Steven’s thick eyebrows rise in astonishment.
“The audience got carried away. Some stormed the stage. Cops threatened to book you for lewd behavior and public drunkenness. Thankfully, Prince Michael sorted it out.”
I let my head fall back against the pillows.Was I drunk?Hard to tell.
Drinking before a show is a relatively new habit, recently acquired to numb the pain of my beloved mother's death.
"Guys, guys," I say, gesturing with the hand that isn’t glued to my coffee.
"It’ll pass. I’m a bad-boy rockstar. Part Mick Jagger, part Jim Morrison if the press can be believed. Expected behavior."
"Not this time," Prince Michael says. His voice drops the playful edge. “And not ever again. You’ve got to get back on track, Rio.”
“And who’s going to make me?”
“I am, for one,” Steven says, gesturing to the others. His jaw tightens. “We’ve built our lives around you. For better or worse. You fuck up, and our careers are over.”
The words land hard. Steven doesn’t throw terms like “for better or worse” around lightly.
“We have a good thing going, Rio,” Keith adds, drumming his sticks on my nightstand for emphasis. “We can’t blow it before we make our first gold record.”
“The sponsor for the Las Vegas concert this weekend threatened to cancel when he read the tabloids,” Prince Michael says. “It took every ounce of my considerable charm to get him to give you one more chance.”
Prince Michael’s charm may be considerable, but he’s more of a glossed-up pauper than prince. Beneath the grandeur of his given name, he’s just an over-the-top promoter from New Jersey.
Two years ago, he caught our act at a NYC club. Since then, he’s single-handedly brought us from obscurity to stardom.
Well, the brink of stardom, anyway.
Like Keith says, we don’t have a gold record yet. Just groupies galore and a string of sold-out shows. Money in, money out. Like water through a sieve.
“Good,” I say to the faces still glaring at me. “We’ll play Vegas. What’s the problem?”
“You,” Prince Michael says, pointing the talon-sharp nail of his forefinger at me.
“The sponsor demanded to know why you were drunk onstage. Iexplained that before the show, you had a little too much ‘Champagne’ while celebrating your engagement.”
I blink. “Engagement? Who’s the lucky lady?”
“That’s what we have to decide,” Prince Michael says, his black eyes flicking around the partially trashed room from last night’s party.
A dress hangs from a lampshade. Another lies draped over the sofa.
"Your choice in women is questionable. We need the proper girl to show you’ve corrected your ‘bad boy’ ways.”
"What?!" My voice cracks around the word. "You’re getting me hitched?!"
“We need to play down your meltdown. Change the narrative. Give the media and your fans something positive,” he says, warming to his own plot. “The world loves a redemption arc.”
“Who is she?”
"I was thinking Heidi Josephs," Prince Michael says, naming this month’s “it” model. "
She made last month’sVoguecover. I think you two would work well together. You’re both tall, dark, and stormy looking."
"That’s the last type of girl he needs," Steven says flatly.
“Agreed,” Keith adds. "Wrong for his image. He needs a Cinderella type—blonde, innocent, wide blue eyes. The kind of 'deserving girl' fairy tales talk about."
