“I’m already running a background check on him,” Rob says, breaking the awkward silence. Paul stares at him as if to say,We’ll talk about this later.
“Well, we’ll still need to get an MNDA in place. We all remember the mess that Roy got us into.” He shakes his head as he looks at Rob’s hand, which is still gripping the door handle.
Memories of Roy flash through my head.
He was a gaunt Australian artist on my label. In the months after Samuel died, he had pretended to care for me, like he knew what it was like to lose someone close. He had enabled my drinking, helping me spiral out of control, and made a move one night. Even though I didn’t find him attractive, I caved after months of longed to be touched by another human. When I pulled away afterward, he didn’t take it well. He started insinuating that I was using him when he was promoting his album during interviews. As rumors began circulating online, Connie and Paul got my lawyer involved to silence him and pay him off.
Ever since then, MNDAs have been mandatory. But in the haze of the last three days, the thought of getting Christopher to sign one hadn’t even entered my mind.
“Alex?” Paul snaps me out of my disassociated state.
“Sure. Do what you need to. Just ensure he’s on the list,” I say, as Rob opens the door again and escorts us through the paparazzi and into the club.
The pounding music reverberates through my body, shakingthe ice and empty bottles of Belvedere in the bucket on the table. I reach for one of the mixers in carafes—it barely contains any apple juice, typical—and pour the last of it into the glass, all under the gaze of the crowd that surrounds our VIP table.
Why they insisted on putting us in the middle of the club and not at one of the VIP tables lining the walls is beyond me. My attention turns to Paul, but he’s deep in conversation with Rita’s friend, who’s somehow managed to worm her way into our group and is straddled up beside me. Thankfully, Lucy sits on the other side of me, keeping a watchful eye out, while Rob stands at the edge of the booth next to Connie.
“You think if I asked the DJ, they’d playFat Lip?” Lucy shouts in my ear over the music.
“Not a chance,” I say, chuckling and rolling my eyes at her.
The track blasting from the speakers is a far cry from the music both Lucy and I bonded over when I interviewed her to become my personal assistant: Sum 41, Green Day, Foo Fighters, and Avril Lavigne.
A gaggle of bleach-blond women, all in gold pants and matching white vests tied up in knots to reveal their midriffs, approach the table with three new bottles of Belvedere, complete with sparklers.
Anyone in the club who wasn’t already looking in our direction definitely is now.
The DJ cuts the music, jumping on the mic.
“Everybody give it up for my boy, Alexander Morgan, in the house tonight!”
I feel my cheeks flush as the crowd erupts. I stand up, lifting my glass in acknowledgment as the DJ turns the music back on. He segues into a remix ofMy Anchorthat the UK label dropped today. All of this is a bid to get me to number one on the singles chart.
I feel everyone’s eyes on me, like they’re expecting me tojump on the mic and do an impromptu performance, but thankfully that wasn’t part of the PA agreement.
“Want a glass?” Rita asks, waving the Belvedere bottle at me, her eyes widening.
A flicker of hope rises in my chest. Not because of her, but at the thought of alcohol.
Of course I want one. But everyone else won’t let me, and it’s not worth the risk of getting caught drinking so publicly.
“I’m good, thanks,” I say, brushing away the flicker of hope and crashing back down to reality. I wave my glass of apple juice at her.
“You know,” Rita says as she finishes pouring herself a drink, “I’ve got someone looking after my children tonight. We could take the party somewhere else after this.” Her words are a statement rather than a question, and her hand slides onto my ass, pinching it. The left strap of her dress finally loses its fight to stay up and falls, exposing her nipple.
She waits for me to look at her, which is something I’m determined not to do, but end up doing anyway, and I pull away just enough for her to stumble into the table. I don’t want to be caught in a photo with her in such a state of undress.
She looks surprised as Rob helps her back up. She pulls her strap back up, shakes her head, and straightens her hair.
My pocket vibrates, and I quickly move to the other side of Lucy, out of harm’s reach. My phone slides out easier this time, thankfully, and I unlock it to reveal a message from Christopher. My heart trips over itself as I read it.
Christopher
Sry battry dead. Bck t sistrs hse. Gym tmr?
I rub my eyes, reading the message three times and trying to decipher his spelling.
The disappointment weighs heavily on my shoulders when Irealize he’s not coming and won’t be at the hotel when I get back.
