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Shit, I hope these guys didn’t buy me a fucking apartment. I know I’m turning thirty and shit, but there’s no way they’re gonna kick me out of the tour bus. The damn thing is a pussy-magnet on wheels, complete with a fully stocked bar and a fucking full-time chef.
Yeah, let’s not even call it a bus—it’s more of a mansion you can drive around the country.
It’s fine if you feel impressed. I mean, even I’m impressed sometimes. It’s not like I ever expected to be filthy rich while having having thousands upon thousands of adoring fans all over the world.
You see, I was never voted “most likely to succeed” in high school. I was just your garden variety nerd.
I know, I know—you’re used to seeing me up on the stage, right?
Fancy leather jacket, ragged jeans, forearms covered in sick tattoos, and melting everyone’s panties with my guitar. That’s me, alright. But that wasn’t me twelve years ago.
I had glasses, no tattoos, and I used to play the fucking tuba. How did I go from that to being voted Sexiest Man of the Year? (By three different publications...not that I’m bragging or anything.)
It’s pretty simple: heartbreak.
I react poorly when bad stuff happens. So when my eighteen-year old heart was broken, something else inside me broke as well. I smashed the fucking tuba, moved cities, picked up the guitar…and poured my fucking heart into the music.
My fingers bled for months. Next thing I knew I had Mike and Chris with me, and we were crushing it. Seriously, I don’t know who chased us the most—the fans or the record labels.
So, yeah, that’s me—Alexander Reeves, asshole galore. Just in case you’ve been living under a rock or something.
“So, this is what you’re going to do,” Evan starts, reaching for me and taking the whisky bottle out of my hands.
“You’re gonna get out of the limo,” he continues, straightening my jacket, “you’re gonna walk up to the building, and then you’re gonna ask the doorman for a certain Katherine Collins.”
No.
No fucking way.
“Uh-uh,” I say, shaking my head. Leaning forward, I tap the partition separating us from the driver.
“Driver, get us out of—” I start, but Chris and Mike just push me back and pin me to the fucking seat.
“Do I need to repeat myself, man?” Chris asks with a sigh, although I know for a certainty he’s going to repeat himself. “You’re gonna get out of the limo, and you’re gonna get your ass inside the Bradford.”
“Have you lost your fucking mind? There’s no way I’m going in there and ask for…her.”
Jesus fuck, I can’t even say her name.
“Yes, you are,” they both tell me at the same time, and the look on their faces tells me they’ll kick me out of the limo if I refuse to cooperate.
“I m
ean,” Mike continues, “we’re a bit tired of that my-heart-was-broken bullshit, you know? It sure made us a lot of money, with you writing all those songs and whatnot, but I think it’s time you face your demons.”
“Katherine’s not my demon. I haven’t thought of her for ages now,” I lie, even though my heart has just tightened as her name danced on my lips.
Fuck, I dream of her every single night.
Katherine.
The first time I saw her, I was ten.
It felt as if I was hit by a bolt of lightning.
Pretty, smart, and a laugh that grabbed at your fucking soul and squeezed it tight. For eight years, I pined for her. But what could I do?
I was a nobody, and she was the daughter of a tycoon billionaire. Next thing I knew, she was dating some rich British asshole, and they were planning to go away for college together. That shit fucking tormented my eighteen-year old self, let me tell you that.
