Which reminded me, I needed to throw the plan of fucking Stardust into high gear before I got back with Fallon. She may have been a cheater, but I wasn’t.
The decision wasn’t calculated or even particularly smart. Sure, I saw Indie balling into herself like a kitten on the couch of the private jet with her head on Lucas’ thighs—his crotch—but it wasn’t like I was jealous. My heart rolled in my chest helplessly like a wounded soldier, because Waitrose didn’t deserve anything, much less the only girl on the tour.
The. Only. Girl. On. The. Tour.
If anyone was going to fuck this girl, it’d be me, not my backstabbing drummer and frenemy.
Rising up from my open suitcase, where the champagne had been placed carefully on the side, covered by clothes, I walked across the darkened room—the wrought iron chandelier looming from the ceiling like a devious monster. The wallpaper was black, with Japanese letters smeared in red. I stopped by the kitchen island, flipping over my notebook with the notes from last night.
Progress.
My soul didn’t feel quite as empty when I strode over to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Tokyo.
Clean. Busy. Sophisticated. Tokyo was built high, wide, and in long strokes, like she’d been painted by a confident artist. I’d been here once before and had made some pretty sweet memories in the form of a foursome and a dirty underwear vending machine I’d emptied.
When my phone rang, I didn’t immediately move. The only people I spoke with were already on the tour, as pathetically tragic as it may sound, and Jenna and the rest of my management usually liaised directly with Blake, because he was less likely to be a volatile tosser. I withdrew my mobile from my back pocket, frowning.
Mum.
Not today, Mother Dearest.
I let the call die, watching as the screen lit up again with another call as if on cue.
She hadn’t called when I broke up with Fallon.
Or when I’d been thrown into rehab the first time.
The second time, she hadn’t even answered said phone when I’d been desperate enough to want to talk to anyone, her useless arse included.
In fact, the only time she had picked up the phone to talk to me was after the Grammys’ incident, to tell me I had circles around my eyes and that blue is not my color.
This meant she either needed to break some bad news or ask for more money to nourish her plastic surgery/gambling habits. Unfortunately for her, I was working on not letting people screw me over. Since Mum was about as constructive in my life as fucking leukemia, I chose to cut her out.
Blake walked through the door, talking to Jenna on the phone. “Jenna. Jenna. Jenn-a,” the last one was peppered with exhaustion. “I’ve got it all under control, trust me. And if, by any chance, I need to leave him for a few hours, Indie will take over. Girl watches him like a hawk.”
I flicked my cigarette into the trash, the amber tip still burning. The scent of something unnatural melting—plastic or polyester—spread around the room and I plopped down on the low, black couch and stared at the ceiling.
“What’s up?” Blake asked, boomeranging his mobile across the black marble island.
I stole a bottle of champagne, and I’m probably going to drink it in one gulp next time you take a shit.
“I wrote a song.” Much better.
“Is it any good?”
Blinking slowly, I tried ungluing my teeth from my tongue. “Think I would’ve told you if it was shite? Of course it’s good.” Though, really, who the hell knew? Art is like love. It’s too subjective for you to see it clearly.
“Wanna play it for me?” Blake collapsed on the loveseat across from me.
As if on cue, Alfie and Lucas walked in the main door, waltzing toward the sofa I occupied and taking their seats. The new track was ten minutes long. Way longer than the average song, but for the first time in ages, I believed in something I’d done. It felt good.
“Yeah, play it for us, Winslow. Serenade us like you mean it.” Alfie batted his eyelashes, clutching the fabric of his shirt over his heart.
Lucas looked tense and didn’t say a thing, which was probably good, considering how our last conversation had ended. I smirked.
“I still need to polish a few things, but I’ll give you the notes soon.”
“Notes for what?” Alfie shoved his bacteria-infested hand into a bowl of chocolate-coated strawberries in the middle of the coffee table. No way was I touching those strawberries, or that table, or anything else in the fucking suite now. I wasn’t much of a germophobe, but the bloke was made of fifty percent flesh and blood and fifty percent jizz.
“My new song.”
“You wrote a song?”
“I wrote a song.”
“Let me guess,” Lucas said. “Indie helped?”
I paused for one second before deciding I was above acknowledging his existence.