“I think I’m going to head to bed. Thanks for everything.” I twirled one of Nat’s fair locks. I slept on the couch next to Ziggy’s cradle. It was convenient, because he woke up thirsty several times a night.
Who’s going to give Ziggy his sippy when I’m gone? I shoved the question to the back of my head, allowing my legs to carry me past the couch, to my white bicycle, the only expensive thing I’d ever owned. My mom got the bike for me when I was fourteen. It was made in Paris, my favorite city in the world, though I’d never been.
I glanced at the big suitcase sitting next to the entrance door, glaring back at me, taunting me, reminding me of what was to come. There was no way I could sleep with so much weighing on my chest, my mind, my heart. I needed more air than was in the whole apartment building.
I went for a ride.
Outside, I swung one leg over the bike, pushed off the asphalt, and darted down the darkened street. The breeze was crisp and salty, the wind dancing across my face. Lights from convenient stores and old-school diners zinged by, and for the first time that day, I managed to inhale deeply.
A tingle ran down my spine when I remembered the first time I saw Alex Winslow’s eyes up close. Whiskey brown. Bottomless and tawny like rich wood, full, expressive, and misleadingly warm. Straight nose, square jaw seemingly made of stone, and too-full lips that softened his appearance, despite his best efforts. His tousled hair was dirty brown, silk and cashmere, and he smelled of old leather and a new obsession. He may have looked beautiful, but it was important to remember that Alex Winslow was not, in fact, boyfriend material. Or anything-material. What he definitely was was: rude, impatient, a bully, and a recovering drug addict.
I pedaled faster, a mist of sweat forming on my brow. Winslow had worn army boots—unlaced—a pair of cheap-looking torn jeans, and a black tank top with raw-edge armholes, exposing his lean torso and tatted ribs. He was skinny—lithe but strong—and had several wristbands and rings on his hands, and was the very definition of sex on legs.
And I hated him.
Hated the way he walked, the way he talked, the way he’d undermined me. Hated that he held so much power over me, and the way he was going to use that power against me.
I rode my bike for almost two hours before making a U-turn and heading back home, then decided to skip the shower because I didn’t want to wake anyone up. I tossed and turned until dawn, thankful when Ziggy woke up twice and cried for his sippy cup. And when the sun emerged and the clouds hung low and fat over my city, I stood up, grabbed the suitcase, and walked over to his cradle.
“I’m getting us out of this mess,” I swore, leaning to kiss his forehead, reminding myself this temporary goodbye would later on grant us a steady future. He murmured to himself and waved his chubby little fist goodbye, blowing me kisses like I’d taught him.
That’s when I knew this was a promise I was going to keep.
“Dafuq?”
I jolted awake at a sharp elbow slamming into my ribs. It dug through my black hoodie and my leather jacket, so it had to be that long-limbed tosser, Alfie.
I sat up, growling. The dead hum of industrial engines buzzed in my ears. You’d think I would’ve gotten used to it by now. Spoiler alert: I hadn’t.
Alfie pouted like a groupie and slapped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Oh, Alexander, why don’t you love me?”
“Because you have a cock, no tits, fart like you’ve consumed every rotten egg in America, and think Russell Brand is funny. The latter, by the way, is borderline criminal.”
Alfie laughed and threw something at me—a blue guitar pick.
I picked it up from my crotch and slid it in my back pocket. “What do you want?”
“We’re almost at the airport.”
“I thought we were on the plane.”
“Are you still using? We’re in a traffic jam from hell moving at a snail’s pace to LAX.”
“So what’s that annoying noise?” My head swiveled toward the window.
“That would be L.A., Lord McCuntson,” Blake quipped, his eyes hard on his phone, always in work mode.
Forty minutes later, we were at the airport. Blake scrolled through our schedule on his iPad. We always started at the farthest point and worked our way back up to the States. Australia first—Sydney and Melbourne—then we’d do Asia, then Europe before we hit the land of the free—with a week-long break in England, to see our families.
“Letters from the Dead” was supposed to be a piece of cake. Best of. Songs I knew by heart. I had no new product to push. I was going to kiss my fans’ arses and hope to fuck the sights, smells, and cultures were going to get my creative juices flowing.