Christmas with a Rockstar (Rock Revenge Trilogy 3.50)

“What about our VIP passes?” the ringleader asked, her voice shrill and her calculating eyes narrowed.

“Those too.” I whipped the rumpled sheet off the bed and tucked it around my waist. “My manager will see that you’re taken care of. Go on. Move along.” Shuffling them toward the door without allowing them time to finish dressing, I explained. “I gotta get ready for the show.”

I clicked the door closed and turned to press my back against it, squeezing my eyes shut as the weariness of the nine-month-long tour slammed down on me. I was so fucking sick of it. Night after night, day after day, it was always the same. Show, long bus ride, hotel, chicks, booze, more chicks, more booze.

Be careful what you wish for, my boy. My father’s words of advice rattled around inside my skull as clearly as the day he’d spoken them. Dreams are great things—unless they’re misguided ones.

He thought mine were misguided. The way I felt today, I certainly couldn’t argue with his assessment.

Don’t, I warned myself. Don’t you fucking feel sorry for yourself. You’re Rush McMahon, on top of the world. Top of the charts. You busted your ass, and you made it. And now you have everything you ever wanted.

Yet, as I opened my eyes and glanced around the opulent suite, I knew I had nothing I really needed. Nothing that mattered. And no one in my life anymore who truly understood how I felt.

I raked my hand through my hair. Bullshit! Introspection like this was a waste of time. It didn’t change anything.

No, what was called for here was self-medication. At the proper dosage, it would suppress the brain’s tendency toward focusing on unproductive matters while keeping it coherent enough to be functional.

With that goal in mind, I tugged the sheet tighter around me and pushed away from the door just in time to escape the rising sound of the irritated voices on the other side. Groupies never responded favorably to being forced to sign nondisclosure agreements.

No signature? No cell phone then.

Yeah, I might feel like a loser at the moment, but I wasn’t a fool. No way in hell was I going to let some random chicks I’d just screwed screw me over with a viral video.

Returning to the center of the room, I paused at the glossy mahogany table and grabbed the half-full bottle of Jameson I’d abandoned earlier. I lifted it into the air in a toast.

“Here’s to you on your wedding day, darlin’. And here’s to me, myself, and I—and the fuckin’ success I am without you.”

Fuck, that sounded lame. Apparently, banging groupies hadn’t gotten my mind off anything.

Exchanging one rock star’s vice for another, I brought the bottle to my lips and knocked back an unhealthy swallow. My throat warmed, and the chill inside my chest receded.

A pleasant numbness began to settle into my limbs as I snagged my cell from the charging cradle. I loaded some of my music and hit PLAY, needing some fucking sound to drown out the silence.

Whiskey in hand, I headed toward the balcony on a mission for some perfume-free air. I threw open one of the French doors and slipped through the gap.

The outside speakers crackled as they picked up the first track. My guitar chords streaked like a blazing comet through the darkness. It was some kickass ax work, if I did say so myself. And I did. Hearing it brightened my gloom.

I set the bottle on a cushioned lounger—not that I wouldn’t hit it again or tag another chick later. I just had a better option for now.

With my own voice serenading me, I moved to the edge of the balcony to take in the view. Elbows propped on the iron railing, I surveyed the twinkling lights of LA from fifteen stories above.

Jack’s drums pounded the melancholy from my chest. Ben’s snaky bass groove further improved my mood. A breeze gently lifted the layers of hair at my brow, soothing me.

My lips curved. My twisted guts unraveled.

Liquor and drugs were only temporary fixes. Music was my preferred therapy. The lifeblood of my soul. The rhythm of my heart. My unshakable foundation.

Brenda had never fully understood that or me. She thought my career was some post-adolescent phase. Even if I hadn’t screwed up with her, she and I would have never worked.

On that depressing note of clarity, I finally noticed the cold of the stamped concrete seeping into the soles of my bare feet. The chill spread throughout my body, raising goose bumps on my skin.

Sighing, I turned away from the view. At the lounger, I bent and snagged my bottle before reentering the suite. On my way to the shower, I shook my head as an unmistakable ringtone stopped me in my tracks.

Shit. I walked back to my phone. My manager’s disapproving visage lit up the screen.

“Hello?” My gut tightened again as I braced for the inevitable lecture.

“You’re not dressed yet, are you?” Bradley Marshall asked, sounding as stick-up-his-ass irritated as he usually did lately.