Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat.
“Okay,” Blake said, withdrawing from the nook and walking to the bathroom. It was then I noticed he still hadn’t changed from tonight’s show. “All right.”
I watched his back, trying to figure out what had just happened.
What. Just. Fucking. Happened?
In the end, it was more of the same.
Blake gave me shit about the incident at the gig for days afterward. Jenna highlighted that sentiment by sending me a basket of baklavas when we landed in Istanbul with a note:
I dare you to pull something like this again, Alex. No, really. Try me.
I played nice with Lucas, but found other ways to taunt him. Mainly by devouring Indigo every spare moment I had in public. We wrote every night in the hallway so we could concentrate on work, then I’d sneak into her bedroom and eat her out on the balcony overlooking Athens, or finger her in a cab on our way back from a gig in Berlin, dry hump her against the wall behind a coffee shop in Milan, and eat exotic fruit off of her naked body in Barcelona. She always had that look on her face when I made her come. Like the intensity of what we were doing stunned her. It was like deflowering her every single day, even though we hadn’t actually had sex. Yet. Yet. But we were getting closer every day. Plus, she’d finally taken a step back from Lucas, and he, in return, remained polite and pleasant to her, not overstepping the red, imaginary line I’d drawn between them.
Luckily, she didn’t bore me despite Waitrose’s lack of interest in her.
It was probably the fact I hadn’t shagged her yet.
Though, let’s be honest—it’s not exactly like I was charming her into a fucking Shakespearean love story. I was certain a big part of the reason why Stardust could stand the sight of me was because, the morning after the Moscow gig, Howard Lipkin, one of the biggest attorneys in Los Angeles, had bailed her brother out and dragged him back home to his wife and kid. Craig was on house arrest, and that made Indie feel pathetically content. Like he couldn’t possibly fuck up from the comfort of his home. Which, from experience, was bollocks, because both my parents were unemployed and had managed to damage Carly and me just fine, even though their arses were forever glued to the sofa, watching EastEnders and Jeremy Kyle into the afternoon—is there ever anything more depressing than watching daytime TV? I thought not, and I still do.
Barcelona was our last stop before we took a week off in London. Technically, I had a gig at the Cambridge Castle on Friday, but that was the extent of it, and the Cambridge Castle was my home field.
Barcelona was a turning point. It was a turning point because it was the place where I stupidly thought it’d be a good idea to walk into a British hipster coffee shop and grab some black coffee and English breakfast for my entourage. Should’ve known nothing good ever comes out of trying to be considerate.
Indie was up in her room, probably sewing The Paris Dress. Blake was loitering outside the shop on his goddamn mobile. With my beanie, Wayfarers, and head down, I knew I wouldn’t be recognized. It was the kind of place that would play Nazi propaganda before playing someone who managed to break onto the Billboard list, so I doubted they’d even recognize me. I was Satan to them. Suits’ Satan.
I took in the deep blue and pale pink tiles of the shop, the people in flashy blazers and thick-framed glasses and women in trendy petticoats. The breeziness of their lives. They looked so grounded. Like they had the virtue of gravity working in their favor. Me, I felt loose. Tied to nothing. Not to people and not to objects, other than Tania. I just floated through life, and the worst part was, drugs and alcohol had actually been one of the only constant things in my life. I stood in the queue. No one recognized me. It was a relief caked with worry. There was always a gnawing anxiety that nibbled at my ego whenever people overlooked me.
Was I still big?
Was I still famous?
Was I still worth it?
Was my career going downhill?
Cue to wanting to throw up my own soul for giving a fuck.
The queue was dragging. That was fine. I didn’t have anywhere to go. I thought about Indie. How we only hooked up at night. During the day, I acted like I couldn’t be bothered with her, and she acted like I exasperated her. It was only at night when we peeled our masks and our clothes off that life became bearable.
There was a row of flat-screened TVs plastered above the counter. One had the menu, the other played the show GossipCave. Menu, GossipCave. Menu, GossipCave. Bright colors and bold fonts. Showbiz programs are like junk food, so beautifully wrapped. The volume was quite high, and my eyes drifted up despite my best efforts. A bunch of millennials and a gay bloke in his mid-forties were swiveling on neon chairs in their cubicle-style, ultra-futuristic office, the floor-to-ceiling window behind them exhibiting L.A. in all its Botoxed glory. They were talking so animatedly, you’d think they were discussing the Middle East conflict.