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Dylan
I sitin another faceless hotel, in another luxury suite, and the panic seizes my chest again. This is two days away doing TV stints, not even the tour, and already the discomfort creeps in. I can't do this.
The hotel apartment is what is termed "well-appointed". Penthouse living with sweeping views across the city. Honeymoon style—enormous bed covered in white bedding that swallows you up when lying down, a huge TV, spa bath, the works. Exactly the sort of place I'd love to be with Sky, but she refuses to come.
I pull open my suitcase, burrowing through my clothes to the small bag at the bottom. The brown leather bag contains my shower gel, shampoo—scents to remind me of who I am so I don't have to use hotel soap and smell like half the other guests.
The small plastic container of pills sits alongside the shell Sky found on the beach the day the sea pulled her under. Popping the lid, I study the tiny white tablets and grit my teeth, annoyed medication is what I need to hold things together in public.
This is why this life has to end.
I need my space; a place to get myself sorted. Creativity won't happen when I'm being wheeled out like a puppet for stadiums, and a mind calmed by benzos isn't a creative mind: everything is dull. The fans aren't stupid, and I can only put on an act for so long.
One night here; one night Germany. Did Steve deliberately not tell me? He knows about the panic attacks and how I'm turning to medication to get through this bullshit. Pills I didn't need in Broadbeach, with Sky.
Sky, my beautiful, smart-mouthed girl who’s scared to give her whole self to me and for the same reason I can't be myself—this fucking suffocating life.
Is it wrong to hope Jem ends up in rehab and the tour is cancelled? He's my best mate. Or was. We’ve spent years fucking up our lives and each other’s, losing control and never realising until swallowed by the false world we created.
A knock on the door intensifies the panic and I take deep breaths, regaining control before I answer.
Liam. With Honey and a brown haired version of Honey—even their tight leopard print dresses match. Uh oh. I narrow my eyes at Liam and he pulls an apologetic face. Talk about pussy whipped...
"You ready, Dylan?" purrs Honey.
I turn and walk over to grab my leather jacket and Liam follows me in with his entourage.
"Who's this with Honey? Strawberry Jam?" I ask.
Liam snickers but Honey and friend appear genuinely confused.
"This is Tania, my friend. Liam said she could come along."
"Did you?" I ask an obviously coerced Liam.
"Kind of."
"Great, so groupies get personal invites now?"
Tania, who has gawked at me the whole time she's in the room, breaks her reverie. "I'm not a groupie. I just wanna go to the after party."
Should I be insulted or relieved? "So, you’re someone else's groupie?"
"She wants to meet some famous people," replies Honey, flashing her bright teeth at her friend. They both giggle like six-year-olds. "She wanted to attend with Jem, but you know, he's not great at the moment and I don't want her around him."
"She wants to tag along with us," explains Liam
"How about Bryn?" I shoot back. "Can't she ‘tag along’ with him?"
"He's currently sobering up Jem..."
I run my fingers through my hair. "Fantastic, just what I fucking need."
"If he can walk, we'll be fine. We're not playing tonight—just getting an award," replies Liam.
Why the fuck didn't I persuade Sky to come?
