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"I'm making the decisions about my relationship with Sky! Don't even think of interfering."
Jem mutters something under his breath and I spin around. He may not have a drink in his hand but the odour of alcohol surrounds like a grey cloud that blackens further each day. How he can drink so much and stand up, I have no idea. Oh, yeah, right, practice. I once did the same.
"Say what you gotta say, Jem," I retort.
"Nah, gonna say what I gotta say to Sky. Let her know who she's really dealing with."
I can't show he’s getting to me; I’ll only give him ammunition. The temptation to make Jem’s face match mine with an out-of-the-blue punch hovers by my fist.
"Jem..." Steve's warning growl interrupts our face off.
"We're leaving at the end of the week, so more of a delay with the album because you can't fucking play doesn't help," remarks Steve, pointing at Jem's swollen knuckles.
"I thought we were finishing up the album before leaving for the States?" I ask.
I'm planning a date with Sky this weekend—showing her she's more important and that I mean every word I tell her.
"You know we're in Belgium this weekend, right?" asks Steve, wearily.
"What the fuck?" I ask.
"The awards night—maybe we arranged it when you were...on sabbatical. I can't remember."
"Someone could've reminded me before I made plans," I snap.
The smirk on Jem's face suggests I was deliberately not told; Steve keeping us in line using every trick he knows.
Fuck.
"What do you think Sky will do when she sees the real Dylan Morgan?" snarks Jem.
"Just because I'm dragged to a shitty awards ceremony doesn't change a thing about me and Sky."
Jem pauses long enough to watch my irritation mounting. "I wasn't talking about your night out in Belgium."
My fist really wants to connect with this guy's fucking face but I stand instead, and then storm out of the room. A few metres along the hallway, I rest against the wall.
Don't do this, Jem
