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I dress up a little more than I usually would for our interview—black, form-fitting jeans, black Doc Martens, and a light gray button-down. As I put on deodorant and shave, I decide I’ll try and track Trish down and see if she can put some concealer or something under my eyes to make me look less ghastly.
The urge to stop by Drew’s loft on my way to the elevator is strong. I stand and look at the door that’s across from my own in the open hallway. I almost step up to the door and knock but think better of it. I want to check on him. Instead, I go to the elevator and press the down button.
With a lightding,the elevator doors slide open. I walk in, and right as I’m about to hit the button to take me downstairs, Drew’s door opens. I hit the button to keep the elevator open as my heart shoots up to the back of my throat, but when the door closes to Drew’s loft, it’s not Drew who exits, but one of the band members from the opening band who played before we went on last night.
It’s past two in the afternoon, but the guy looks like he just woke up. He gives me a lazy half-smile as I begrudgingly hold the door for him, and as the doors slide close, he says hello. He reaches across to me in the small space and presses the button for the ground floor. Right underneath the hood of his black sweatshirt, I notice a light trail of bite marks. I know exactly what they are because I’ve worn and cherished the same ones on and off for years. My sense of worry for Drew is replaced with rage and jealousy so thick that I want to bash the blue-haired fuck’s face in.
“It’s nice to meet you.” The weaselly fuck grins. I repeat the fact that this guy did nothing wrong over and over again in my head as I clench my fists at my sides. “I’ve been a fan of yours forever.” He laughs and shyly runs his hands through his stupid hair.
“You, too,” I bite out.
I want to ask him what he was doing with Drew.MyDrew. I want to ask him how whatever happened between them even started. I want to grip him by his stupid, bright hair and slam his face into the steel doors of the elevator.
When the elevator dings again, and the doors open to the second floor, it takes every ounce of willpower not to do something rash. I give the guy a halfhearted wave and rush out like my life depends on it.
In the hallway, I slide down against the wall and sit with my head in my hands as I try to make sense of what happened. It takes me a long time to get my shit together, stand up, and knock on Trish’s door.
Lizzyand I meet the reporter for theCalifornia Rockerat a quaint cafe near the loft. Mike managed to rent out the small cafe for an hour so we could do the interview in peace, without distractions from fans or onlookers.
The reporter is a young man only a few years younger than me. I can tell he’s nervous because he takes sporadic sips of his ice water when we haven’t started with the questions yet. His name is Barry, and he graduated from New York University not long ago. He wears thick-framed, maroon-colored glasses and a tie to match. He sips from a cappuccino in between water with hands that shake a little, and I wonder whether the guy should be drinking caffeine at all.
Lizette looks like a dreamy sun goddess. Even though we won’t take photos for the issue until tomorrow, she’s dressed in a sand-colored, floor-length dress with spaghetti straps and golden sandals. The dress makes all of her features pop. She proudly shows off the engagement ring on her left hand as she places her slender hand on top of mine.
“So.” Barry takes yet another sip of his water. He glances at me as he presses the record button on his iPhone. “Let’s go ahead and get to it! Ash—how are you feeling now that you’ve proposed?”
Barry smiles at me, and Lizzy beams. She pats my hand lovingly, and I want to scream. Despite being at the cafe with them, my mind is hyper fixated on the person who waltzed out of Drew’s loft. The bite marks. The smug, lazy grin spread across his face in the elevator.
I shoot Barry my best fake smile. “I’m feeling good, Barry. I’m feeling good.”
