She came to work for me shortly after I bought this place, seven years ago, and she’s put up with a lot of crazy shit over the years, but she never judges. She just cares. She’s the closest I’ve ever had to a proper mother figure in my life, and I don’t like disappointing her even though it’s a regular occurrence.
I don’t get a chance to offer false platitudes we both know are lies because Micah and Scott choose that moment to make a grand entrance. “Sup, assholes?” Micah shouts, grinning as he enters the room like he owns it.
“Why you all sunshine and rainbows?” I ask, sipping on the delicious honey drink, feeling it soothe the ache in my throat.
“Bella finally let me take her ass last night. Hottest fucking fuck of my life.”
Gar reaches over to Micah for a knuckle touch as Scott wraps his arms around Maggie, hugging her while shaking his head at me. I thump Micah in the upper arm. Hard. “You can’t say shit like that in front of Maggie. Show some respect.”
“Maggie, sweetheart.” He slings his arm around her shoulder, drawing her away from Scott. “That was out of line, please excuse my excitement and accept my most heartfelt apology.”
“You boys will be the death of me,” she murmurs, pinching his cheek and ruffling his blond hair. “And I hope you’re treating that young lady right. She’s a sweet girl. Don’t lose this one.” While Gar and I are the stereotypical manwhores of the band, Micah bounces between groupies and girlfriends when it suits him. Scott is the only one tied down. He’s been with his wife Linda since high school, and they recently welcomed their first child. He doesn’t know it, but I’m so fucking envious of him.
We shoot the shit for a few minutes over coffee and pastries until Rod arrives.
We reconvene to the living room as Maggie makes fresh coffee. The others take seats on the couches, but I prop my butt on the edge of the sideboard near the floor-to-ceiling window that offers magnificent views of New York City in the distance. I love living in Greenwich Village although I’d live full time in my house in the Hamptons if I had a choice. But this place is closer to the studio and the airport, so it makes more sense to live here, although I escape to my beachfront property every chance I get.
Rod is all business-like as we discuss plans for recording our next studio album in the coming months, along with a few event dates scheduled for the next couple weeks. I perk up when the subject of our forthcoming biography pops up. “Have you given any more consideration to the idea?” he asks.
“I love it,” I cut in first. “It’s a different take on the usual rock bios, and I think it would work.”
Rod pitched the idea at our last meeting. We already have an official biography of the band, written a year after we burst onto the scene, and it’s your typical rags to riches tale, told in the same vein of every other rocker bio. This time, Rod is suggesting a more intimate look at the band with the focus on our professional lives and how our career has evolved over the years. He suggested we invite a journalist to watch us creating and recording our next album so the world gets a warts-and-all view of the entire creative process involved in producing a Torment album.
The other guys nod, and I know they are on board with the idea too.
“And you’re all okay with having a journalist live with you while you’re recording?”
“If it’s still that hot chick fromRockOut, Kayla, hells yeah. She can live in my room, no problem whatsoever,” Gar offers, smirking.
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” Rod replies. “If we go ahead with this, it’ll be a strictly professional relationship, as in you’re not allowed to hit on her. The schedule is tight, and we won’t have time to find a replacement writer if you drive her away.”
“He’ll behave,” I tell Rod. “And Kayla knows how to knock him on his ass if he tries anything.”
“Don’t be jealous, man. It’s not my fault she kicked you to the curb in favor of my hotter ass,” Gar says, smirking, reminding me of that one time he hooked up with the feisty blonde.
“I’ve never hit on her,” I truthfully admit, and that’s no word of a lie, even if she is gorgeous and alluring.
“Bullshit,” Gar says, pretending to cough.
“Whatever, man.” I eyeball Rod, done with all the posturing. “Kayla knows us, and she’s a cool chick, as well as a shit-hot reporter. She can use the guesthouse, so I don’t see it as an issue.”
I’m determined we give this gig toRockOutmagazine as I know they need the business. Rod partly understands the reason for my allegiance, but I’ve never told any of the guys in the band about Zeta, and I intend to keep it that way.
Rod puts his iPad back in his briefcase along with some papers. “If we’re in agreement, I suggest we propose it to Kayla at the press conference. I think it’s best to sound her out first, and then we can officially present it to Harrison Meadows atRockOut.”
We all concur, and then the guys head home to pack a bag before our flight this afternoon. Rod hangs back, but I knew he would.
“I’m worried about you,” he says once we’re alone, seated on my rooftop terrace, sipping the iced tea Maggie prepared before she left for the day.
“I’m fine.”
“This is not fine.” He shoves his cell in my face, and I glance at the pic of me lying naked, sprawled facedown on my bed.
That fucking bitch.
I guess I should be grateful the photo doesn’t show any evidence of the coke we shoveled up our noses or the lines Gar and I snorted off the girl’s tits. “This is you relapsing.”
“I’m not relapsing.” I dig my nails into my thighs. “You know why I needed a blowout. Once the gig is over and I’m back in New York, I’ll stay clean, I swear.”
