Chapter 12
“Bad Habits” - Nerv
Rhett
I don’t think I’ve ever been this high in my life. They should recommend performing in rehab, not that stupid journaling shit, although those songs are technically what landed me here in the first place.
The crowd is wild, abso-fucking-lutely wild. And it’s only the first night. My very first show of the tour, and it’s insane. Fans are needing to be hauled back by security, girls are throwing their tops toward the stage, and the energy level is about to lift the roof off the stadium.
No wonder my dad couldn’t get enough of this. It’s fifty times better than any drug I’ve ever taken. I would do this every single night for the rest of my life if I could.
Unfortunately, I’ve already played my two encore songs. I swing my guitar behind my back and wave at the crowd. They go even wilder.
Grinning, I lean into the microphone. “You lot have been fantastic.”
Ear-splitting cheers.
“It’s been a great night.” I pause to let the noise die down. “I’ll see you at my next show. Goodbye, New York.”
The stage goes dark, and I use the time before the house lights come on to slip into the shadows.
A big group of people is waiting backstage with congratulations and bottles of water.
I drink one greedily as my eyes scan the crowd around me.
Where the fuck did they all come from? There must be at least a dozen roadies waiting to tear down the equipment, the production crew wrapping up the show, and a fuck-load of people I don’t recognize.
Noah, the tour manager, approaches. “Terrific show, mate. They loved you.”
I flash him a smile. “God, it was amazing.”
“You’ve got five minutes before the meet and greet,” he says, staring down at his phone, where tonight’s itinerary is pulled up.
Shit. I completely forgot that my job isn’t over after I leave the stage. Glancing around for Saylor, I start to pull the shirt over my head.
Noah glances at me. “What are you doing?”
I look at him, my shirt halfway off. “Changing?”
He shakes his head. “Don’t bother. These fans want just-walked-off-stage Rhett.”
“Dude, I’m drenched in sweat.”
He scans me and shrugs. “They eat that stuff up.”
I blink as he walks away to talk to the rest of the band, then tug my shirt back down. As disgusting as it sounds, if that’s what my fans want, I’m obliged to give it to them. I rummage through my bag for cologne to at least help mask some of the smell.
Saylor still hasn’t appeared by the time Noah and several PPOs lead me down the corridors to where the meet and greet is happening. “Do you know where my girlfriend is?” I ask when we stop in front of an unmarked door.
“Haven’t seen her, mate,” Noah says, then swings the door open.
The room is full of fans, 99 percent female, 100 percent rabid. They descend on me like wolves. My security team keeps them from getting too close, creating order out of the chaos.
I smile to lessen the sting of it and start greeting my number one fans.
* * *
The event lasts an hour. By the end, I’m so fucking ready for a shower, but Noah tosses me a clean T-shirt and says I’ll have to make do until the after-party is over.
No one knows where Saylor is, but if she’s not at the venue, she must have gone back to the hotel.
She doesn’t answer when I call, so I send her a text.
See you at the after party?
I change into a fresh set of clothes in the back of the limo. By the time we pull into the parking garage of the hotel, she still hasn’t texted back, and I’m starting to get nervous. I call her again, but it just rings through.
Fuck. Where is she? I rub my palms across my thighs, trying to still the twitch in my legs, but it doesn’t help. I move on to cracking my knuckles, until Noah shoots me an annoyed look from the other seat.
We make our way to one of the top floors of the hotel, where a suite has been reserved for the after-party.
I glance at my phone every couple of seconds, but there’s still nothing from Saylor.
My heart races as we exit the elevator, PPOs on both sides of me.
I note with relief that neither of them is Leo, Saylor’s personal protection officer.
At least she’s safe, wherever she is. But she should be here, damn it.
That’s what I’m paying her for, isn’t it?
When we reach the double doors to the party suite, a ripped Black guy is standing outside collecting phones.
It occurs to me that she might already be waiting for me inside.
That would explain why she’s not texting me back.
