Chapter 1 Alexander #2
Rehab and therapy won’t bring Samuel back.
Won’t resolve the issues, including my sexuality, that I still have to hide from the world.
The only things that seem to work are running, working out, sex, and drowning myself in alcohol.
Well, after two years of trying it their way, I’ll be damned if I continue to put myself through hell by digging up the past and ignoring solutions that work.
It’s called the past for a reason after all.
My phone vibrates again, forcing me to pull it out of my pocket once more. This time it’s a message rather than a call from Paul.
Paul
Rob checked the sauna. Where are you?
Ugh. Can’t Paul get off my back for one minute? Surely that’s not too much to ask for, is it?
I take a look at the whiskey in front of me, then back at the chip.
I grab the tumbler and down it in one. The back of my throat burns and I instantly feel the alcohol rushing through my veins.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand upright.
Oh, how I’ve missed the taste. How it releases the tension in my body, slows my heart rate down, and calms my brain.
I get up from the stall, leaving the chip behind on the table. Keeping my head down as I make my way past the tables and out through the door onto the street, I begin typing rapidly.
Tell Rob to wait by the side entrance on Harwood Ave. I’ll be there in ten minutes.
It actually takes twelve minutes, because as I pass where the accident happened, I see the cyclist being loaded into an ambulance on a stretcher, and pause.
He still seems alive, much to my relief.
I finally stop on the opposite side of the street from the hotel and rest my back against a lamppost, facing away from its historic red-bricked exterior, to catch my breath.
Given the wrath I would have faced from Paul and Connie, my publicist, if I’d actually killed the cyclist, I can tolerate whatever awaits me inside. I chance a quick look at the door, where a few fans are loitering.
I momentarily debate whether to wait until they move on or just make a dash for it, when I see Rob’s tall dark frame on the other side of the glass.
He turns his head left and right, scanning the street, before clocking me and nodding.
One of the fans turns to follow the direction of his nod and squeals as she spots me.
I dash across the street, weaving through the cars, and somehow manage to make it past the fans and through the door that Rob holds open before they can snap any pictures.
As we make our way along the hallway toward the elevator, Paul intercepts us. He starts to grill me in a lowered voice.
“Where have you been?” A vein in his neck bulges.
“I went for a run around Regent’s Park to clear my head.” I cross my arms over my chest.
A hotel guest attempts to approach me, pen and pad in hand, but Rob cuts them off, keeping them at a distance. All I can do is smile and wave while Paul keeps me moving into the elevator.
Once the doors close, Paul casts me the look I fear the most: disappointment fused with anger. It never fails to make me feel small and disobedient.
“We don’t have time for you to just go out for a run whenever you want. It’s not safe for you to go out by yourself. If you’re going to go out, you need to take Rob with you.”
“Cause that won’t draw any attention. Plus, it’s not like Rob can keep up with me.” I nudge Rob’s belly with my elbow. Rob’s brows furrow as he looks down at me. His six-foot three-hundred-pound body overshadows my five-foot-eight frame.
“I couldn’t, but one of the local security team could,” he says.
“I know how much you value your freedom, but you can’t just go out on your own without protection. Especially when there are hundreds of people waiting outside,” Paul cuts in. The elevator jolts as we reach the fifth floor, making his glasses slide down his nose.
I feel even smaller, like a child being scolded for doing something any other human—well, one that isn’t as famous as I am—gets to do.
“I know. I know. It won’t happen again, I promise,” I say. I keep my head down, knowing I will no doubt be seeking forgiveness again in the future rather than asking for permission to do anything.
As the doors open, Rob does a quick scan of the hallway to ensure the coast is clear before we exit.
We walk down the hallway on the royal blue carpet, passing a table with an old rotary telephone on it and a scattering of framed pictures of trains and railway stations on our way toward the Presidential Suite.
I take a few deep breaths to brace myself, knowing the rest of the team is waiting inside, as Rob taps the key on the card reader.
The fuss starts as soon as I enter. They are all loitering around the long oak table, which is littered with a dozen Brewed coffee cups and enough paperwork to deforest the jungle. It makes me question whether my tour really is carbon neutral.
Before anyone has a chance to address me directly, I swiftly turn to the right, making my way through the bedroom and into the bathroom, and attempt to shut the door behind me.
Paul’s hand stops it from closing. Connie stands behind him, in a silk blouse and pencil skirt, holding a can of Diet Coke in one hand and flicking strands of her blond bob behind her left ear with the other.
“Alex, we don’t have time for this.” He rolls his eyes.
“But I need to shower before we head out.” Swirling anger rises in my gut.
