Midnight Blue, Page 3

  “Lucas Rafferty. Drummer.” He flashed his megawatt, Brad-Pitt’s-Nicer-Brother grin. Her guarded expression liquefied into a smile instantly, and she released her hand from mine, taking his. That was when I noticed we’d been shaking hands for three minutes. So, New Girl was a creep, too.

  Nice touch, Jenna. You’re getting a bin bag and a tabloid scandal for Christmas.

  “Indie.”

  “Hippie parents?” Waitrose’s soft chuckle probably melted her insides into marshmallow. Lucas had the ability to charm the knickers off of a fucking stapler, and although he kept his love life unusually private, women had the tendency to throw themselves at him. The irony was, Lucas didn’t deserve these girls.

  She shrugged. “Just literal. They called me Indigo because of my eye color.”

  A blush crept up her neck, crawling to her cheeks and resting on her hairline, like a crown. I shook my head and sauntered to the dining table, leaning a hip against it and shoving a handful of crackers into my mouth.

  “Babies’ eye color can change until they’re four,” Lucas pointed out from behind my back. Were they vying for The Most Boring Conversation in the World award? Because they sure as hell had my vote.

  “I guess they were risk-takers, too.” Her throaty laugh filled the room.

  “Were?”

  “They died.” Pause. “Car accident.”

  “So sorry to hear.” His posh, public school accent rang in my ears and jam-packed me with fresh, red rage.

  He sounded gutted. I wasn’t particularly happy to learn New Girl was an orphan, either. But the thing about Lucas was, he literally was hurting for her, the way children do before they grow up and get hardened by life. He was the most obnoxiously earnest human being I’d ever met. As far as my knowledge went, I was the only person in the world he’d fucked over. Which, one could argue, said a lot about my level of arseholery or likeability. Or lack thereof.

  Jenna resurfaced from the terrace, shoving her phone into her bag. Her smile told me if I tried to say no to hiring New Girl, she was going to dump my sorry arse to the nearest curb. There were other agents, big and powerful as she was, but there was only one agent to bail my eejit self from jail at three in the morning when I’d decided to play a one-sided game of chicken with a police patrol car on the Pacific Highway and finish the night doodling on a booker’s tit. I couldn’t rely on my drummer, manager, and bass guitarist to flush the toilet, let alone be there when I fucked up in spectacular fashion. I loved my friends the way you love your pet. Fiercely, but with no expectations of reciprocation. My family…well, that was an entirely different story I didn’t want to delve into.

  “Hello,” Jenna said.

  I offered half a nod.

  “This one talks, Jenna.” I jerked my chin to the girl.

  “The last one didn’t and didn’t survive four days on the job. I needed to try something different.” My agent shrugged, and I puffed on my millionth cigarette that day and disregarded her, and the rest of the universe, my favorite pastime since I’d gotten out of rehab.

  “Can I tell you something?” Jenna reapplied her blood-shaded lipstick in front of a pocket mirror she held up to her face.

  “Manners don’t suit you.” Rhetorical questions channeled my inner bully.

  “You need to start thinking about your next album, Alex. Cock My Suck did poorly, and you’ve taken the needed time off to focus on your wellbeing. I was surprised to learn you didn’t write anything while you were in rehab.”

  I cocked my head sideways, arching an eyebrow. “Ever been to rehab, Jenna?”

  “No.” She clamped the mirror shut.

  “I might’ve had a shit-ton of dead time on my hands, but I was too busy crawling up the walls Trainspotting-style and trying not to tear the flesh from my bones.”

  “Cocaine doesn’t lead to physical dependency,” she stated, unblinking.

  “Ever done coke, Jenna?” I asked her in the exact same tone I’d asked the first question.

  “No.”

  “Same answer.”

  The doorbell chimed again. Blake opened it, again, bypassing a chatting Lucas and New Girl. My band members and manager had already acknowledged she was a part of our landscape. At least they had the decency to ignore her, like she was an ugly vase no one had the balls to move. Other than Waitrose, of course, who made pissing on my parade a form of art.

  “Who ordered Mexican?” Blake yelled.

