“And how are you feeling about being back in the UK?”
“It’s great. Good to be home.” I kept my answers short and evasive, flashing her the wink that seems to make every female on the planet squirm on the spot.
“Will you be visiting anyone special while you’re here?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. What she meant was, am I seeing anyone, who is she and when are we getting married. Crossing my ankle over my knee, I had to try really hard not to roll my eyes and walk the hell out of there.
“We’ll be too busy with the tour to take time out for ourselves. But I hope to catch up with my friend while I’m here.”
It’s not really a ‘hope’. I’ve already seen Elle and will see her every single day while I’m here, but I don’t need the pond scum, known as the paparazzi, following her every goddamn second. Not that my silence will make much, if any, difference, but I’ve still got to try.
“That would be Elle Wilson, right?”
“Right.”
“And she’s really just a friend?”
“No. She’s my best friend.” The interfering journalist sighed and I could tell she was getting frustrated at the fact her attempts to drag some dirt out of me were futile.
“And what about the guys? What are their plans?”
“I imagine they’ll take a day to visit their families, but really you’d have to ask them.” Except she couldn’t because the arseholes didn’t turn up this morning, leaving me to deal with this shit on my own. My fist was already itching to punch each one of my band mates in the face. Twice.
She went on to ask me a couple more simple questions with hidden meanings but I think the impressive yawn I let out gave her a clue as to where this was heading and she flipped her notepad closed. So, after using just ten minutes of her allotted twenty, she gave up.
“Well Sawyer,” she said, drawing the interview to a close. “It was a pleasure meeting you today.”
“Likewise,” I completely fucking lied.
I shook her hand, because she offered hers, then stood up and walked towards the door.
“Oh, before you go!” she called after me. I stopped and turned my body to face her, trying very hard not to groan. “Would you like to address the rumours about your-”
“Time’s up,” our PR manager, Claire, interrupted. I shot first the interviewer, and then Claire, the deadliest glare I could summon and then literally stormed out of the room like a pissed off teenager.
“Sawyer!” she called after me, her heels clicking furiously against the floor as she tried to catch up with me. “Sawyer, wait up!”
“Front or back?” I asked Jim, our temporary head of security, when I approached - ignoring Claire completely.
“Back. There’s a mob of girls out front and we don’t have the numbers to get you through there safely,” he replied. Our security team has gone to shit since Billy got fired a couple of weeks ago so public appearances have been limited. Hopefully the new guy they’re bringing in to head the team will sort that shit out.
I hurried through some double glass doors, down some stairs and then out through a back door marked ‘Staff Only’ with Jim and Neil flanking me either side. Our drivers were waiting for us just a step away from the exit and I ducked inside the back of the car, welcoming the privacy of the blacked out windows. Jim climbed in beside me, and Neil got in the car behind with Claire. I knew I’d have to talk to her eventually but right now I was too pissed off. She arranges all this godforsaken interview shit and she knows how I feel about it, which is why she should have made sure the other guys were there to take some of the heat.
Jim tried to make small talk on the way back to the hotel but seemingly thought better of it when all he got in return was a huff. I texted Elle en-route to ask if she had time to meet up later and when she replied with a ‘hell yeah’, my mother of a bad mood instantly started lifting.
“Do you ever get used to seeing that kinda thing, mate?” Jim asked, directing his gaze towards a giant billboard with our picture on it. I’d seen several on our way here this morning, all announcing the tour dates.
“Don’t really notice ‘em anymore,” I clipped, still drowning in my bad mood. Honestly, after all these years, seeing my face lit up on a billboard is no stranger than seeing a framed picture of myself up on my grandma’s living room wall. At least that would be the case, if she were still alive.
For once, getting into the hotel unseen was relatively simple. We used the back doors and were escorted to our suites on the top floor by hotel security. A shot of whiskey and a sleep – that’s what I wanted. But of course I wasn’t fucking lucky enough to get it.
“Where the fuck were you guys?” I blasted when I waltzed into my suite and found the rest of the guys lounging across my furniture.
“Um, yeah… sorry about that, dude,” Matt sniggered, rolling a joint filled with fuck knows what.
“Daz?” I pressed, ignoring Matt as usual. Believe me, there’s a reason we call him Matt the Twat. But the guy plays drums like no other, and as far as I’m concerned that’s the only reason I haven’t kicked his ass into next year yet.
“We were never supposed to show up,” he explained, each word making my blood grow a little hotter. “They only wanted you, mate. Claire said you wouldn’t have turned up if you knew that.”
“Damn right I wouldn’t!” I yelled, balling my hand into a fist so tight my knuckles ached. “Devious bitch!”
“Chill out, mate,” Kip interrupted. Kip and I have been friends since primary school. His real name is Isaac but he earned the nickname ‘Kipper’ because he looked so similar to the kid in the Biff, Chip and Kipper books you’re forced to read as a child. Same blonde hair, red cheeks and crooked nose. I’ve known the guy for twenty years and he still looks the same, only bigger and with ninety percent of his body covered in ink. Out of all the guys, Kip and I are the closest. We started this band back in college with a couple of mates who went their own way before we hit it big. Daz, Matt and Gavin joined the team a year later, just as we were getting ready to throw in the towel. “It’s done now.”