I got off the stage, and the first face I saw was New Girl’s. She and her big eyes and narrow, Cupid’s bow lips and purple flared dress that made her look like she’d stepped out of a film noir straight into the imperfect arms of this industrial arena. Her clothes felt like a statement. One that made my cock stiffen in my jeggings, and I wondered if wanting to fuck my chaperone was my way of trying to get rid of her, or claiming her by making sure Lucas didn’t do it before me.
She wore her usual expression of annoyance, so I bypassed her, heading for my dressing room. Adrenaline simmered beneath my skin, making me roll my neck and cup the back of my head. The gig had been solid. No, fuck solid. It had been grand. I knew that, because I had been there—really there, not like when I was coked up, riding an invisible cloud of fake confidence.
I wanted to write.
I needed to write.
Alone.
Blake, New Girl, two groupies who’d sneaked in, and the local PR bloke all trailed behind me to the dressing room, but I slammed the door in their faces, not bothering to stop and explain. When the muse hits you in the nut sack, you crawl back and ask her to hit harder, faster, stronger.
Make me bleed. Make me gasp for it, live for it, then die for it. Make me lose my mind and find my soul. Do your magic, Muse. But don’t leave me hanging like you did before. Howling for you to come rescue me in an empty room. Waiting for you to show up unannounced like an indecisive lover.
“Winslow.” New Girl knocked on the door several times, and not gently. “Open the door or I’ll have to call Ms. Holden.” It didn’t escape me that she’d dropped the word ‘please.’ Shame she was starting to adapt to her new environment, because I wasn’t keeping her. I tipped my head back and squeezed my eyes shut. I needed solitude to write. My best words were usually found in silence.
“Go away,” I barked.
“Trust me, spending time with you is very low on my to-do list. Unfortunately, it’s part of my job description to be around you. You’re not allowed to be alone with the door locked.”
“Can you be any more annoying?”
“Can you be any more of a jerk?” She slapped her palm against the door. “Open. Up!”
“Oh, you’re using periods between words. Now I’m really in trouble,” I roared from the other side, kicking the coffee table to the other end of the room and watching it crash and lose a leg against the opposite wall.
Fuck, okay. I didn’t need any more shit with Jenna.
I sighed, pushing to my feet and swinging the door open. The groupies, Blake, and a few sound technicians were standing behind New Girl, curiously peeking over her shoulder. I stepped sideways, giving her a sliver of space to come into the room, but she had to fucking work for it.
“She’s addicted to the D. I need to accommodate that shit twenty-four-seven.” I smirked tauntingly as she rolled her eyes and squeezed past my body. “Don’t touch anything. Don’t look at anything. If possible, don’t even breathe. Actually, that’d be ideal.”
I signed albums, posters, and tits, then slammed the door in Blake’s face after the fans and technicians were gone. He’d mumbled something about not checking the Internet and dick pictures, but I tuned him out. I appreciated the concern, but who the hell cared? My knob was community property at this point. Every willing body that wasn’t a fan or underage got a free ride and a complimentary selfie.
I walked back to the sofa, picked up the notepad and pen, and frowned at the blank page. New Girl was standing by the window overlooking the harbor, her back to me. I tried to remember the last time I’d been in a room with a bird who wasn’t my mum or sister without having my cock shoved so deep down her throat she had to heave, and couldn’t. I scowled some more. Stared at the paper. Mentally paced the room and punched the walls.
The muse was gone.
New Girl had fucking killed it.
Bollocks.
I sat back, watching her blue-silver hair, no longer in a braid, cascading all the way down to her small, round bum. Way I saw it, if I wasn’t going to get any writing done, might as well burn the time reloading my spank bank. Though I knew I could go to one of the many after parties my bandmates were probably hitting, this was a big, fat no. A) New Girl was going to accompany me, and that’d be entirely too embarrassing to endure, and B) I recognized that in order to rein in my desire to get all coked up and drink myself into a stupor, I had to stay in. My agent was going to cut my balls off, drain them, and use them as mini purses if I got anywhere near alcohol or cocaine.