“Hello,” Jenna said.
I offered half a nod.
“This one talks, Jenna.” I jerked my chin to the girl.
“The last one didn’t and didn’t survive four days on the job. I needed to try something different.” My agent shrugged, and I puffed on my millionth cigarette that day and disregarded her, and the rest of the universe, my favorite pastime since I’d gotten out of rehab.
“Can I tell you something?” Jenna reapplied her blood-shaded lipstick in front of a pocket mirror she held up to her face.
“Manners don’t suit you.” Rhetorical questions channeled my inner bully.
“You need to start thinking about your next album, Alex. Cock My Suck did poorly, and you’ve taken the needed time off to focus on your wellbeing. I was surprised to learn you didn’t write anything while you were in rehab.”
I cocked my head sideways, arching an eyebrow. “Ever been to rehab, Jenna?”
“No.” She clamped the mirror shut.
“I might’ve had a shit-ton of dead time on my hands, but I was too busy crawling up the walls Trainspotting-style and trying not to tear the flesh from my bones.”
“Cocaine doesn’t lead to physical dependency,” she stated, unblinking.
“Ever done coke, Jenna?” I asked her in the exact same tone I’d asked the first question.
“No.”
“Same answer.”
The doorbell chimed again. Blake opened it, again, bypassing a chatting Lucas and New Girl. My band members and manager had already acknowledged she was a part of our landscape. At least they had the decency to ignore her, like she was an ugly vase no one had the balls to move. Other than Waitrose, of course, who made pissing on my parade a form of art.
“Who ordered Mexican?” Blake yelled.
“Stupid question, mate!” Alfie shouted from the sofa.
“Oh, shit. Literally,” Lucas drawled in slow-motion, referring to Alfie’s stomach, which didn’t share his infatuation with the cuisine.
I turned around, moving my attention back to Jenna.
“So. Where did you find the little fighter?” I massaged the velvety part of her earlobe. Women melted under my hands like butter, and my agent was no different, with the exception that she’d never sleep with me because she had enough brain cells to know the outcome.
Jenna examined her nails while she talked. “Does it really matter? All you need to know is I don’t trust you to stay sober on your own. You’re volatile, angry, and bitter at the world. And she—she has too much to gain and a lot to lose if this doesn’t pan out the way I want it to. Sorry, Al. This one’s ready to go to war.”
“Jenna.” I tsked, brushing my thumb along my lower lip. “She’s not a war. She’s barely a fucking sport.”
“If that’s the case, promise me you’ll play clean. She may have sass, but she’s really young.”
“Clean is not in my dictionary.” It wasn’t even a joke.
“Say that to one of your endless strings of one-night stands. I’m sure they’d still hop into bed with you.” Jenna’s eyes rolled so hard they almost hopped to another dimension. She brushed her shoulder along my chest as she waltzed to the door. Indigo shadowed her, her back ramrod-straight.
My agent turned around a second before leaving. “Write me an album, Al. Make it spectacular, settling the score between you and Will Bushell.”
A kill switch clicked in my brain the minute she said his name.
There was no score to be settled. I’d released one bad album. Everyone had one. Even Bad Religion. But of course, I wasn’t going to defend myself, not to her, not at all, and definitely not in front of my entourage and the little smurf she’d dragged into my den.
“It’s on.” I winked and finger-gunned her, turning around so she couldn’t see the anger clouding my face.
The door closed.
I grabbed Alfie’s Mexican food and threw it against the wall, watching the black beans crawling down and making a mess. The guacamole clung to the wall like concrete, fighting gravity. I was restless, and I wasn’t even sure why.
New album?
New tour?
New Girl?
Will Bushell?
Things were about to change, and this time, there was no magic powder to take the edge off.
“Soooo. Spill it, girl. What’s he like?”
Disgusting. Gorgeous. Rude. Sexy. Screwed-up. Witty. Broody. Unbearable. Trouble. Trouble. Trouble. Alex Winslow was all those things and more, but my family didn’t need to know any of this. Natasha was already crazy worried at the prospect of me leaving for three months. I turned off the faucet and wiped my hands with a kitchen towel, turning around to lean against the counter. We lived in an old Pico Blvd one-bedroom apartment, where the fridge made more noise than the highway outside, and the yellow walls were more naked and depressing than the strippers at the club right below the condo.
“Fine, I guess. Your average rock star. A chain-smoking, crazy-in-love-with-himself, conceited dude.” I sucked my teeth, my eyes traveling anywhere but their gazes.