I completely forgot that I had Eddie add it to my rider—no phones at the after-parties—and I check mine in along with everyone else’s.
The party feels tame after the concert, but a hypnotic energy still buzzes throughout the room. People are drinking all around the suite, which has an incredible view of the New York skyline. My album is playing over the sound system, but the din of voices mostly drowns it out.
My entrance seems to disrupt the balance. People flock over for autographs and slaps on the back. Someone must have invited groupies, because I recognize a few faces from the meet and greet. How the hell did they beat me here?
I dutifully sign merch, albums, and bare skin, but all I can think is Where’s my girl? Where the fuck is my girl? And then I have to remind myself that she’s not my girl. She’s only playing a role.
The drugs make me nervous. I know they’ll start circulating soon—if they haven’t already—and that’s the part I’m worried about the most. That’s the whole reason Saylor is here.
I’m twitching so bad, I’m afraid even a joint will lower my defenses enough that I’ll spiral.
I search my pockets for a toothpick, but they’re empty.
I scan the crowd, but the girls hanging on to my arms make it difficult to get a good look.
One of them pulls my head down to whisper something in my ear.
The noise in the room drowns it out, but it doesn’t take much to imagine what her offer is.
She must have been one of the ones who chose to throw their shirts at the stage, because she’s topless except for a hot-pink lace bra.
I’m about to tell her I have a girlfriend when I see the silver tray coming. My pulse speeds up even further, and my palms are drenched. I wipe them on my pants, but they immediately start sweating again.
Someone shoves the platter against my chest. “The guest of honor should have first pick.”
I give a tight smile in the direction of the voice, but my gaze is focused on the offering in front of me. The noise in the room is so thick that drowning it out actually becomes easy.
All of the usual players are here—ecstasy, cocaine, GHB, special K, speed, and those familiar white vials—insidion. I can feel sweat beading along my hairline and desperately hope my hair covers it from sight.
I could take something harmless—speed, maybe—to take the edge off and get everyone off my back.
I can feel them watching me, and god, I want it.
I want it in my system, flooding out the stress from the show, the weight of everyone’s expectations.
I want to feel like I’m in paradise, like I’m the fucking king of the world.
My hand reaches up of its own accord and sorts through the options. The insidion calls to me the loudest, but I’m not stupid. My fingers close around the bag of coke. One small line won’t hurt.
I glance up—looking for what, I don’t know. My therapist? My sponsor?
And there she is, striding across the room like a vengeful goddess. She doesn’t slow when she reaches me, just knocks people and the tray out of her way, throws her arms around my neck, and plants her mouth on mine.
I drop any hold I had on the drugs and grab her.
My fingers plunge into her glorious mane like they already have well-worn grooves mapped out.
Her lips are pressed together like she’s hanging on to the last remnants of her chastity, but at the flick of my tongue, she parts them and allows me access.
The taste of her has a shadowy richness to it, like the dark chocolate lava cake at Jolie’s.
I want to drown, spin, spiral into it, into her, into this feeling that she is the only thing I need.
Somehow it manages to be even better than the high from the show and the high from insidion, while also leaving me wanting more than I’ve ever wanted before.
It satisfies and depletes in equal portions, and I’m both richer and poorer for having known her, because now that I’ve tasted her, how am I ever supposed to stop?
She breaks it off, and it’s like popping a balloon. I’m suddenly aware of the people around us, cheering and whooping as they watch us make out.
Saylor’s cheeks turn a gorgeous shade of pink, and I’m pretty sure her breathing is more labored than usual. I reach for her hand, entwining our fingers and tugging her back against me. I drop another kiss on her lips, then lean down to whisper into her ear. “Wanna get out of here?”
She freezes in my arms, and I can practically hear the gears in her head turning as she tries to figure out exactly what I mean by that and what her response should be.
I torture her for a few more seconds before saying, “I can’t stay here.”
Her eyes flicker up to meet mine, and she nods.
