Bring Me Home

At the house, I headed straight for the shower. Well, a shower. Technically, there were seven different rooms I could choose to take one in. The house was too big for one person. I didn’t make use of most of it, tending to stick to the same couple of rooms and areas on a regular basis. Sometimes, a feeling of what I recognised as loneliness fluttered inside my heart as I paced the colossal space, but it never overpowered me enough to request company. Loneliness felt better than awkwardness.

Once clean and shaved, I ran some crème product through my thick hair while it was still damp, gave myself the usual deep side part and let the air set the natural waves into place. I’d worn it in countless styles over the years and every length from buzzed to grazing my shoulders. Right now, I’d settled for a short look with plenty of volume on top, which wasn’t hard to achieve thanks to the loose curls I’d inherited from my mother.

After painting my nails, all white except the middle fingers which I swiped with magenta, I kept my outfit fairly lowkey, pairing some pink slacks with a matching sweater vest on top of a white shirt. I rolled the sleeves up because the material felt too restrictive, and also because the pops of colour in my ink complemented the clothes. A couple of rings, a necklace and a pair of Chelsea boots later, and I was ready to go.

Despite purposely avoiding rush hour, the traffic thickened once I hit the freeway. It took me the best part of an hour to get to what Drew referred to as the decent part of Melrose Avenue. If I’d carried on driving a little further, just past the façade of glitz and glamour that hid behind the Paramount Studios, I’d be faced with the stark reminder that this wasn’t the real world. Trash and graffiti littering the streets, broken buildings and damaged souls were only a stone’s throw away, and it was always that way. Los Angeles could create the perfect illusion when it wanted to. Insert stunning architecture and put up dazzling lights to attract the rich and beautiful people, snapshot the perfect angles of Hollywood Boulevard and Beverly Hills for glossy magazines while making sure to obscure what’s happening around the corner…but take a peep over those carefully constructed billion dollar walls and you see the real people; the ones who’ve lost everything, or the people who’ve lived and worked here all their lives and don’t get a fucking look in at the delights this city had to offer. The people most of us living our fake lives out here once were, until people started shoving bunches of cash in our hands and over we came, taking the best parts and keeping them to ourselves.

I did what I could with all I had to offer – money. I, or rather, someone in my team on my behalf, gave generously to charities. My name fronted several causes that I believed in. I didn’t get involved personally, host charitable events or appear at fundraisers. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t be that guy.

If I thought about it all too hard it made me feel like a prick, so I shrugged the thoughts away as I pulled up outside The Golden Grove.

The Golden Grove wasn’t the fanciest restaurant in LA, but it was still exclusive enough to have a secure entrance and exit, if needed, and the food tasted better than the posh places. It seemed the more expensive the less you got. Still, I never understood why Drew insisted I come all the way out here and we couldn’t eat closer to the house.

There were already two glasses of wine set out on our usual table when I reached it, alongside the leatherbound menus. I wouldn’t need mine, since I only ever ordered the same thing, so I pushed it aside.

“Hugo,” Drew greeted, standing to clap my shoulder. We sat down together. “Looking sharp, as always.” The kink in his smile made me raise an eyebrow. Everything Drew said sounded like a come on. He could’ve told me my dog had just died and made it sound sensual.

“How’s Stefano?” I asked before raising the glass of wine to my lips, deliberately reminding Drew of his husband, who also happened to be my booking agent. It wouldn’t help, wouldn’t stop him flirting. It’s who he was.

“Busy. Beautiful.” He paused to call a waiter with a click of his fingers. “He’s also managed to add another four dates to the tour and a guest appearance on the Ricky Byrne Show, which is why-”

“Jesus, Drew…” I huffed a long sigh, clanging my glass back onto the table. In two weeks, I’d be heading back to the UK to begin the twelve-night leg of my tour. I had a love/hate relationship with being on the road. I lived for the stage, for the euphoric feeling of drums vibrating in my veins as the music swathed my body, feeding my soul. Yet the travelling, the cramped and sweaty spaces packed with people and incessant background noise…I fucking hated that part, but I accepted it for the trade-off.