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“Relax Hank. The boys wanted to through a little party after the show,” I said.
“A little party. Do you even fucking remember last night?” Hank asked.
“Not necessarily,” I said. That’s how I preferred it. To forget everything.
Stone and Landon snickered as I tried to keep my grin at bay.
“I’m fed up with this shit. You fuck the wrong woman and she goes to the media with all this shit, and you’re done. Bang, just like that, your fame is over. Your dedicated fan base will see you as nothing but an alcoholic womanizer.”
“Watch it.
I’m not a fucking alcoholic,” I said.
“You drink like a fish on stage, Drake! Of course, you’re an alcoholic. I know you’ve been through a lot in your life but you can’t just go about acting like your actions won’t have any consequences. You haven’t gone one performance without beer in your stomach.”
“That’s part of my persona, Hank! They expect me to come on stage shit faced. It’s part of my shtick.”
“Is part of your shtick bringing groupies onto the bus, having them dance around naked, then drinking yourself stupid until you can’t remember whether or not you fucked one of them or all of them?” he asked.
“I didn’t fuck that girl.” I honestly wasn't sure, but I'd hoped I was right.
Stone and Landon fell apart in laughter as I stumbled over to the couch.
“This has gone on long enough. If you don’t turn this shit around, I’m gonna hire someone to help you do it,” Hank said.
“Thanks, Mom. I’ll take the information to heart,” I said.
“It’s not information for you to take to heart, asshole. It’s what’s going to happen if you don’t fucking shape up, Drake. In fact, I’m tempted to go ahead and take care of this shit right now.”
“And just what the hell are you gonna do? Hire someone to babysit me and count my beers?”
“No. But I am gonna hire you a public relations representative. Or a private assistant. Someone to help your fucking ass with this drinking of yours. Your drinking and your antics are gonna get you into trouble, and you’re gonna need someone like them to help when shit hits the fan.”
“Your knickers are really in a knot this morning, aren’t they?” I asked.
“I’m fucking done with you,” Hank said.
“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t walk away from me. You’re employed by me, remember?” I asked.
“No, better check your damn contract, buddy. I manage you. There’s a difference. And if I feel you need a fucking P.R. representative or an assistant or a fucking rehab for that matter, you’ll damn well do it! Otherwise, the concerts come with me, and I toss your ass out on the street. Got it?”
I clenched my fists as Hank left the bus. Who the fuck did he think he was? I was Drake fucking Blackthorn. He couldn’t get rid of me. I was half his damn paycheck every fucking month! He didn’t manage anyone else like me. He didn’t have some roster of fucking famous singers he could fall back on. I was the biggest name he had.
He needed me. Not the other fucking way around.
Long ago, I didn’t need a manager to tell me how to live my life. I was happy without a stadium full of fans. I performed in front of a crowd because it was my passion and it brought me to life.
Now, I barely even recognized that man. I was a fucking actor. I was in so deep in this fictitious character I’d created for myself, so I could avoid the reality of my fucking life. The reality that had I just driven them with me that night, Shannon and Ava would still be with me now.
That man was gone.
Now. I was just fine being an empty fucking vessel.
Fuck Hank.
Fuck the world.
CHAPTER 2