“There are showers at the venue,” he says, his eyes narrowing.
I know this, but I’ll be damned if I don’t try to grab at least one more moment to myself before the machine kicks in.
“Surely you don’t want the paparazzi and fans outside to see me like this?” I question. I stretch out my hands, showing off the scrape on my palm, and then gesture at my disheveled appearance.
It’s the only angle I can think of that will appeal, if not to Paul, then at least to Connie, whose job it is to ensure I look my best when it comes to public exposure.
Paul briefly glances at Connie before returning his attention to me.
“Well, you should’ve thought of that before you went and did your disappearing act. We’re already late for soundcheck, and the doors open in two hours.”
Paul pushes the door open wider and gestures at me to return to the bedroom.
I drop my shoulders in defeat and follow Connie back into the main room where everyone is now waiting by the door, ready to go.
Leaving the hotel is a military-style operation, complete with decoy cars, additional security guards to back up Rob, and a clear path out—all with the goal of reducing any threats to my safety. It also hammers home the perceived recklessness of my actions this afternoon.
When I emerge from the hotel, the size of the crowd seems to have exploded.
It’s almost equivalent to those I experienced two months ago on the South American leg of the tour.
Fans had camped outside the hotels in Buenos Aires, Rio de Janeiro, and Mexico, singing and playing my songs at all hours of the night.
Thankfully, unlike those hotels, the Landmark has a private road at its front entrance that fans aren’t allowed on, which makes getting into the waiting vehicles easier.
Lucy, Rob, Paul, Connie, and I get into the first black Mercedes sprinter.
The rest of my entourage jumps into two other waiting vehicles.
The radio drowns out the screaming fans outside as we pull away from the hotel and onto Marylebone Road, speeding off toward the O2.
“It seems like the whole of London has come down with Alexander Morgan fever this week, and boy, can we see why!” the DJ says.
“Tonight kicks off the first of his seven sold-out shows at the O2, and we’ll be there to bring you all the exclusive news.
Plus, stay tuned for your chance to win tickets to join me, Abbie McCarthy, and meet the man himself anytime you hear his latest single, My Anchor, this week on Capital FM. ”
Although I’ve been doing this for ten years now, it’s only in the last couple that my career has gone stratospheric.
My team has made a deliberate push to move me away from teen sensation to credible solo artist, starting with the release of It’s You That I Need.
It has been a gift in one sense that my music is finally getting the recognition I’ve always wanted, but it’s also a curse, with all the restrictions and added security measures it brings.
While Paul, Connie, and Lucy discuss the schedule, I sink lower into the leather seat, savoring these last few golden moments of calm before the madness starts once more.
The madness of the first show here in London has everyone running round like headless chickens as they try to get me from my dressing room to the stage before the show starts.
Sound check overran by an hour due to technical issues, setting everything else back, including the meet and greet, and now I’m rushing underneath the stage to the end of the catwalk, with my stylist, Laurie.
She drops to her knees as we reach the end and stares up at me, panic strewn across her face.
“I can’t get the zip to close. Can you try sucking in your stomach in a little more?”
The buzzing sound of the crowd can be heard over the intro video as she frantically pulls at the zipper.
I do my best to help, exhaling and trying to shrink my abs and glute muscles so she can button the fly, but all the working out I’ve done to buff up means my leather pants are so tight they’re practically cutting my circulation off.
Laurie reaches for the talcum powder by her knees, shoving more on the skin around the waistband.
I hear Freddy kickstart the playback in my in-ear monitors.
Damn. I have less than thirty seconds before the toaster lift springs me up onto the stage in front of nineteen thousand people, who are getting louder with every passing second.
I pull at the waistband, hoping Laurie can snap the buttons in place. A wardrobe malfunction is the last thing I need during my first show in London.
“Just use a safety pin, anything, to hold me in for now,” I say. My heart rate soars, not from the adrenaline, but the fear of what will happen if we don’t get this locked down quickly.
Nodding, Laurie pulls a safety pin from her fanny pack and quickly secures my fly in place, then jumps off the toaster lift just before it propels me up onto the stage.
I land in one piece, my heart settling slightly, and hold my position for eight counts before the opening guitar riff of Compare To You kicks in.
I hear the screams, take in the flashes and sound, and then notice a cool draft.
It’s not coming from the wind machines in front of me, but from down below.
My gaze moves slowly from the crowds in front of me down to my legs.
The spotlight reflects off the safety pin on the floor—it didn’t withstand the impact of the landing.
Neither did the Velcroed side seams, apparently.
My black leather trousers are no longer in place around my hips, but are instead hanging halfway down my legs.
Fuck!!!