Eventually, not sure how much time passes, blondie mumbles something beside me. My head feels like it’s in a fishbowl, though; I can’t make out a single thing she’s saying, so I ignore her. My pulse pumps slower than normal, my body hot and cold. Nothing matters right now.
Not the band.
Not this fucking tour that’s finally almost over.
Not the international tour we’re supposed to go on in a few months.
And certainly not my pain in the fucking ass manager, Sebastian, and his ever-present disappointment in me.
None of it matters because I’m floating. My body cocooned in a blanket of soft warmth as I levitate, drifting above Earth. All my problems are below. Unnecessary and irrelevant. Up here, I’m not even me. Caspian Gray is no more—the infamous drummer for the famous Wicked Hearts rock band, with the affliction for drugs and partying and drinking and destroying hotel rooms. The one with the attitude problem and the smart mouth. The one who came from the trailer park, beaten and bruised. Theorphan.
He isn’t me.
Everything goes fuzzy and black and quiet as I continue to exist in this transient state.
Nothing matters.
CHAPTERTWO
Rowan
Fuck!My head hurts like a bitch.
Rolling onto my side, I rub my face against the pillow as the memories of last night’s events come back to me in the form of a broken slideshow. The party, the pills, the powder, the liquor, the music, the sex.
God, the sex. At that reminder, I become all too aware of the bodies surrounding me on this bed. I don’t know who they are without looking, and I’m not quite ready to open my eyes just yet. Everything hurts. My head is throbbing, my muscles ache. Last night, we wenthardin more ways than one.
My shoulders shake with a chuckle, the vibration letting me know my throat fucking hurts too as I recall the wild shenanigans. Going into the bathroom and finding someone getting pissed on in the shower—random—and the naked chicks dancing on top of the table and the dresser. And the people… There had to be close to fifty people in this two-bedroom suite. The suite is spacious, but not for that kind of crowd. I’m surprised we didn’t get a noise complaint.
Although, thisisHollywood. It’s to be expected.
Growing up here, in the social class I did, I’ve become accustomed to shit like this. There is never any shortage in parties, drugs, liquor, or sex. Anything your little heart desires is a simple phone call away. If you don’t know somebody, then someone you know does.
Finally peeling my eyes open, I regret it immediately when the light shining in through the open curtains blinds me. A quick glance around the room reveals empty Red Solo cups and beer canseverywhere, a lamp in pieces on the floor, abandoned articles of clothing strewn all about, and on either side of me on the bed are two people I don’t quite think I know. At least, I don’t think I do.
They’re naked, though. A woman with dark brown hair almost fully covering her face, fake tits, and a sternum tattoo, and a gym-bro looking dude with huge, veiny muscles, excessively tan skin, and pubic hair shaved into the shape of a star.
Um… alright.
Neither of them are actually my type, so how they wound up naked in my bed, beside an equally naked me, is a fucking mystery. Apparently, by that point in the night, I went from blurry, broken memories to full-blown blacked out.
It happens.
The party was for my best friends, Brielle and Brynn, twins, and daughters of Clyde Stephenson, Academy Award-winning actor and philanthropist. It was their twenty-first birthday. Yet, doing another once over, I don’t see them anywhere.
Hmm… They must’ve left last night at some point.
I spot my phone at the foot of the bed, and by some miracle, it’s not dead. There’re dozen of texts and social media notifications waiting for me, but my head hurts too damn much to deal with those. Instead, I pull up Twitter to do my daily morning scroll. I don’t know when this became a thing, but it has. Between the delicious nudes and the juicy celebrity gossip, I can’t get enough of this app.
One post catches my eye immediately and has me clicking on the TMZ news article, the headline making my jaw drop and my brows jump.
Caspian Gray, bad boy and drummer for rock band, Wicked Hearts, in custody for questioning surrounding the overdose and death of unnamed woman.
“Holy shit,” I mutter the words aloud, not even meaning to. Thankfully, I don’t seem to stir the strangers beside me. I want them to leave, but I’m also not ready to have to converse with them yet, so I’d prefer they stay unconscious.
I scan the article, knowing with TMZ, you have to take it with a grain of salt. It looks like another unknown woman called 911 in the early hours of this morning, reporting a suspected overdose. They were allegedly in Caspian’s hotel room when it happened. There aren’t many more details, and it doesn’t look like Caspian or his manager have given a statement yet.
Damn. Sucks to be him.
