Pierce nods, glancing at my guitar, which I discarded on the sofa before falling into a deep fitful sleep, haunted by dreams of my past.
‘You managed to come up with something?’ His normally subdued tone rings with hope.
‘Yep.’
‘What is it about this place?’ Pierce’s huge hands lift in question.
I join him at the window, careful to stay far enough back from any prying long-lensed cameras. Pointing to the row of cabins, I say, ‘This is where we lived before we moved to the States.’
‘And the girl?’ Pierce raises his eyebrows knowingly.
He never pries, so I can only assume he’s assessing how she might react to his security requests because if we have a hope in hell of staying here, there will be many.
‘We were…’ I search my soul for the right words. Words that have enough weight to justify what we had, what we were to each other.
Pierce nods and I know he gets it. ‘Will I make the security arrangements?’
‘Yes. Whatever it takes. Whatever it costs to make staying here a viable option.’ I’ve only just got back. I’m nowhere near ready to leave and truthfully, it has less to do with finishing the album, and more to do with seeing Sasha Sexton again. Even if she does hate the ground I walk on.
Besides, I’ve got something I have to give to her. My dick twitches in my pants.You wish, buddy.
‘I’ll speak to the manager.’ Pierce strides across the room.
‘And I’ll speak to the owner.’ It’s a valid excuse to get close to her, even for a couple of minutes.
‘Do not leave this floor.’ His features pinch into a frown and his voice resonates with unquestionable authority. And there was me thinkingheworked forme.
At least he cares. Though his loyalty has never been in question. He’s saved me multiple times from sketchy situations. Female fans can be equally as dangerous as men, especially alcohol fuelled and in large numbers. They travel in hyena-like packs, occasionally managing to tear strips from my clothes at least.
The door clicks closed, leaving me in silence, bar the squawking racket below.
In the spacious bathroom, I shower, shave and try not to think about Sasha. If she’s showering fifty metres away from me. If she thinks of me when her soapy hands glide over her body. It’s not helpful. Not only are my emotional senses awakened, but the way my dick’s poking up at me, it would appear my physical ones are on high alert too.
I’ve spent the last ten years in LA seeking physical release without any emotion. Here, I’m reminded exactly how powerful it can be when the two are combined.
I push that pointless observation away before I can dwell on it any further. Just because I’m still overwhelmingly attracted to her, it doesn’t mean anything.
Her life is here. Mine is in the States. But my body refuses to get the memo, every cell alight at the prospect of seeing her again.
Though the castle’s heating is on full whack, there’s a chill in the air stemming from the crisp white frost coating the frames of the thin sash windows. I pull on a thick grey jumper and a pair of Levi’s, and brush my teeth.
My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten in over twelve hours. The thought of room service, eating alone again, does nothing to satiate my hunger. I’m hankering for food, but I can’t deny I’m also hankering for some company. Preferably a five-foot-six brunette who hates my guts.
Opening the door of the suite, I peer out, left and right, checking for any potential screaming fangirls after this morning’s shitshow outside the window.
Having a singing career offers a multitude of advantages: wealth, luxury, status, access to places most people can only dream of. On the flipside, it can be claustrophobic, imprisoning and suffocating, stripping me of even the simple ability to walk around like a normal person.
The coast is clear. Banging the door shut behind me, I saunter leisurely across the humongous corridor. The pale morning sun slants through the window panes, illuminating the art lining the walls. A depiction of one of my favourite childhood haunts, Velvet Strand, catches my eye and I pause to admire it, memories of a summer with Sasha hit me like a train.
How have I managed to suppress this for years? These feelings. These emotions. And why?
Survival.
‘There he is! Ahhhhh!’ Shrieks and screams pierce the air as a stampede of crazed women sprint up the walnut staircase with an alarming sense of urgency and purpose.
I’m metres away from the penthouse door. Pierce will kill me, if one of these women don’t.
Last time I performed in Times Square, two unassuming-looking women held me at knifepoint, while their boyfriends attempted to bring round a car to kidnap me for ransom. Pierce and his team intervened and the crisis was averted, but it was a lesson learned. Or perhaps not, given the current situation.