  “Stupid question, mate!” Alfie shouted from the sofa.

  “Oh, shit. Literally,” Lucas drawled in slow-motion, referring to Alfie’s stomach, which didn’t share his infatuation with the cuisine.

  I turned around, moving my attention back to Jenna.

  “So. Where did you find the little fighter?” I massaged the velvety part of her earlobe. Women melted under my hands like butter, and my agent was no different, with the exception that she’d never sleep with me because she had enough brain cells to know the outcome.

  Jenna examined her nails while she talked. “Does it really matter? All you need to know is I don’t trust you to stay sober on your own. You’re volatile, angry, and bitter at the world. And she—she has too much to gain and a lot to lose if this doesn’t pan out the way I want it to. Sorry, Al. This one’s ready to go to war.”

  “Jenna.” I tsked, brushing my thumb along my lower lip. “She’s not a war. She’s barely a fucking sport.”

  “If that’s the case, promise me you’ll play clean. She may have sass, but she’s really young.”

  “Clean is not in my dictionary.” It wasn’t even a joke.

  “Say that to one of your endless strings of one-night stands. I’m sure they’d still hop into bed with you.” Jenna’s eyes rolled so hard they almost hopped to another dimension. She brushed her shoulder along my chest as she waltzed to the door. Indigo shadowed her, her back ramrod-straight.

  My agent turned around a second before leaving. “Write me an album, Al. Make it spectacular, settling the score between you and Will Bushell.”

  A kill switch clicked in my brain the minute she said his name.

  There was no score to be settled. I’d released one bad album. Everyone had one. Even Bad Religion. But of course, I wasn’t going to defend myself, not to her, not at all, and definitely not in front of my entourage and the little smurf she’d dragged into my den.

  “It’s on.” I winked and finger-gunned her, turning around so she couldn’t see the anger clouding my face.

  The door closed.

  I grabbed Alfie’s Mexican food and threw it against the wall, watching the black beans crawling down and making a mess. The guacamole clung to the wall like concrete, fighting gravity. I was restless, and I wasn’t even sure why.

  New album?

  New tour?

  New Girl?

  Will Bushell?

  Things were about to change, and this time, there was no magic powder to take the edge off.

  “Soooo. Spill it, girl. What’s he like?”

  Disgusting. Gorgeous. Rude. Sexy. Screwed-up. Witty. Broody. Unbearable. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Alex Winslow was all those things and more, but my family didn’t need to know any of this. Natasha was already crazy worried at the prospect of me leaving for three months. I turned off the faucet and wiped my hands with a kitchen towel, turning around to lean against the counter. We lived in an old Pico Blvd one-bedroom apartment, where the fridge made more noise than the highway outside, and the yellow walls were more naked and depressing than the strippers at the club right below the condo.

  “Fine, I guess. Your average rock star. A chain-smoking, crazy-in-love-with-himself, conceited dude.” I sucked my teeth, my eyes traveling anywhere but their gazes.

  Natasha looked up from her bowl of plain pasta, while Craig flipped through the want ads in the daily paper and took a swig of his beer. He was already to the point where he’d sent applications to anything even remotely relevant on Craigslist, which he joked was named after him, and Monster, which h
e joked he’d become if he didn’t find a job soon, and was a step away from knocking on people’s doors begging for them to hire him to do anything—walk their dogs, water their plants, or sell them a kidney. It pained me to see my bright and proud brother groveling. Especially considering how he’d given up his college scholarship to raise his baby sister because one day his parents walked home from their twentieth wedding anniversary date and never made it back home.

  “Cut the bullshit, Indie. You never badmouth people. He’s probably a world-class prick, which doesn’t surprise me. Show me a celebrity who isn’t a jerk.” He sat back in his seat, a black cloud of anger hanging over his light-brown mane. The chair squeaked under his weight. Utensils clinked together in Nat’s bowl. Craig finished his beer and placed it next to the two other cans he’d already drunk.

  “Another serving?” I jutted my chin to the bowl, ignoring my brother’s vast consumption of alcohol when we couldn’t even afford a bottle of Tylenol for Ziggy.

