Chapter 11 Alexander
Sunday
Paul
You were right.
Ican hear Paul’s voice in those three words, spoken through gritted teeth. There’s a distinct coldness, a reluctance to admit that I was right and he was wrong.
I should stop this car, run into the art gallery opposite, and have them print the text out so I can hang it in the window for all to see: Paul O’Neil admits he is wrong.
My whole body is giddy with excitement. Paul’s text confirms what I thought: Christopher is interested in me, not in the money.
It’s horrible to have to put these things in place, but I had to start questioning everyone’s intentions after my popularity skyrocketed.
It began with family members and friends who were selling me out to make a quick buck, but then escalated when unfinished tracks were leaked online before they were ready to be heard.
The situation with Roy was just the cherry on the top.
At one point, I couldn’t work out who was leaking stuff to the media, so Connie came up with a plan.
I adopted a dog and told everyone who asked about it a different name—keeping its real name under wraps.
But when an article appeared in the press saying the dog’s name was Bailey, I was heartbroken.
Of all the people to sell me out, I had never expected it to be my younger brother.
I confronted Harrison about it, and at first he denied it. But I had evidence this time. When our parents made him log into his bank account, we saw regular deposits of not insignificant amounts of money.
That was four years ago, and the relationship has never recovered. Our parents try not to get in the middle of things, but it’s hard not to fight when I’m home over Thanksgiving, Christmas, and during the little breaks from work I do get.
I want to spend those moments with my family. Pick up my skateboard or surfboard and just be little fourteen-year-old Al again. But Harrison still lives at home, so there’s always tension whenever I return. And all I want is to have my little brother back. To be a happy family once again.
As I sit pondering this, I remember that I have to reply to my parents. They’ve been asking about coming to London to see the last show of the tour, but I haven’t sorted things out yet. And now the last show is only a few days away.
A feeling of overwhelm rises in my chest as I scroll through my phone. There’s countless unread messages, emails, and voicemail notifications.
I haven’t listened to my voicemails in a good couple of years. I’m sure there are important things on there, but if anything is crucial, I’m sure that Paul, Connie, Lucy or my parents will tell me.
I quickly fire off a message to my parents, letting them know I’ll talk to Lucy to get their flights sorted out, and am about to close the app when I see a new message from Christopher.
Christopher
Not had any complaints. Yeah, I’m around. Your place or mine?
My post-concert adrenaline was starting to taper off, but I feel another surge rush through my veins. Like a B-12 shot in the ass. It makes me want to jump right out of the car, run straight into the hotel, and rip Christopher’s clothes off, devouring him completely.
Concentrate, Alex! Concentrate.
I shake my head to bring myself back to the present.
Damn ADHD.
“Lucy, can we look into flights and a room for my parents to come into town?”
Lucy turns her attention to me, away from the twinkling building lights shining against the backdrop of the dark night outside. She opens the hood of her black sweatshirt slightly, revealing loose strands of her red hair tied back underneath.
“Of course.” She reaches for her phone. “When do they want to come in?” She opens up her notes app and stares expectantly at me.
“They want to be here for the last show, so I guess maybe get them in a night or two beforehand?” I shrug my shoulders uncertainly.
I don’t need them here before then, bothering me.
“And do you know when they’ll want to leave? If they’ll want to stay on beyond the last show? Go somewhere else in Europe?” Lucy’s fingers type away at her phone.
So many questions.
I close my eyes briefly, shaking my head, pushing away my resentment at being the intermediary.
I wish my parents would just book their own travel plans, but they tried to a few years back and got the show dates wrong while also somehow landing in Berlin instead of Hamburg, so now it’s just easier for me to deal with it.
“We’re back in LA the next day, right?” I try to picture the printout of the schedule on the desk back at my suite. There’s recording of the live album tomorrow, and more shows Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.
“Right,” Lucy acknowledges with a nod as I open my eyes.
A man on a late-night walk with his dog catches my attention outside, hitting me with a pang of jealousy.
I don’t get to do those simple things these days.
It had broken my heart when I’d given Archibald—my dog’s actual name—up to a friend because Paul said I couldn’t take him on the road with me.
