Twelve oh-one.
The girl wasn’t going to comply. What a little spitfire, she was. I raised my fist to knock on the door. The second my knuckles were about to connect with the wood, it swung open. Indie stood there, her eyes swollen and red. Somewhere in my throat, there were words I couldn’t say. Mostly profanity, so it was probably good I kept silent.
“I need someone to hold me tonight,” she croaked, hugging her midsection. Her eyes fluttered in defeat at her own sincerity, like she was giving me something precious. Her weakness. And of course—I took it. I stepped into her room. If there was anyone doing any holding of Indigo Bellamy on this tour, it was going to be me. She pushed me away, her palm connecting with my chest, and stepped outside into the hallway with me.
This evening, when she’d told me about her parents, I’d felt sorry for her. It looked like her parents had actually been decent human beings.
“Let’s keep it impersonal, shall we? Weren’t you the one who made the rule about staying out of each other’s rooms when we write? The hallway is neutral.”
“We’re way past neutral, and fuck if you aren’t being difficult again,” I grunted.
“I’m allowed to be whatever I want tonight.” She sniffed.
She was probably right. I wasn’t an orphan, but I might as well be, with parents like mine.
Not giving her the chance to resist, I immediately wrapped my arms around her body, holding her like breakable china. She wasn’t as boney as I’d thought she’d be. In my mind, she felt like hugging a sack of marbles, when in reality, she was soft everywhere. It made me tighten my arms around her, like she could slip through my fingers, like mist.
My chin rested on the top of her head; her nose was buried in my armpit. She was warm and silky. Delicious, really. I wanted to take her like a drug. All at once, in one gulp. I wanted to overdose on her like cocaine, and heroin, and crack, knowing the destruction I was willingly inhaling into my body. Because Indie, like drugs, was a temporary fix. Once our three months were up, she’d leave my surly arse and run back to what was left of her dysfunctional-yet-loving family.
I wouldn’t blame her.
Hell, I wouldn’t even stop her.
Because deep down, I knew a bastard like me couldn’t keep her.
The rudest bastard in the world, as it turned out, was also a welcome distraction.
Because here I was again, sitting in the hallway, face-to-face, soul-to-soul with the most troubled of them all.
Initially, I was going to stay put in my room, even if the entire world collapsed and Alex tried to break down my door. But then Natasha had called me shortly after the show, and I’d realized the last thing I needed was to stay in my room and stew. She’d sounded panicked on the phone. Apparently, Craig’s version of being a good husband and father today had been to go MIA the minute he’d stepped out of bed. Nat had gotten a call from her friend, Trish, saying Craig dropped Ziggy at her place wordlessly, already stinking like an Irish brothel. Nat had had to leave work and rush to pick up Ziggy, then aimlessly look for Craig on the streets while clutching her toddler to her chest.
My brother was going to show up back home. We both knew that.
He was also going to apologize profusely, promising it’d never happen again.
‘Just a blip.’
‘Not after all we’ve been through.’
‘Come on, Nat, you know my family is my everything.’
Oh, yes, my brother was charming. He’d never raise his voice to his wife, or push her, or blame her for his troubles. Nat would stay, and the crack in their foundation would widen further, with Ziggy’s happiness slipping through it.
“If you wanna talk about it—do.” Alex’s glacial voice pierced through my dark thoughts, his boot between my stretched legs. It only touched my ankles, but still somehow felt deeply inappropriate. Then again, we were in the hallway, in plain sight, like all delicious secrets that were meant to stay that way.
I considered the unlikely idea. “Would it be helpful to your songwriting?”
He did a one-shoulder shrug. “If I knew the answer to that question, I’d have thirty albums under my belt, not four, and probably enough money to buy the entire city of Los Angeles and consequently burn it down.”
“You’re charming.” I rolled my eyes.
“Doubtful. I’m not prolific, either.”
“There are solutions for that. Time management classes are kind of big these days,” I babbled.
He shot me one of his dry looks. “What a great time to be alive. So. Your hissy fit today,” he detoured back to the subject.
I tilted my head, studying him. His frown. His natural, bee-stung pout. Clean-shaven face, softened by youth but hardened by life. If it wasn’t for his tousled hair and life’s-a-bitch-and-then-you-die scowl, he could actually pass for someone else. Less intimidating. Less soul-sucking. Less dangerous for my heart. He was so beautiful, and talented, and adored, and miserable. How could you have so much and feel so little?