20. Got Me Started
Got Me Started
The first show in Vegas was insane—a packed arena of thirty thousand people. The sound-pressure alone from the crowd cheering felt like they were wrapping their arms around me.
After the show, Ava invited me back to her suite for an after-party—and things got pretty wild. My first introduction to the rockstar life.
I spent most of this morning sleeping, before returning to her suite—for room service, massages, and what she calls a “recovery ritual”, complete with a nurse administering tailored infusions of antioxidants and anti-inflammatory agents. Apparently, they help with energy and vocal recovery.
“I’m telling you, Elena,” Ava says, lounging in a silk robe while her feet get massaged. “I can’t live without Dr. Bronte’s vitamin infusions. I’d be a husk without them. Touring, flying back and forth—you’ll notice a difference, trust me.”
“I’ll be sure to let Mark know to add it to my list of diva demands,” I say, laughing.
“Oh God, you don’t think I’m some kind of pampered pony, do you?”
“No, no. Not at all.”
“Good. Because you know we work hard. What our bodies go through? Take it from me—if you want to be in this for the long haul, you must take care of your mind, body, and soul.”
As much as I hate to admit it, she—and Philippa—are probably right. The last few weeks of shows have left me shattered. My set isn’t nearly as long or as demanding as Ava’s—I’m just the opener—but the travel, the appearances, the rehearsals…it’s all starting to wear on me.
I’ve never really paid much attention to what I eat or whether I work out. But now that I’m pushing my body like this, I can feel every bit of it. And if I want even a sliver of what Ava has, I need to get serious about taking care of myself.
Adulting 101 starts now. I think. Or at least, figuring it out.
“How does one get acquainted with Dr. Bronte?” I ask, curious.
“I’ll have my manager reach out to Mark—get you set up with the good stuff.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ve got you, girl! I still can’t believe it’s your first time in Vegas,” Ava says, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Anything you’re dying to see or do after tonight’s show? You’re not flying out tomorrow, right?”
I shake my head. “Nope. I leave the day after.”
She grins like a Cheshire cat. “Excellent.”
Night two’s show is somehow even bigger than the first—if that’s even possible. Ava brings me out for not one but two songs, and the crowd goes absolutely wild.
Ava’s entourage pile into the back of a limo and head back to our suites at the Venetian, the limo’s lights strobing through the night.
“Time of Our Lives” by Pitbull blares through the speakers.
One of the backup dancers pops a bottle of champagne, tilting it into our open mouths between fits of laughter.
Ava takes a hit of coke; I pass—but she doesn’t miss a beat, yanking me up through the open sunroof.
The moment I rise, my eyes are flooded with a million twinkling lights. My mouth drops open. The Strip stretches before us, pulsing with color and life, bodies packed on sidewalks, flashing signs, endless movement. I’ve never seen anything like it.
It’s a feast for the eyes.
Riley would love this—a little pang catches in my chest. I wish she were here.
“Woo!” Ava screams, shaking my shoulders. “Go wild, Elena!”
I don’t know how she still has the energy to speak.
“Woo! Hello, Vegas!” I scream back, my throat not as raw or raspy. And surprisingly? I don’t feel as tired as I usually do after a show.
Thanks, Dr. Bronte.
We’re a tangle of limbs and laughter as we pile into Ava’s penthouse suite.
Some of them are already stripping down, diving straight into the plunge pool on the balcony.
Room service arrives minutes later: trays of pizza, steaks, lobster—the works.
I’ve never seen so many bottles of champagne... or bags of cocaine.
“What’s your poison of choice, pretty lady?” Ava asks, chowing down on fries, her makeup smeared halfway down one cheek.
“Tequila.”
“Ooh, well—ask and you shall receive.” She fumbles with her phone. “Frank! Patrón. Six bottles. Limes and salt. Stat!”
“Oh my God, Ava, you don’t have to!”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Gotta loosen you up somehow.”
It’s strange—I should be on my best behavior. She’s technically my boss. I am on her tour, after all. But Ava keeps chipping away at my walls, bit by bit. I can’t help it. I never had many friends growing up. Riley’s always been my one and only constant.
“I prefer other ways of loosening up,” I say, offering a playful smile—my first real attempt at this whole ‘letting go’ thing.
“You minx! Who is it? Wade, the drummer? Christian on bass?” She giggles, scanning the room. “No...Pedro.”
I laugh, shaking my head.
“Well, be my guest. I’ve fucked them all. They range from great to meh.” She cackles, tossing a fry in the air and catching it.
She points toward Luca, standing casually by the door.
“He’s cute.”
“And impenetrable. Trust me—my best friend tried. And she’s a ten.”
“Ugh, the hot ones are always gay,” she groans.
Luca’s gay? The thought never crossed my mind.
“I should know,” she slurs.
“I beg your finest pardon?”
