even weirder to imagine he’d be actively working for something. Something to do with me.
“Text me when he finds him,” Alex added, pressing my phone between his shoulder and ear and lighting up a cigarette. He was commanding and forbidding, his expression so distant, you wouldn’t think he was dealing with feelings. And this, perhaps, was the part of him that would be my ruin. He was kind without being kind to me. I parked my waist against the nearby closet facing the bathroom and watched him as he killed the line and tossed my phone across the room and onto the mattress. He swiveled, pointing his cancer stick at me.
“Get dressed.”
I shook my head, watching him from under my lashes. “You can’t go out. You’re a superstar, remember?”
“I’m also a goddamn person. Two bodyguards are on their way here.”
“Bodyguards?” My spine straightened on cue. “You hate bodyguards.” I didn’t even have to ask him to know that it was true. I saw the way he’d reacted every time one or two had had to tag along throughout the tour. Apparently, Alex Winslow was one of the rare celebrities who didn’t have full-time bodyguards on their payroll. He just hated being babied. And I was his babysitter. The fact he was nice to me at all was a blessing. He sauntered past me, grabbed his skinny jeans, and black muscle T-shirt, throwing his leather jacket on top, already lacing his army boots.
“Hey, ho. Let’s go.”
“I didn’t peg you for a Ramones fan,” I said.
Alex was the greatest music snob of all time. Especially considering he’d sinned by making sweet, Ed-Sheeran, let-me-hold-you-in-my-arms music at some point in his career. The glint in his eyes told me I was right.
“I’m not. I’m a let’s-go-fucking-eat fan.”
One could argue Alex Winslow was one annoying, eccentric, arrogant man. But there was no disputing this weird mixture was enchanting.
Slowly—so very slowly—I made my way to the shower, the hot steam still clinging to the glass. He was really going to do it—get out of the hotel, knowing he was going to get noticed. Alex hated crowds. And people. And the paparazzi. The only humans he was okay with tolerating were his fans. I was worried this might prompt a breakdown, which would later lead to drug use.
I hesitated over the threshold, throwing him another look. “The paparazzi will probably see us.”
“I know.”
“And you don’t care?”
“Giving fucks is not exactly my forte.” He quirked a thick eyebrow, turning on the TV and making himself comfortable on the bed. “Chop, chop, now, Stardust. I turn into a pumpkin at midnight.”
“It’s noon, and you turn into an artist at midnight,” I corrected, stepping out of my dress in front of him. Bare for him, I watched him as he watched me. Like he understood me. Like our intimacy was a living entity, sitting between us, its warm, ultraviolet rays caressing me softly.
“I’m always an artist. Sometimes, I’m an artist who gets screwed over by Suits,” he amended, blowing smoke through his nostrils like a vicious dragon and smirking to the ceiling. “Now, go.”
I had a quick shower, then proceeded to try on a dozen dresses. I knew we were not a couple. Of course I knew that. But I also
knew the tabloids would be speculating, and I didn’t want to be the mediocre-looking girl with the funky hair and cheap dress. I tied my locks into a loose chignon, tresses of arctic-blue waves slipping down my nape, and wore my classic, maroon velvet dress. Lipstick. Mascara. Mental pep talk. I was ready as one could be.
I stepped out of the bathroom.
Alex didn’t react to me. Not at first. He was engrossed with something on his phone, and when he looked up, something on TV caught his attention. I stood there for a few long seconds, my heart vaulting behind my ribcage. For once, I wasn’t the one talking to my heart, but it was the one talking to Alex.
See us.
Feel us.
Love us.
I was no longer able to quiet it down. My heart wanted Alex to love it. The rest of me did, too. And when his head whirled, almost in slow-motion, his mouth fell open, just an inch, his golden eyes twinkling with something I’d never seen there before. Or maybe I just wanted to see it, and it wasn’t there after all.
“Midnight Blue,” he whispered. “Illicit and elegant at the very same time.”
I tucked a curl that had escaped from my chignon behind my ear and cleared my throat. “Let’s go eat.”
When we were walking down the hallway and toward the elevators, a thought occurred to me. It was so obvious, it made me want to laugh and cry all at once. Alex didn’t want to go out. He didn’t want to move around with bodyguards on his tail. And he definitely didn’t want to board the rumor train and have people talking about us, especially after that picture in Greece, which Blake, of course, maintained was photoshopped every time he’d been asked about it.
“Thank you,” I said while we were waiting for one of the elevators to ping.
He grunted, knowing exactly what I was talking about.
He was distracting me from thinking about Craig.
He was saving me from drowning in dark thoughts about my family.
He was no knight in shining armor, a far cry from a savior. He was just a broken, sad boy who was given a great gift that put him on display for the world to see and to judge.