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Livid, I kick the edge of the bed, ignoring the pain pulsing through my big toe.
The fucking bitch is playing me.
Chapter Nine
Picking up the paper, I snort and toss it in the bin. So I’ve made the gossip column again, this time for being out late the night before a show. Who gives a shit? And how is that even gossip? It’s not like I’m hurting anyone.
Fucking Max. I’m sure he is the one who left the newspaper under my door. How many times do I need to tell the guy to keep out of my life? I glance at my clock and see it’s nearly three in the afternoon. Shit. I hadn’t meant to or expected to sleep this late.
My thoughts go back to the night before. That fucking text. After I’d calmed down, I’d tossed the phone out in the hallway hoping that she’d come back looking for it and think she’d dropped it. Either that or someone would hand it in to reception. Either way, I didn’t want her knowing yet that I knew. Not till I got my mind around it.
My phone rings. Sighing, I reach for it and press answer.
“What?” I growl, my voice raspy from just waking up.
“Where the fuck are you?” Max asks. “You were supposed to be here for this interview fifteen minutes ago.”
Fuck. The Rolling Stone interview. How could I have forgotten?
“I’m on my way,” I mutter, dragging my ass into a pair of jeans. “Stall them for me, will you? Is Lyndall there?”
“Yep, and she’s annoyed.”
Great. Just what I need.
I have no idea what Max said to keep them from freaking out, but the interview goes smoothly, even with me showing up nearly an hour late. Lyndall stares daggers at me as we walk out of the conference room.
“What?” I mutter. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Barely,” she hisses. “Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to secure this interview?”
“And as I said, I’m here, aren’t I?” I rub my messy hair, which I now realize I forgot to brush. “Besides, this is what you wanted, isn’t it? A bad, self-absorbed poster boy that the media can go crazy over? That’s what sells records, right?”
“Where is all this co
ming from?” she asks, her shoulders sinking forward.
For a moment, the genuine look of concern in her eyes has me, but then I remember the text message. I stalk off, not bothering to answer her question. Max and the other guys have left, and I get the feeling that they’re annoyed at me too.
Fuck them all. I am this band. Without me, they’d be nothing. The fans, the screaming chicks, they’re all there for me and a huge part of that is the “I couldn’t give a fuck” attitude. If they don’t appreciate me, then fuck them if they think I’m going to kiss their ass and apologize.
Anger courses through my veins as I storm back in the direction of the hotel. It’s a fifteen-minute walk, and by the time I arrive, I’m feeling much calmer. Why can’t I shake this mood? A voice in the back of my head tells me what I already know: I need to watch myself, because I’m on the verge of breaking.
Up in my room, I fall onto my bed and stare at the ceiling. My heart is pounding so fast I can’t even track the number of beats. Too many. After a knock on the door, I hear Lyndall’s muffled voice.
“Sax?” she asks.
I sigh, but get to my feet to let her in. I walk back over to the bed and sit down, staring at her, waiting for her to speak.
“What the hell is with you?”
“Nothing,” I mutter. I’m so close to confronting her about the text, but truth be told I feel like a fucking fool. I thought we had something, but all of it was just a show to make herself look good for her career.
“It’s not nothing,” she says, her voice firm as she steps closer to me. She nudges my legs apart and lifts my face until our eyes meet. “I thought we were closer than this. What’s with all this bullshit?”
All I wanna do is make her feel used.
Standing up, I cup her face in my hands and drag my lips across hers, roughly kissing her. She lets out a whimper but relents to my quest for control. I steer her back toward the bed and throw her down, nudging her legs apart.