I can’t stop the grin that takes over my face as I lead her from the room amid catcalls and more cheers. Let them think what they want. There’s nothing wrong with fucking my girlfriend, and if that’s the only thing that gets back to the label, Saylor’s presence will have been a success.
We walk to our suite in silence. I keep expecting her to mention the show, but she doesn’t say anything, just waits patiently while I unlock the door.
Once we’re inside, I head to the minibar to pour a few drinks. I haven’t had anything since the concert, and although I’m not doing substances, I’m sure as fuck not going to be completely sober. Especially not if I can’t fuck the girl who’s in my room.
I hand her a vodka cranberry. “Thank you for that,” I say, and pour a second splash of vodka into my own glass.
She takes a small sip and shrugs. “It’s what I’m paid to do, right?” She moves to the window overlooking the city, and I see her reflection in the glass.
There’s something about how flippantly she says it that disturbs me. It’s almost word for word what I thought earlier when I couldn’t get ahold of her. So why does it bother me?
“Yeah,” I mutter, and throw back my drink. The alcohol burns, but it does nothing for the confusing ache that’s growing in my chest. I pour another, then join her at the window.
“Were you actually going to do it?” She turns to look at me, her eyes wide with concern. “Take that line, I mean.”
I blow out a breath and keep my eyes fixed on the glass. “I don’t know. Maybe.” I take another sip. “Probably.”
Neither of us says anything for a long time, and the alcohol begins to dull my reasoning just enough for me to wonder what she’d do if I asked her to have sex with me tonight.
Just when I’m imagining laying her down on those Egyptian cotton sheets, she says, “You should tell them.”
My mind spins as I try to remember if we were having some conversation I’m unaware of. “What?” I finally say, unable to piece it together.
“Your fans. You should tell them about your addiction and recovery.”
A choking laugh rips from my throat. “You’re joking, right?”
“No.”
I look at her for the first time since joining her. Her hair is wisping around her face in a way that makes her look fucking adorable, which she would hate me mentioning. Her jaw and eyes carry a steely determination that is actually a little scary.
“I can’t,” I say.
“Why not?” she challenges, tilting her chin a fraction of an inch.
“Because I’d lose my credibility. And my record deal.”
“You think they’ll respect you less for struggling?”
I shrug with my shoulders and mouth.
“They’ll respect you more for fighting your way back,” she says, her eyes bright.
“I’m pretty sure they just want good music.”
“The only thing more powerful than your music is the story behind it.”
Frowning, I say, “No one cares about that.”
“You really think they don’t want to know what inspired the songs they’re listening to?”
I shake my head and drain my glass. “I know they don’t.”
It’s not technically true, since I don’t have a fucking clue what my fans want—besides sweaty selfies with me, apparently—but it doesn’t matter, because I’d die before I confessed to the world the circumstances my songs were written under.
“We need a secret signal,” I say, partly because it’s true, partly in an effort to change the subject.
“A what?” Saylor looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“A secret signal. You know, to communicate across the room?”
Her mouth drops open into an incredulous smile. “You’re joking, right? What are we, seven?”
I set my glass down on the table. “Come on. If we’re across the room from each other, how am I supposed to let you know I need you to rescue me if I can’t text you?”
She blinks once, twice, three times. “I’m sorry. Did you just say that I’m to rescue you?”
I grin, sensing where this is heading. “I did.”
Her smile matches mine, and she shakes her head. “Okay, James Bond. What did you have in mind?”
We run through a couple of options before finally settling on a classic chin tilt—first to my chest, then back up again.
“Where were you tonight?” I ask, wishing my glass wasn’t empty.
“When?”
“After the show. I looked for you, called you. I was starting to freak out.” Fresh goosebumps break out over my skin as I remember the way it felt to have lost all connection with her for those few minutes. Even during the show I could see her from the stage, and god, she looked hot standing there.
“I headed to the hotel right after. I was already at the party when you got there, but you didn’t see me.” Tiny frown lines appear between her brows. “Why were you freaking out?”
It’s a good question. A great question.
Why the hell was I freaking out?