I’ve never met Caspian, or any of the members of Wicked Hearts, despite them living in L.A. too, but he isalwaysin the headlines for something. More than any of his bandmates. For how frequently he makes the news, he’s surprisingly an enigma. The public doesn’t know much about him, other than he’s a notorious playboy and he loves to party. Oh, and that he has a subtle Scottish accent. It’s barely there, but fuck, it’s sexy.
I stop scrolling when the quiet, yet distinct, sound of the hotel door opening and clicking shut reaches my ears, perking them up, from all the way in one of the other two bedrooms in this suite.
Maybe it’s Bri and Bry.
Doing my best to cover my indecent bed partners and doing the same to myself, my eyes lift to the doorway in time to see that it is very muchnotmy best friends walking in, but instead, my fucking parents.
Shit. This isn’t good.
“Hey, guys,” I say, slightly with a chuckle, keeping my voice light and airy, like that’ll keep them from exploding. “What’re you doing here?”
My mother, Tiffany Davies, former Victoria’s Secret model, drags her gaze from one naked body to the next, a look of sheer disgust plastered on her face before landing on me. She doesn’t say a word, though.
No… that’s reserved for my dad. Richard Davies, the most successful film director in all of Hollywood, is a powerhouse. He’s tall and large, with an energy that demands attention. “We received a call this morning from the hotel manager about some noise complaints and disturbances that went on in this room last night.” He glances around the room, taking in the empty cups and cans, clothes, garbage, and even—shit—a bong on the TV stand. Distaste radiating off him in waves, he continues. “Since it’s our card on file, the call came to us. The manager informed us that this isn’t the first time this has happened, but it will, however, be the last.”
“Because they’re upgrading me to the top floor penthouse suite?” I ask sarcastically. The scowl on my mother’s face deepens, which is quite a feat, since the Botox usually always makes her features frozen.
“No, jackass,” my father spits out, eyes narrowing. “Because they’re kicking you the fuck out of here.”
My eyes bug out. “What? But my house isn’t ready yet.”
I’ve been staying at this hotel for the last two months while my house gets renovated. There was an earthquake that, truthfully, shouldn’t have caused as much damage as it did. On the severity scale, as far as earthquakes go, this one was mild. But an old, and clearly frail, tree ended up falling, landing on my roof, and destroying the entire back half of my house. It won’t be ready for me to move back in for at least another month, maybe longer.
“You know…” Dad pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a sigh that reeks of annoyance. “Your mother and I really thought you’d grow up by now. We thought you’d get over the party lifestyle and get your life on track, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.”
The tips of my ears and my cheeks flame. “I’m notthatbad, Dad.”
“Bullshit, you’re not,” he bites out. “The manager said this is a regular occurrence with you. Parties all through the night, dozens of people coming and going. Look at this room!” He gestures around the messy space with his hand. One thing about Richard Davies is, he doesn’t need to yell or rage to hold the attention of the room. No, his cold, even tone is enough to send chills down your spine and scaremost peoplestraight. I say, “most people,” because it clearly hasn’t worked on me yet. “This is disgusting. How can you live like this? And I know, simply based on your track record and the way your eyes are bloodshot, if we drug tested you right now, a whole slew of shit would come up.”
I mean, sure, recreational drugs are pretty common for me. But who in Hollywood doesn’t partake? That doesn’t mean I have a problem or anything. Not that I would dare say that to him. Back in December, on my last birthday, I had a bad acid trip that he unfortunately had the pleasure of witnessing, and ever since then, he and my mom have been majorly on my case, acting like I’m a raging drug addict.
“Where am I supposed to stay, then?” My voice comes out small, and I hate it. “With you guys in Malibu?”
Dad huffs a laugh through his nose, lip turned up into almost a sneer. “You’re not staying with us,” he says. “Your mother and I spoke about it, and we think you could benefit from some time away. A reset.”
Heart thumping hard in my chest, my palms get clammy. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you need to stop all this shit, Rowan. It’s time to grow the fuck up. We’re sending you to Black Diamond.”
“Rehab?Dad, you must be joking!” I jump up, remembering too late that I’m naked.
My mother gasps, turning around, while my father shakes his head. “Jesus Christ, put some damn clothes on, would you?”
Fumbling with a pair of shorts I’m not entirely sure belong to me, I continue to flail. “Dad, I am not going to rehab. I don’t have a problem! Name a person in Hollywood that doesn’t party. That doesn’t mean I’m a fucking drug addict!”
“You’re twenty-one years old, party almost every single night of the week, and you don’t have a job, Rowan.” The way he says my name with venom sounds like a slur. “When I was your age, I was already busting my ass to get into the industry. And Black Diamond isn’t only a rehab facility. They also treat mental health issues, and the way you’re going, I think you could seriously use some help in that department.”
Here we go again.Same speech, different day. It’s the equivalent to grandparents allegedly trudging miles in the snow uphill to get to school. I work. Sort of. I’ve done some modeling before, and I frequently get brand deals for social media. It’s not like I donothingand live solely off my parents. Although, that’s also not uncommon in Hollywood.
Rolling my shoulders back, I jut out my chin, hoping to look self-assured. “You can’t force me into rehab. I’m an adult.”
I shouldn’t feel silly saying that, that I’m an adult, but I do. It never fails, I always feel small in the presence of my parents, and not just because they’re such well-known, famous people. They’ve always treated me like I was less than or like they couldn’t take me seriously. Growing up, I always felt overshadowed by them. In middle school, I took an interest in directing because I wanted to spend more time with my dad. After asking him to take me to work with him a few times, he laughed and told me I didn’t have what it took. Never did get to go to work with him either.
“You’re right,” my dad says simply, bringing me back to our conversation. “We can’tforceyou per se, but if you don’t comply, you can kiss your trust fund goodbye.”
“You can’t fucking do that! That is my money!”
“The hell I can’t,” he quips, his expression condescending as can be. “It isn’t your money until you’re twenty-two this year, anyway, and if you don’t want to act like a responsible adult, I can take it away entirely. Don’t fucking test me, Rowan. We’ve been cleaning up your messes for long enough.”
