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“What?” I snap. “If you’ve got something to say, then say it.”
He stomps over to me, stopping when he’s only a few inches away. His huge shoulders are hunched over so we’re almost eye-to-eye. “Alright, you want to know what I think? I think she’s using you for your name, for the exposure. She’s a star-fucker and she’s a bitch. I can’t stand her, Adam.”
Dax crosses his arms over his chest and gives me a look that dares me to argue with him. I can’t, of course, because he’s right. Kiera is a bitch, and she is most likely using me for my name. I can’t explain to Dax that I feel like I deserve someone like her, that I’m not worthy of someone good, someone like Ellie. I’m sure that any good psychiatrist could figure out why I’m with Kiera. She looks so much like Ellie it’s scary, certainly Dax has noticed it, he just hasn’t said anything. I know damn well that I’m with her to punish myself.
“So what if she’s using me. I really don’t care. Ever think that I’m using her?”
Dax shakes his head, “I have thought that. I know what you’re doing and it’s not a pretty fucking picture that comes up. In fact, it’s fucking twisted.” He waves a disinterested hand at me. “It’s your life, mate. When she fucks up and the tabloids ferret out every last humiliating detail, don’t be surprised.”
“Like I said, I don’t care. Kiera is fun and great in the sack, that’s all I need from her.”
“Then I guess you’re all set.” He gives me on last sidelong glance and turns to walk away. “If you change your mind, we’ll all be at Gavin’s new place.”
“Right, I’ll try to swing by.” I know I have no intention of going to Gavin’s house warming party tonight. I’m a masochistic bastard these days, so spending the night on the red carpet with Kiera shining and prattling on about herself and her stupid acting while I smile dutifully, is exactly what I deserve.
Dax gathers up his belongings and leaves our record label’s largest conference room. We had an early morning meeting with the executives regarding our next album. I’m recording a solo album in New York instead of L.A. this autumn and winter, and it’s caused a bit of a ruckus.
The guys are happy for me, so the solo part isn’t the issue, It’s the location that’s the problem. I can’t stand Los Angeles anymore. It’s so fake and backstabbing and goddamn sunny every single day. It’s as if God took the most beautiful place on earth and dropped the most miserable, petty human beings on it.
Gavin and Hawke argued against New York City and since they’re from L.A., I expected it, but there’s not enough time to write and record an entire album this summer, then I’ll be in New York starting in September. I even bought a house in the U.K. sight unseen just to feel like I had a home outside of the misery of L.A. where I’ve never bought a single thing. I always stay at the Chateau Marmont so I won’t have a single tie to this godforsaken city.
I pushed hard for the change of venue and Dax agreed that it might do us all some good to try the east coast, so we compromised. We’ll write in New York, then come back to L.A. after the holidays to record. Dax knows that if I have to come back to L.A. too soon, I’ll end up on another six-month long piss up. My mood swings have been out of control lately, which is a pretty good sign that I’m already halfway down the road that ends with an empty bottle next to my bed and nameless, naked women everywhere. I’m lucky that he still gives a shit after all the crap I’ve done.
I rub my tired, red eyes and head out of the building, putting on my ‘happy Adam’ face for everyone who wishes me well as I pass by even though my head feels like it might explode any second. At least I know that I’m still keeping up appearances, because I don’t get a single strange look from anyone, only big smiles and flirty eyes.
As I step outside and am greeted by fans and tabloid reporters, I smile and sign autographs, laughing and stopping for pictures. I can fool them, but for how much longer can I fool myself?
Autumn in New York City is even better than I imagined. After living in California on and off for six years, the change of seasons and cooler weather is more than just welcome, it’s as necessary to me surviving as breathing.
A sharp rap on the door lets me know that the dinner I ordered is here. I leave the gorgeous brick patio of my suite at the Bowery Hotel and let the smartly dressed employee bring in the room service.
“Mr. Reynolds, where would you like it set up?”
The young man’s voice is nervous, odd for an employee at such a posh hotel. I’d think he’d be used to celebrities by now.
“The table, right there.” I point to the obvious, the small table in the lounge area of the suite. Then I have another idea. “No wait, can I have it on the patio?”
The employee lifts an eyebrow at my request. “Sure thing, Mr. Reynolds.” He quickly distributes my order on top of the large outdoor dining table until it decked out as if dinner were being served in a five star restaurant.
“Wow, that was impressive.” The kid blushes madly under my praise.
/> “Are you okay,” I check his nametag, “Roger?”
“I’m fine, yes sir. Sorry.” Roger pauses before continuing. “I’m not supposed to converse with you.”
“Well, you’re here and I’m asking you to, so go on then,” I encourage. It’s not often I get to speak to people one on one, without hordes of other fans crushing and screaming to get close.
“I’m, well, I’m a huge fan.” His face turns even redder than before. “I play guitar and I love your music.”
“You play? For how long?” I ask, genuinely interested.
“Ten years.”
That’s a long time, he doesn’t look very old, which means he started young like Dax and me.
“Tell you what,” I reach into my pocket for my wallet. “Take this,” I hand him a generous tip and a business card. “That’s my work email. Send me a few songs and if you’re good, I’ll see if I can’t get someone to take a listen. And don’t give that email out, I’d hate to have to change it again.”
Roger takes the card, dumfounded, and stares at it. Then he smiles. “You’d really listen to my stuff?”
