Chapter 20
CHAPTER 20
Felix
Samson meows at me petulantly as I strum away on my guitar.
While I usually write late at night, this morning when I woke up, I couldn’t get the words out of my head. Instead of fighting it, I sat down in my studio, busted out my guitar, and started to play.
And the words came easily, much easier than they have in the past.
But one glance at my clock tells me it is a half hour past this little orange demon’s snack time, which means he’s likely to murder me in my sleep if I don’t feed him.
“You are impossible, you know that? A total muse killer.” Samson stares at me with disdain.
I haven’t had a pet since I was probably a kid. I never saw the point, being as I’m gone so much, and I realize as he voices his very important opinion on his starvation, that I need to figure something out.
I can always get my regular housekeeper to take care of him, but something about leaving him with someone else makes me feel paranoid, not to mention, I kind of like having him around. It’s less lonely.
“What do you think, huh? Think you can handle a stadium tour?”
Samson looks at me with a murderous gaze and lets out a high-pitched meow.
As long as you feed me on time, I don’t care where we are.
I roll my eyes, figuring it’s best to sate the beast before he gets too ornery, and drop my newly gifted guitar from Duncan on the couch.
Samson follows me out to the kitchen, and I ready his bowl, which reads Bad Kitty with a fishbone skeleton.
Though he isn’t really bad, at all.
More like badass.
Hey, if Taylor Swift can cart her cats around the world, surely I can bring him to a couple shows.
After I’ve slaved in the kitchen to bring my feline god their offering of canned tuna, I take a look around my open space, which is practically so pristine, it doesn’t look like anyone lives here.
In fact, it looks more like a museum than a house.
When I bought it, I hadn’t really thought about the size. Everyone worth their salt had a huge ass house that was decked out to look like a space station, right?
Not to mention, I was constantly touring and traveling and didn’t really plan on spending much time at home, so what did it matter what it looked like?
But this last year, things have slowed down a lot.
Black Sea bombed, and press has been at an all time low, and suddenly, I found myself alone in this massive house.
Except for the parties, of course. The parties Sully threw because he said my house was perfect for them, and it would go right along with the image I am presenting to the masses.
Then Lou came to me with the news of the Pillars of Rock tour, and I couldn’t say no.
I was getting too antsy in this damn place, and Sully’s ying-yang bullshit was starting to grate on my last fucking nerve. So, of course, I said yes.
But now, as I stand here, I realize the reason I’ve never felt at home here is because I’ve never made it a home.
Everything in this place was designed by someone else.
Everything, except for my studio.
Even my bedroom was designed and decorated by someone else.
Someone whose presence seems to haunt me like a ghost everywhere I go.
Time off isn’t something I’m used to.
But Lou insisted we all break for a couple days and come back to the studio refreshed for one more rehearsal, then next week is all sound checks and preparation for the kickoff show.
It’s as Lou says, “The calm before the storm.”
Samson meows in happiness, and I grin. “You’re absolutely right, Samson. I should decorate the place more. I think I’ll do that. Haven’t been shopping in a while, and it is good for the soul.”
Samson licks his food, which is as good a confirmation as any, and I make the split decision. I grab my keys, head for my bike, and take off for some retail rewards.
After all, I think I deserve some new shiny things.
I anxiously await my venti mocha with an extra shot of espresso, feeling a little better about my stylish new purchases.
Especially, the coffin-shaped pet bed and the matching coffin cat tower I bought for Samson while we tour.
Okay, and maybe I picked up some things for myself, too, of course.
And maybe I even picked up some more pieces to add to Duncan’s capsule wardrobe.
Including a weathered and distressed Slayer shirt and some vintage acid wash jeans I know he’ll look fucking amazing in.
The barista calls my order out, and I make my way with all my bags in tow to grab the large cup of God’s nectar, when a voice stops me dead in my tracks.
“Well, would you look at that...”
I tighten my fingers around the cardboard barrier as I contemplate whether I should turn around or not.
I could just ignore my former not-boyfriend, walk away like he is truly the scum on the bottom of my shoe.
And in all honesty, that is what I should do.
But Sullivan Reign’s voice is like some twisted form of hypnosis.
I couldn’t ignore it, even if I wanted to.
I turn to see him standing there in his tight jeans and his stupid Balenciaga shirt that doesn’t look as expensive as he thinks it does.
“Sully,” I murmur, and I take a sip of my drink, not moving from my spot.
Sully has the audacity to smirk at me, exposing his diamond-encrusted canine.
“I almost thought you were a fucking mirage. You never leave the dungeon during the day.”
