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“But he didn’t drink before! That’s what everyone is thinking, right?” I scan the four faces in front of me and not one can look me in the eyes.
“His dad is an alcoholic, El,” Dax says quietly. “It’s inherited.”
“This was a huge mistake.” I spin around and run down the long drive before I can fall apart, ignoring the calls from my so-called friends.
I reach the street and flag down a cab. “LAX,” I tell the driver. Screw my clothes, I’ll get new ones. I have to get out of here as fast as possible, leave this chapter of my life behind, and forget that I ever met Adam Reynolds.
chapter 23
Adam
Whoever is knocking on the door of my hotel room refuses to stop. I’ve ignored them for a full five minutes, yet they continue on persistently.
“Bloody hell! Hold on a minute!” I tug on some sweats before making my way through the suite. “It’s only ten in the morning, so this better be fucking good!”
I yank open the door and my best mate shoves past me, smiling wide.
“What?” I’m exhausted and somewhat jet-lagged and definitely not in the mood for Dax’s cheerful bullshit. We only just landed at Heathrow yesterday for the Wembley show, and the partying I did last night hasn’t helped my weary arse one bit.
“Get dressed, we’re going to visit my family.” Dax turns me towards the bathroom and crosses his arms.
“Who’s we?” I ask petulantly. Getting in a moving vehicle with my head still spinning from too many tequila shots, doesn’t sound like a great time.
“You and me.”
“Dax, no, really. Go without me. I’m knackered.” I back up slowly, plotting to make a move for the bedroom so I can dive back under the covers and hide for the rest of the day.
He scowls and gets up in my face, toe-to-toe, chest-to-chest, blocking me from making my exit. “You’re not sitting here all day having a pity party for yourself, and you’re not going out drinking and whoring with our big show tonight. So don’t be a nancy and go get fucking dressed.” Dax can be downright menacing when he wants to be, and right now, that’s exactly what he’s doing.
“Fuck. Fine. Give me twenty minutes and I’ll come to your room.”
“I’ll give you five, and I’ll wait right here.” Dax turns and sits on the arm of the sofa, glaring at me as if daring me to challenge him.
“Christ,” I huff. “Suit yourself. I’ll be right back.”
I stomp off to take a quick shower and throw on some clean clothes. Shoving my wallet in my back pocket, I grab my sunglasses off of the chest of drawers. Today the sun is bright enough to make my headache worse, plus I have to at least make an attempt to disguise myself these days. The paparazzi love my drunken escapades. It’s better to go unnoticed than end up in the red tops wasted or hung over… again.
Now that our band has made it big, going anywhere is a massive pain in the arse. We can’t just go and have a takeaway, or run to the supermarket to get food. Everything has to be planned ahead, disguises and drivers and assistants and security to worry about. It’s fucking exhausting.
“Don’t forget your hat!” Dax calls out from the lounge area of my suite.
“What are you, my keeper or something?” I shout back. I rummage through my luggage and find my ancient Arsenal hat, tugging it down low over my brow.
“You definitely need a keeper these days,” Dax mutters as I come out into the lounge.
“Belt up and let’s go. This was your idea, remember that when it goes to crap, Dax.”
“Why would it go to crap?” he asks as we take the lift down to the lobby.
I glare at him from behind my sunglasses. “Because everything I do goes to crap, especially when it comes to Hackney. You know I hate going back there, yet you always make me go when we’re in London.”
Dax shrugs, “It wasn’t all bad there. You just have selective memory.”
I don’t respond to him. He’s always trying to rewrite our days here, make them out to be better than they were, like we weren’t just two low class kids from the East End. We cross the posh lobby of the Warren Hotel and jump into the waiting car, ignoring the reporters who take dozens of pictures of us and yell out ridiculous questions that we never answer.
“Homerton Road, in Hackney,” Dax says to the driver.
“What? Why are we going there? That’s not your parents’ address.”
