Lucas and I parted ways in the hotel hallway. When I pushed the door to my room open, the first thing I did was collect my hair into a high bun and walk to the kitchenette to get myself a glass of water. When I turned around, I dropped the glass to the floor before the water touched my lips.
Alex.
In my room.
In my kitchenette.
Naked from the waist up, with only a black pair of jeans and dirty boots. Oh, and his guitar. If he could staple it to his back, he would. I was sure of it.
Worse than anything else—he was unsupervised, hence he might’ve relapsed. I took a deep breath, closing my eyes.
“Where were you?” His voice boomed, even though he was not shouting, somehow taking up space like it had a body of its own.
I stole a quick glance at the mini sewing machine, thread and fabrics by the window, and cleared my throat.
“Went to get some Band-Aids. Sewing accident.” I didn’t know what prompted me to lie. Maybe the fact I was partly afraid he’d kick me off the tour. If he did, all the plans I’d made would be flushed down the toilet.
I knew he wouldn’t ask to see the Band-Aids. He was too self-absorbed to even register what I was saying. He was just being a possessive prick. I diverted the subject quickly. “First things first, please tell me you’re sober,” I uttered as calmly as one could, considering my heart beat so fast it nearly blew up on the carpeted floor. At least it was the same red as the lush rug, hence no extra dry-cleaning bill.
“As sober as a Mormon baby.” He made a Scout’s honor signal with his fingers, before flipping me the bird with a grin.
“So now to the burning question—what in the hell are you doing here, Alex?” I dropped to my knees, collecting the sharp pieces of glass.
He was still standing there, stoic as a statue, glaring down at me like I was his subject.
“I mean, Jesus Christ, you can’t just come in here without warning…” I mumbled to myself, feeling my ears pinking.
Don’t look up. You’ll only end up ogling his crotch again.
“The hotel doesn’t offer laundry services today for some bizarre reason, and Blake is busy taking care of the fact my dick is getting more exposure than The Kardashians, also known as ‘Cockgate.’ I don’t have any clean shirts for the show tomorrow.” He waved a ball of black fabric in his fist. Hah. Blake was cleaning up the mess he’d created. The irony wasn’t lost on me. I turned my back to Alex, mainly so my eyes wouldn’t assault his chest. He had the most vivid tattoo I’d ever seen. A black raven, its broken wings shattering into miniscule feathers that peppered his entire back and ribs. Symbolizing the dark, broken angel that he was. I disposed the broken glass in the trash.
“Don’t you have people on call for that? You seemed to be surrounded by them at the Sydney show.” My teeth sank into my lip again. My phone was dancing on the kitchen counter where I’d left it. I knew it was Nat, who’d probably woken up and wanted to check on me. I hated not answering her, but couldn’t risk her listening to our exchange. There was no knowing what’d leave this man’s mouth.
“I do. I don’t like talking to any of them,” Alex confided.
“Pretty sure I’m not your number one conversation partner, either.”
“The devil you know.” He tapped his nose, eyebrows raised, as though he was sharing some great, inspirational advice. “And so, it looks like you’re about to do Alex Winslow’s laundry. Congratulations, and you’re welcome.”
“You can tell Alex Winslow—whom you refer to in the third person for a reason beyond my grasp—that doing his laundry is not in my job description.” I strode over to the vast Roman-styled bathroom, reappearing with a towel to dry off the kitchen floor.
He stood in the same spot like he’d grown roots I would’ve been happy to pluck with my own hands. If he moved slightly, I wouldn’t have to brush my shoulder against his arm to squeeze past him. But, of course, he remained motionless. Our skin touched. I dropped the towel to the floor, ignoring the sizzling nerves where we made contact, and moved the towel back and forth with the tip of my shoe.
“Actually, it is,” he said, his voice saturated with something I didn’t recognize. He was larger than life. A one-man show, even when he was off the stage.
I turned around, my face blank. “Huh?”
“Took the time to read your contract today. Jenna gave Blake an extra copy, and I was bored—you know, no Internet, no drugs, no Hudson to yell at. It’s in your contract to help me with any additional personal assistance services I may require.” He smirked, cocking his head to the side. “Looks like you’re in quite a pickle, Miss Bellamy.”