  Nat shook her head. “There’s enough for tomorrow. Better keep it.”

  “Counting pasta. Not very rock ‘n’ roll. Guess you’re too good for us now, Indie,” Craig said, and we both ignored him.

  I washed the dishes. The kitchen was small and full—pans, containers, framed pictures catalogued all the good, sad, and funny memories of the four of us. Ziggy lay sleeping in his cradle in the living room. His ear infections were under control, but we all knew that come winter, that was going to change.

  Nat slid behind me, hugging my midsection and resting her head against my shoulder. “You don’t have to do this. You’ve never been on an airplane before. Never even left the States. We can still work this out on our own. I have some temp work on Venice Beach at least until October. And Craig will find something soon…”

  I turned around and grabbed her shoulders, smiling.

  “Three hundred thousand dollars to hang out with a rock star. Are you kidding me? Does that sound like something any twenty-one-year-old girl would say no to?”

  “Yes,” she deadpanned, flattening her palm over my antique orange dress. “If the girl in question is you. I know you. All you want to do is sew and play with Ziggy. You’re the mother of all introverts. When we watched Bubble Boy together—you envied the poor kid for living in solitude.”

  Touché.

  I didn’t need the reminder I was a reclusive loser. But maybe that was a part of the charm of taking the job. Getting out of my shell was exactly what I needed. Plus, I’d come back with a suitcase full of unique and precious adventures. New smells, sights, and tastes on my tongue from all the wonderful places I’d always dreamed of visiting.

  “Nat, I promise you, I couldn’t be more excited if I tried.”

  “Would you tell us if you really didn’t want to go?” she probed, and I wondered if she could see the terror I masked with my smile.

  “Yeah, Indie.” Craig stood up from his seat and walked toward the living room, still in the same PJ’s from last night. “Don’t feel like you have to do this. We’re doing fine. Other than the fact we’re behind on rent, the electricity payment, and Ziggy’s pediatric bills. Oh, and, you know, life.”

  “Craig,” Natasha hissed, her eyes two narrow slits of anger.

  He left, his bitter chuckle bouncing off the walls. A minute later, the bedroom door slammed shut. Ziggy protested the sudden noise with a moan. Time stood still as Nat and I waited to hear Ziggy’s soft snores again.

  I could see why my brother had very little success with finding a job, but it was important to remember he wasn’t always sarcastic, rude, and borderline incoherent. Once upon a time, Craig was the lovable wide receiver who won Natasha Brockheimer’s heart by serenading her an Alex Winslow song outside her window. She had the blondest hair and the tannest legs, and the richest daddy in Beverlywood. Natasha didn’t care that Craig had dropped out of college to take care of me. But her parents did. And when she got pregnant at twenty-two, said parents then decided they wanted nothing to do with Nat, Craig, Ziggy, or me.

  For a while, Craig remained positive. He worked two jobs, helped with Ziggy, and gave Natasha foot massages every evening, talking to us about how we were all going to make it. But then he got fired, and started drinking, and the pep talks, foot massages, and hope evaporated from our lives, replaced with a suffocating cloud of bleakness.

  “I think I’m going to head to bed. Thanks for everything.” I twirled one of Nat’s fair locks. I slept on the couch next to Ziggy’s cradle. It was convenient, because he woke up thirsty several times a night.

  Who’s going to give Ziggy his sippy when I’m gone? I shoved the question to the back of my head, allowing my legs to carry me past the couch, to my white bicycle, the only expensive thing I’d ever owned. My mom got the bike for me when I was fourteen. It was made in Paris, my favorite city in the world, though I’d never been.

  I glanced at the big suitcase sitting next to the entrance door, glaring back at me, taunting me, reminding me of what was to come. There was no way I could sleep with so much weighing on my chest, my mind, my heart. I needed more air than was in the whole apartment building.

  I went for a ride.

  Outside, I swung one leg over the bike, pushed off the asphalt, and darted down the darkened street. The breeze was crisp and salty, the wind dancing across my face. Lights from convenient stores and old-school diners zinged by, and for the first time that day, I managed to inhale deeply.

