We settle on the couches again and shoot the shit. Syd is sipping her second glass of wine and bobbing her head to the music. Predictably, Linc lights a joint and passes it around.
“No thanks,” Syd says when it comes to her, immediately handing it off to me.
“You don’t smoke?” Linc inquires before blowing smoke circles like the show-off he is.
“Not anymore. I had a big issue with drugs when I was teen. Went a bit crazy for a while. Cleaned my act up when I was twenty, and now my only vice is a couple of glasses of wine.”
“I went a bit crazy for a while too.” Ryder admits something that is common knowledge. He didn’t shy away from telling the world his truths, earning the steadfast loyalty of his fans for life. His battle with addiction is not a secret nor is the reason why he fell down a dark hole. But that’s a story for another day. “I don’t touch alcohol or drugs anymore. My personality is too addictive. It’s all or nothing for me.”
“I’m like that with drugs,” Sydney admits, unconsciously shifting closer to me on the couch. I’m not complaining. “I won’t even touch a joint. It’s a slippery slope, and I’d rather not fall back down it.”
“Amen to that.” Ryder nods, and his gaze is full of admiration and understanding.
“We can stop if this is bothering you,” Wilder offers.
Linc scowls.
I doubt a day passes when he isn’t stoned.
“That’s not necessary. I can handle a bit of weed though I’m not sure I could handle the full-blown rock star scene.” She looks sideways at me.
“I don’t do much of that anymore,” I explain, sliding my arm around the back of the couch behind her. “And I’d never put you in a situation you were uncomfortable with.”
“I know.”
I have a feeling the baby issue isn’t the only hurdle I’ll have to overcome with Sydney. She’s not exactly a fan of the rock star lifestyle and the lack of privacy that comes with it. “We won’t be touring for ages, and we’re lying low right now, so it’s not anything you need to worry about yet.”
“I know that too.”
An awkward tension bleeds into the air, broken a few beats later by Linc. “You’re a really talented artist, Syd. It’s a shame you don’t paint for a living. I bet you’d kill it.”
Sydney laughs a little. “Um, thanks, but how would you know?”
“I fucking love that portrait of Jared, and I can’t believe you painted it at fifteen,” he replies.
Sydney turns to me. “You still have the painting?”
“Of course.” I reach out and pull an errant strand of hair away from her brow. “You didn’t seriously think I’d ever get rid of it, did you?”
“I don’t know.” She wets her lush lips. “I guess I thought it was back in London at your mom’s or something.”
I pull her to her feet. “Come with me.” Clasping her hand in mine, I lead her into my small home studio where her painting hangs on the wall beside some of our framed gold and platinum awards. “I had it framed years ago, and it comes with me wherever I set up home. I had it in my bedroom in the apartment when I first moved to L.A., and it was the focal point in the living room of my Bel Air house.”
“You seriously painted that at fifteen?” Ryder asks, coming up behind us. I didn’t realize the guys had followed us.
“I did.” Sydney steps up to it, examining it in more detail.
“She drew it from memory,” I explain. “I didn’t even pose for it.”
“Wow, that’s even more impressive,” Wilder says.
“I was always drawing Jared,” she admits, reaching a hand out to touch the painting.
“You made him look better than in real life,” Wilder says, and I flip him the bird.
“The energy jumps off the canvas,” Ryder supplies. “There’s an almost magical quality to it.”
“That’s how Jared always looked to me,” she murmurs, a little lost in her head and maybe the past. “I could never take my eyes off him when he played. As soon as you put drumsticks in his hands, he became this other person. I used to think of him as a magician because he makes magic with his hands.”
