“Dead serious.” I rubbed my face with both hands. “Spent the whole week’s per diem on your videos. Had to borrow money from Kill for smokes.”
She turned her head. “Like be dead honest right now — you didn’t have money? You’re like… One of the biggest rockstars out there.”
“A rockstar who likes tospend.”
“On what?”
“Anything.” I let my head roll back against the seat, watching the lights blur past. “Cars. Guitars I don’t need. Hotel rooms I trash. Your OnlyFans, apparently.”
She was quiet for a bit. “That’s... actually kind of sad.”
“Yeah, well.” I closed my eyes. “Welcome to my life.”
The car slowed, and I felt us turn. When I opened my eyes again, we were pulling up in front of my building. I recognized the doorman through the glass — Carlos, or maybe it was Marco. I could never remember.
“This it?” she asked.
“Yeah.” I fumbled with the door handle, my fingers not quite cooperating. “This is me.”
She put the car in park and just sat there, engine idling. I managed to get the door open, but the act of actually getting out seemed suddenly impossible. The ground looked very far away.
“Need help?” Her voice had that edge again.
“I got it.” I absolutely did not have it. I got one foot on the pavement and immediately felt the world tilt sideways. “Fuck.”
Then she was there, her small hands gripping my arm, steadying me. She’d gotten out and had come around without me even noticing. “Come on, rockstar. Let’s get you inside.”
“You don’t have to—"
“Shut up and walk.”
I did.
Sort of.
I leaned on her more than I wanted to admit, and she guided me through the door that Carlos-or-Marco held open with a knowing look. The lobby was draped in marble and gold fixtures that swam in my vision, and somewhere in the back of my mind I registered that this probably looked bad. Rockstar being half-carried by a girl who looked like she wanted to murder him.
“What floor?” she asked.
“Penthouse.” The word came out garbled. “There’s a key. Pocket.”
She sighed and reached into my jacket pocket. Her fingers brushed against my chest through my shirt, and even drunk off my ass, I felt it. She pulled out the key card and led me to the elevator.
The ride up was silent except for the mechanical hum and my own ragged breathing. I watched her reflection in the polished doors. She was staring straight ahead, her jaw still tight, and I wondered what the fuck she was thinking. Probably regretting this decision. Probably planning where to dump my body.
The elevator dinged, and the doors opened directly into my apartment. One of the perks of having money to burn.
“Yeah, well, now I see where all the money went,” she said, walking me inside. “This place is bigger than my entire building.”
I didn’t have a response to that. Mostly because she was likely right, and I was too drunk to come up with anything clever. She steered me toward the couch — a massive leather thing that had cost more than was reasonable — and deposited me onto it with less grace than I would’ve liked.
“Stay,” she said, like I was a dog.
For a split second I considered replying with a bark. Instead, I watched her disappear into what I assumed was the direction of the kitchen and let my head fall back against the throw pillow. The ceiling was doing interesting things — spinning slowly, likea lazy Susan. I’d bought this place on a whim after a particularly successful tour, and I still wasn’t sure I’d made the right choice. Too much space. Too quiet when I was alone.
She came back with a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin I hadn’t even known I had. “I don’t need that,” I told her. “Not if I stay perpetually drunk. Like a pirate.”
Mary squinted her eyes. “When was the last time you were sober?”
