I tapped my finger in beat with her heels as they clicked across the tiled floors, and then they stopped. Raising my head from the pillow, I glanced up at her, arching one brow in disinterest. The girl, whose name I’d never bothered to ask for, glared at me for a minute before a smile inched across her face.
“I can’t believe this!” She fell silent and shook her head, then covered her mouth with her hand. “I’m,” she paused. “Getting kicked out of Jag Steele’s hotel room. OMG! This. Is. Amazing!” she squealed, and pulled her phone to her face, her fingers typing furiously and her grin growing wider by the second. My guess was she had to check in on Foursquare and let everyone know she’d just become the one-thousand, five hundred and sixty-seventh woman to have her tonsils rammed by me—or some number close to that. I sure as hell didn’t try to keep count anymore.
Her eyes darted up to me, and I could tell she was considering something. I caught her pointer finger creeping down the side of her phone, and I cleared my throat. “If you take a photo of me like this and post it, my lawyers will be in touch with you.” I shot the biggest, most asshole-ish smile I could shape over at her. “Got that, princess?”
Her excited expression relaxed. She managed to huff out a dejected, “Uh, yeah,” as she lowered her phone and dropped it into her purse. And there she stood, frozen, by the door.
Still nude, I rose and brushed past her, opening the door and circling my finger in the air before pointing directly out into the hallway. “Enjoy the rest of your day,” I said.
Ms. No-Name skirted through, taking one last glance at me over her shoulder before I shut the door.
Rubbing my hands over my face, I made my way to the bathroom. I flipped the light switch and gave my eyes a minute to adjust to the artificial light. Sometimes I felt guilty after I kicked a girl out like that. I didn’t use to be such a jackass. And during my fleeting moments of sobriety, I could recall that at one time I was actually nice, sometimes even shy. Funny how well-rehearsed you can become at being who everyone thinks you should be. There was no doubt that I was a different guy.
At this point, life just annoyed the shit out of me.
A few hours later I was leaning against a doorway, watching the interns scamper around with lattes and double shot espressos. My eyes traced over the black cords running from the cameras, and then up at the canned lights hanging from the ceiling. The bustling New York City crowd was visible through the large window at the far end of the room, constant movement of people going through their mundane daily routines. Every so often someone would stop, cup their hands around their face, and peer into the studio.
Two more hours until I had to be in front of those cameras, and my nerves were already tightly bundled up, my stomach uneasy. All I could think about was running to the bathroom and snorting a few lines real quick. The only problem with that was I didn’t have any coke—oh, and I was supposed to be clean.
I hated being interviewed, especially when it required me to rehash all the ridiculous shit that had happened over the past few years. Really, the biggest problem I had at that moment was my sobriety. I’d never done an interview sober, and I doubted that I could make it through this one.
“Excuse me, Jag.” One of the hipster interns attempted to get my attention. Not saying a word, I turned to face him.The intern didn’t glance up from his pad as he continued. “They need you to come back to the dressing room, do some makeup before they start.”
I pushed myself away from the door frame, then followed him down the slender white hallway.
He glanced back at me, a slight grin shaping his lips. “Man. I know I’m supposed to act all chill and stuff, but I can’t help it. Pandemic Sorrow is my favorite band. You’re a legend.”
Shoving my shades through my hair, I forced my lips to curve up. I’d been told in rehab that I needed to act more appreciative, but when you’re as numb and arrogant as I am, sometimes it’s hard to act thankful about anything.
I answered with what I’d been told was an appropriate response. “Thanks, man. Really appreciate that.”
The guy stopped, dropping his clipboard down by his side and staring at me through his thick, black-rimmed Buddy Holly glasses. He shook his head and looked me dead in the eyes. “You guys aren’t really done, are you? Those are just rumors?”
“Nah. We can’t go nowhere. Music’s all we know.”
Pleased with that response, he turned and continued to the dressing room.
About seven months ago I’d almost made my heart explode, or almost overdosed, if you want to get technical with it. I think the exploding heart thing sounds much better, less accusing. I had been forced into rehab, kicking and screaming because I didn’t have a fucking problem. I just got a little too excited, a little too carried away, and snorted one too many lines. That’s not a problem, that’s an accident. Right after I finished my treatment and was told I was “cured” from my “habit,” I threatened and swore that I was going to leave Hollywood behind in an effort to stay clean. Of course, when that happened, people thought the band was done for. I hadn’t threatened that because I wanted to stay clean—honestly, it all just sounded like a hassle—but more so that I wanted to get the fuck away and have some privacy. The idea of fading into the background, of having a life where each damn breath I drew wouldn’t be scrutinized and slapped across the front page of every tabloid in existence, well, sometimes that just seemed abso-fucking-lutely amazing.
We stopped outside the dressing room, and I grabbed the intern’s shoulder before he walked away. “What’s your name?” I asked.
“Jay.”
One side of my mouth flipped up in a halfhearted grin, and I said, “Why do you work here, Jay?”
A ridge formed on his brow as he stared at me, not exactly sure why the hell I was asking him that question.
“What do you want to get from this place? From working at MTV? Fame? Is that what you’re running after?” I pointed back to the studio. “You want to eventually end up in front of that camera?”
Nodding, he said, “Well, yeah. I mean, who doesn’t want to be famous?”
I shook my head in disgust and turned to enter the dressing room as I mumbled, “Yeah. Well, some people that are famous just wish they weren’t.”
You can get Jag now!
US: http://amzn.to/1JiudmF
UK: http://amzn.to/1Hg3XHg
CA: http://amzn.to/1GHy7BX
AU: http://amzn.to/1GHy7BX
Follow Stevie J. Cole here: https://www.facebook.com/authorsteviejcole
Website: http://www.steviejcole.com
Twitter: @steviejcole
Newsletter:
http://steviejcole.us11.list-manage.com/subscribe?u=62a21494139bac948abba7821&id=7e33657abe
Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/Stevie-J.-Cole/e/B00K9PK3EY/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1411841741&sr=8-2-ent
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Playlist
More from Terri Anne Browning
Blood & Loyalties by Ryan Michele
Jag by Stevie J. Cole