I shrug as he approaches me. “Last I checked, I didn’t have to run my schedule by you. Seeing as you ain’t in the fucking band anymore.”
He stops inches away from me, glancing at the baristas then back at me.
He scoffs, chuckling as if he truly finds this interaction funny.
“Something you want, Sullivan?” I bite as I watch him lick his lips.
“An apology would be nice. Seeing as you decided to air our fucking dirty laundry to everyone within a five mile radius the other night. My manager has had a field day with trying to squelch those nasty rumors.”
An apology?
From me?
This asshole has lost his damn mind!
“Really? I don’t recall.” I brush past him, shoulder checking him.
Sully grabs my wrist, and immediately, I stop. A shiver runs through me as he presses his thumb against my vein with a force that tells me he isn’t in the mood for playing games.
Games I used to love once upon a time, but now the touch feels wrong.
It makes me feel gross, like I want to fucking throw up.
I yank my wrist from him. “What’s your fucking problem, man?” I bite, challenging his space.
Sully sneers at me. “You think you can play stupid with me, Felix, I know you better than you fucking know yourself.”
I get in his face, sneering right back. My anger boils beneath my skin like a volcano waiting for the right moment to erupt.
“Think just because you replaced me that you can write me off and fuck me over? And that I wouldn’t do something about it?”
I grind my jaw, fixing his gaze with my own hard glare. “Fuck you over? Is that the narrative you’re going with, Sully? I’m the one that god damn made you. I brought you into this fame, and I can take you out of it, just as easy.”
I know I should walk away. But the pain, the anger, and the need to make him hurt like he hurt me wins out.
Sully pushes me, and it’s like a hundred moments breaking through the barrier.
All the fights that ended in fucking.
All the fucking that ended in fights
And all the pussy in between he paraded around because he was too scared to be seen in public kissing someone with dick.
Kissing me.
My fist connects with his damn fine jaw, and then his fist connects with my eye, and it’s a blur of fists and curses as Sully and I are pulled apart. The sound of cameras clicking is loud, and I know this will be all over the news outlets within minutes, and I chastise myself internally.
“What the fuck, Sullivan?” another voice calls, a man I don’t recognize.
When he grabs Sully, I can tell by his suit and his baby face he’s corporate, which means he’s probably Sully’s new manager.
Now that he’s separated from the band, of course he’d decide to fly solo.
The manager asks us to leave as my phone goes off, and I sigh in exasperation as I see Lou’s name flash on the screen.
I dig Lou’s card out of my wallet and hand it to the manager as Sullivan’s manager shoves him out the door.
“I’m sorry about that, but, uh... if there’s anything I can do, please let my manager know, okay?” I say as I gather myself, my bags, and my half spilled coffee, and head out the door, answering the phone.
“Yeah?”
“What the fuck were you thinking?” Lou hollers on the other end.
I don’t even bother playing dumb with Lou. It’s best to just address the situation and get on with it.
My eye hurts like a bitch, and so do my knuckles, and the anger is still boiling inside of me like lava, but I answer him. “Well, for starters, he insulted me.”
“Everyone insults you, Felix. Last I checked, you didn’t fucking start a brawl with everyone of those individuals at four pm in a damn Starbucks.”
“Consequences have actions,” I say as I tie my bags off and secure them to the back of my bike carrier.
“Yes, they do, and now, I’ve got a pissed off agent, an angry Starbucks manager, and damage control to whip in to shape so you can have a fucking successful show next week,” Lou hisses. “Why can’t you ever just let shit go? For once in your life, be the better fucking man, Felix.”
Lou’s words cut me deeper than any knife.
What am I supposed to do?
Let the man treat me like shit in public where people are watching?
I’m not some weak little thing he can just?—”
Once he starts spouting off more words that are incoherent, and that I don’t care for, I sigh and respond, “I got to go, Lou.”
I hang up as the anguish starts to spill over. My sights settle on a bar a few doors over, and I think that maybe a stiff drink will quiet the awful thoughts threatening to infiltrate my sanity.
You are trash.
Sully knows it, Lou knows it, you know it.
I swallow harshly as I try to fight the words, fight the desire to drown myself in the Black Sea, in the bottom of a glass.
I turn the engine on, trying to drown out the impulse, the voices in my head that tell me we can forget about it.
I can call up Jinger and Page Six and forget all about fucking Sullivan Reign and his cruel touch, his loathsomely smutty voice.
The song that comes over my radio pulls me back to the here and now, as Duncan’s deep voice croons about being a loose cannon, and I know exactly what it is I need.