She must catch the look on my face. “I’m bi, pretty girl.”
“Oh.” I nod. “Cool.”
“So...if none of them interest you, maybe I’ll help you loosen up.”
My eyes widen. “Tempting.” I giggle.
“Though judging by the look on your face, you’re straight as an edge. Boring.” She laughs, eyes sparkling—and for a second, I’m reminded of someone else with dreamy, sparkle-in-the-dark eyes.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Broderick.
Of course. It’s like the universe heard me.
“One sec,” I tell Ava, who’s already dancing barefoot with Wade.
I answer, “Hi.”
“Hi, baby. I’m sorry I missed the show.”
“Wait—you were coming to Vegas? I thought I wasn’t going to see you until New Orleans.”
“I couldn’t wait. Needed my fix.”
“Do you?”
“Where are you?”
“Penthouse, Venetian.”
“Can I come see you?”
I glance around. “One sec.”
I scurry back to Ava. “Hey, is it okay if a friend stops by?”
“Of course,” she says, tapping my nose like a cartoon fairy godmother.
I return to the call. “I’m with some people—Ava, mostly. That okay?”
“Of course. Okay if I join you?”
“Ava’s cool with it.”
“See you soon.”
I head over to Luca. “Hey—Broderick’s coming here. Can you meet him downstairs and bring him up?”
“Sure thing, ma’am,” he says without hesitation.
“Thanks, Luca.”
He leaves just as Ava’s assistant arrives with the tequila.
“Fraaankie!” Ava squeals, bounding over and grabbing a bottle from the tray like she’s been starved. She twists off the cap with flair.
“Open wide, Elena,” she sing-songs, bottle raised high.
And I do.
Because really—how do you say no to Ava Edwards?
I’m buzzing—warm, tipsy, my skin humming under the lights. The suite is a chaotic swirl of bodies and music, booze and perfume, laughter bouncing off the ceilings.
Forty minutes later, Luca returns with Broderick in tow, overnight bag slung over his shoulder. His eyes find mine instantly.
“Brody!” I squeal—uncharacteristic of me—but I don’t care. I sprint across the room, launching myself into his arms. He catches me without hesitation, lifting me off the ground, spinning me once. I bury my face in the crook of his neck, breathing deeply—mountains, the rain and him.
“You seem happy to see me,” he says, grinning.
I want to kiss him. God, I want to kiss him. But too many people are watching. He places me gently back down onto my feet.
“I am. Tequila now!” I tug his arm toward the oversized marble bar, where drinks and food sprawl like a royal feast—half-eaten lobster tails, glittering shot glasses, bottles sweating condensation. A backup dancer is double-fisting margaritas while someone blasts “Drunk in Love” by Beyoncé.
“Ugh, Elena, no. Tequila is mean,” he says, eyeing the bottles.
“I’ll make it up to you.” I raise my brows suggestively.
“Oh yeah? How?”
I lean in, keeping my voice low. From the corner of my eye, no one’s paying attention. My hand drifts down, cupping his dick through his pants—he’s half-hard already.
“I’ll let you come,” I whisper, “wherever you want.”
His breath catches. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, grabbing the nearest bottle, ripping it open, and taking a long, burning pull.
I giggle, licking salt off my hand. “Good boy.”
“You seem different,” he says, watching me closely.
“Different bad?”
“No. You seem...happy. Relaxed.”
“Just tipsy,” I say, spinning slowly in front of him, tugging at the hem of his shirt playfully.
“Holy shit, Elena—who’s your friend?” Ava calls out, sauntering over with a champagne flute in one hand and a fry in the other. Her eyes rake over Broderick like he’s dessert.
“You’re a tree I’d like to climb, handsome.”
“Ava, this is Broderick.”
“Miss Edwards,” he says, offering his hand. “It’s a pleasure...to meet you.”
Ava swoons—dramatically. Before shaking it. “Oh, and a gentleman, too? Elena, where the hell have you been hiding this one?”
“We’re just friends,” I say quickly, downing another shot of tequila that scorches my throat in the best way and fuzzes the edges of the room.
“Uh-huh. And I’m the Queen of fucking England.”
Broderick chuckles. “I like you.”
“I’d like you too—if you weren’t already spoken for,” she fires back with a wink, grabbing a slice of steak off a silver tray and popping it into her mouth. She chews like a cat with a secret.
Then she turns to me, eyes glittering. “Girl, if you don’t fuck him tonight, I will have you institutionalized.”
I choke on my laughter.
“And remember,” she calls over her shoulder as she skipping away, champagne bottle sloshing, “what happens in Vegas...stays in Vegas.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want you institutionalized now would we,” Broderick says, looking down at me.
I shake my head, scrunching my nose at him.
Drink after drink is poured. The suite pulses with music and heat—half-dressed dancers flit between velvet couches, champagne fizzes in every glass, and laughter ricochets off the marble walls.