My lifestyle just doesn’t allow me to be responsible for another being.
“Alex?” Lucy asks.
“It’s a long way to come for just two nights, so maybe book them a couple of extra nights here after the shows are over. Check with my mom, and then book whatever they want. But, whatever she says, don’t get them out here earlier than Wednesday.”
If my mom had her way, she’d be out here for the whole tour.
Lucy nods, typing away to put things in motion.
I find myself focusing on her in awe, like I sometimes do.
I don’t know what I’d ever do without her.
She’s been great ever since she came on board after Samuel died.
He was great, too, but he also wasn’t the most on top of things when it came to organizing my life.
Then again, I was often distracting him when he needed to get things done, so I can’t really blame him.
“Anything else you need?” she asks, looking up, and tucks one of the stray strands of red hair behind her ear.
I’m sure there’s a million things I need, but right now all I can think about is seeing Christopher for more than a few fleeting moments.
“What time do we need to leave tomorrow?”
“Midday.” Lucy clearly doesn’t need to look at the schedule. She probably has it memorized.
My gaze drifts to my Rolex before I realize that it’s set to LA time. That does nothing to help me figure out how much time that gives me this evening until I look at the clock on the dashboard at the front of the car: 11:37 p.m.
Great, twelve hours. That should be more than enough time to hang out with Christopher for a bit uninterrupted.
I envy Lucy’s ability to retain information. My brain is like a sieve. Information is like sand. I only manage to retain the big stuff. But I’ll remember the call time. Because it buys me a chance of normality.
By the time I make it through the noisy swarming crowds waiting for me outside the hotel and back to my suite, it feels eerily quiet. My brain, however, is not.
I’ve brushed my teeth three times, more thoroughly than usual. I rinsed my mouth out with mouthwash and took another Adderall to try and get my brain to focus, though the medication is taking its sweet ass time to kick in.
I even showered twice, letting the last of the water on my body get soaked up by the soft-white Egyptian cotton towel as I run another one through my hair.
My right leg twitches as I stare at the phone beside me on the bed, wondering what to message Christopher or if he’s still even up.
The last time, I had Dutch courage in my system to help me force myself to knock on his door.
But I’m sober tonight, a deliberate decision I made to prove to myself I can take alcohol or leave it—I can leave it—and now I don’t know what to do.
I finally pick it up, take three deep breaths, and type away.
Is that so? Mine’s probably better.
I can’t bear waiting for a response, so I throw my phone back on the bed and get up, heading to the walk-in wardrobe, dropping the towels on the floor. I’m picking out some shorts and a vest when I hear a pinging sound.
It can’t be. That was too quick.
But it has to be him. Not only because I’ve just messaged him, but because I set my phone to Do Not Disturb and set a rule to only allow notifications from Christopher.
I almost stumble over the towels in my excitement.
Christopher
Are you back? I could head over in five…
Cool. Knock four times so I know it’s you.
Shit.
This is really happening.
I’m instantly turned on by the thought of being alone with Christopher in my room. But I want to play it cool. Need to play it cool. Yet I’m second-guessing every thought that enters my brain.
Should I tidy my room or leave it messy?
Should I change into something else or keep what I have on?
Should I spray on some of my Creed aftershave, or would that come across as trying too hard?
I move from the bedroom into the lounge area, turn the TV on with the remote, and slump into the couch. My heart rate feels like it’s going about as fast as my finger flicking through the channels. I impatiently check the clock in the corner of the screen.
Maybe I could do with a drink?
Seven minutes have passed when I hear four knocks at the suite’s entrance, and I jump straight up. Somehow, I stop myself from rushing to the door, taking long deep inhales to gain some composure. I pause at the video screen next to the door to ensure it’s Christopher.
My heart skips a beat.
He looks breathtaking in a white polo shirt, blue jeans, and brown boots. His brown hair is parted down the right side and he’s twiddling his thumbs. I take one last look of my reflection in the hallway mirror, running my hand through my hair and adjusting my shorts, before pulling open the door.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hi.” He drops his hands to his sides.
An awkward silence permeates in the air as I take him in.
God, he really is beautiful.
“Wanna come in?” I ask, opening the door wider.