The Complete Rockstar Series

72

Gavin

“That fucking prick!” I shout a little too loud, drawing stares from people around us in the packed club.

“Shhhhh,” Hawke chastises, laughing as we do another shot. “We really shouldn’t be drinking at an appearance,” he snickers.

“Probably not,” I agree, pushing the empty glass away with the tips of my fingers. Then I shrug and order another. “Who gives a fuck?”

“Not me,” Hawke slurs.

No, Hawke certainly doesn’t care. Never has. It must be so freeing not to give a shit what anyone thinks. I chuckle to myself. Now I’m envious of Hawke? He’s not exactly a role model and probably the only person I know who’s more fucked up than me.

“What in bloody hell are you two nitwits doing?”

I whirl around to find my band mate Dax’s scowling face just inches from mine.

Hawke gives him a shit-eating grin. “Ummmm, duh, Dax. We’re getting shitfaced.” I sputter into my drink when Hawke flippantly replies to the big man’s question.

“The fuck you are,” he growls. “I’ve already had to deal with one drunken tosser in this band. We finally got him all clean so I’m sure as hell not dealing with you two now as well. Go get pissed in the hotel, if you must. Not here.”

“Whatever, Dax,” I jeer, sliding off my stool. The floor feels a little wobbly under my feet. Are the walls moving? “I’m going to dance.” Hawke nods and waves over the bartender. I don’t stay to listen to him argue with Dax, who looks ready to rip someone’s head off.

Instead, I step out of the VIP area and weave through the crowd to the dance floor, ignoring the wandering hands of guests that brush against my arm, my hand, my ass. I’m used to it by now. People think you’re free game if you’re famous. That your body isn’t your own.

When I get to the dance floor, I realize that I’ve made a big mistake. My judgment is impaired by alcohol and hurt feelings. Despite the bodyguards flanking the space, despite the drinks that have made me lightheaded, despite my urge to piss Mitch off by doing something reckless, I feel vulnerable and anxious.

Partygoers sidle up to me, rocking their bodies against mine in time with the heavy rhythm of the club music. Every hand that touches me makes me flinch, wondering if that’s the hand that belongs to my stalker. Without Mitch next to me, keeping me safe, I’m a complete wreck.

Panic begins to overwhelm me, like a hot, heavy blanket thrown over my head in the dead of summer. Disoriented, I try to get my bearings and make eye contact with one of the men hired for protection. I look in every direction but am unable to find a single one of them. More people touch and grope me and my panic goes up another notch. My body starts to vibrate, lights flicking on and off behind my eyes.

“Oh god.” I feel my legs buckling but am unable to stop from going down.

Large arms shove beneath my armpits and I’m hauled against a massive chest. “I’ve got you, mate.” Dax lugs me off the dance floor and straight out the front door of the club to a waiting car.

“W-where’s security?” I stammer, quivering from head to toe. My mind is swirling with alcohol and adrenaline, not a combination I recommend to anyone. I feel floaty, but not in a good way. It’s more of an “I’m about to have a nervous breakdown” kind of way.

Before Dax can answer, one of the security detail hops into the passenger seat and slams the door shut. The car pulls away from the curb.

“Let’s keep the drinking to a minimum from now on, yeah?” Dax says with a smirk. “At least until this arsehole threatening you is locked up.”

“He… he left a f-finger in my dressing room, Dax. A h-human fucking finger,” I whisper, my entire body convulsing with fear. “They have to bring in the authorities now. No way we can keep it out of the news this time.”

“I know,” he responds, pulling me in tighter. “I’m so sorry, Gav.”

In the dark backseat of the record label’s car, huddled next to a man I’ve known for over a decade, I allow myself to do something I haven’t done since all this shit began. I let all of the tension, worry, stress, and flat-out fucked up feelings release, confessing everything from the comfort of Dax’s strong arms while wishing they belonged to Mitch.

* * *

When I wake up the next morning, my head feels as if it were used as the stage for a Riverdance competition. I groan, rolling over to curl into Mitch for comfort. All I find are cold, empty sheets.

“Mitch?” Wincing, I sit up, glancing painfully around the room. There’s no sign of him. No shoes on the floor, no wallet on the nightstand, no crumpled clothes tossed into his suitcase.

What the fuck?

“Utah?” Standing up takes serious effort, but somehow I manage. A quick inspection of the suite turns up nothing. Panicked, I snatch my phone off the nearby dresser. Surely he left a message or sent a text if he was spending the night at his parents?

Anger rips through me when I look at my phone. What a fucking bastard! No calls, no texts, no fucking courtesy?