  A tingle ran down my spine when I remembered the first time I saw Alex Winslow’s eyes up close. Whiskey brown. Bottomless and tawny like rich wood, full, expressive, and misleadingly warm. Straight nose, square jaw seemingly made of stone, and too-full lips that softened his appearance, despite his best efforts. His tousled hair was dirty brown, silk and cashmere, and he smelled of old leather and a new obsession. He may have looked beautiful, but it was important to remember that Alex Winslow was not, in fact, boyfriend material. Or anything-material. What he definitely was was: rude, impatient, a bully, and a recovering drug addict.

  I pedaled faster, a mist of sweat forming on my brow. Winslow had worn army boots—unlaced—a pair of cheap-looking torn jeans, and a black tank top with raw-edge armholes, exposing his lean torso and tatted ribs. He was skinny—lithe but strong—and had several wristbands and rings on his hands, and was the very definition of sex on legs.

  And I hated him.

  Hated the way he walked, the way he talked, the way he’d undermined me. Hated that he held so much power over me, and the way he was going to use that power against me.

  I rode my bike for almost two hours before making a U-turn and heading back home, then decided to skip the shower because I didn’t want to wake anyone up. I tossed and turned until dawn, thankful when Ziggy woke up twice and cried for his sippy cup. And when the sun emerged and the clouds hung low and fat over my city, I stood up, grabbed the suitcase, and walked over to his cradle.

  “I’m getting us out of this mess,” I swore, leaning to kiss his forehead, reminding myself this temporary goodbye would later on grant us a steady future. He murmured to himself and waved his chubby little fist goodbye, blowing me kisses like I’d taught him.

  That’s when I knew this was a promise I was going to keep.

  “Dafuq?”

  I jolted awake at a sharp elbow slamming into my ribs. It dug through my black hoodie and my leather jacket, so it had to be that long-limbed tosser, Alfie.

  I sat up, growling. The dead hum of industrial engines buzzed in my ears. You’d think I would’ve gotten used to it by now. Spoiler alert: I hadn’t.

  Alfie pouted like a groupie and slapped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Oh, Alexander, why don’t you love me?”

  “Because you have a cock, no tits, fart like you’ve consumed every rotten egg in America, and think Russell Brand is funny. The latter, by the way, is borderline criminal.”

  Alfie laughed and threw something at me—a blue guitar pick.

  I picked it up from my c
rotch and slid it in my back pocket. “What do you want?”

  “We’re almost at the airport.”

  “I thought we were on the plane.”

  “Are you still using? We’re in a traffic jam from hell moving at a snail’s pace to LAX.”

  “So what’s that annoying noise?” My head swiveled toward the window.

  “That would be L.A., Lord McCuntson,” Blake quipped, his eyes hard on his phone, always in work mode.

  Forty minutes later, we were at the airport. Blake scrolled through our schedule on his iPad. We always started at the farthest point and worked our way back up to the States. Australia first—Sydney and Melbourne—then we’d do Asia, then Europe before we hit the land of the free—with a week-long break in England, to see our families.

  “Letters from the Dead” was supposed to be a piece of cake. Best of. Songs I knew by heart. I had no new product to push. I was going to kiss my fans’ arses and hope to fuck the sights, smells, and cultures were going to get my creative juices flowing.

  This time, the record company had asked for, “catchy, fun, bubbly, with a hint of rock ‘n’ roll.” So of course my inner rebel wanted to dump a bunch of fourteen-minute tracks about politics and global warming onto their table. I didn’t even like politics, but I hated my record company more.

  At the airport, we breezed past security and into the VIP lounge. The private jet was ready, and this was the part I despised the least about being Alex Winslow. I had access to the most ridiculous shite ever to be invented. Seven years ago, I’d drooled from the prospect of getting on a plane—any plane, fuck the destination or class—and now I was literally grousing about having one all to myself.

  “Well, if it isn’t the mother of dragons.” Blake oomphed as I unloaded Tania, resting her guitar case against one of the tables. Blake often claimed Jenna had the ability to burn people alive if they disobeyed.