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Any night we perform that doesn't end with one of us sporting a torn t-shirt or missing one or two chunks of hair, it's a success in my book.
The bodyguards handled the crowd really well, and there was no need to use force at all, which is great.
And there were only three lunatic chicks that managed to jump up on the stage and rip their shirts off. I count that as progress.
Still, I’m under such a black cloud right now I can’t even put it into words without turning it into a cussing fest.
It’s not because of anything to do with our on-stage performance. I’m always critical of our play, but I think we did okay.
It wasn’t our best, sure, but considering how long we’ve been on the road and how fucking distracted I was by random thoughts of Little Beauty all through the act, I can say with confidence that we didn’t suck.
Fans seemed to love the concert. They screamed and cheered at every special effect, song, and improvisation we did. They went totally nuts when we did a mash-up type of number using some lyrics from Nickelback's songs over a cool medley of multiple riffs by Queen as a surprise. By the time we left the stage, we could barely stand up, but the fans were making noise to get an encore of the encore, which was pretty cool.
So, it was nothing at the concert per se that threw me off and ruined the fun for me.
It was the damn afterparty that did me in.
I wouldn’t be able to tell how many times I was offered drugs, booze, or sex if I tried.
And maybe it's better if I don't. The amount would be staggering, and it would undoubtedly put me in an even darker mood.
I know it’s the same for the guys, and this is why they are focusing so hard on scoring our performance and watching the replay of the entire concert right now. It helps keep them tethered to what’s important and forget about the rest.
But I can see how tense Rick is even when he laughs and jokes around. Last night couldn’t have been easy on him and his hard-won control.
It was as if all the people our dumbass, former PR team invited at that shindig were either brainless bimbos out to have some very publicly executed fun or pushers carrying anything under the sun and offering samples of it to us like it was nothing more than fucking candy.
And if it wasn’t one of them approaching us with their fuckery, then it was critics that hated our music and wanted to diss it to our faces while they sipped Champagne. And then, of course, the necessary members of the Press were present to make sure whatever mayhem they hoped to see happening ended up on camera and on the cover of every pointless tabloid on the planet.
It was a travesty and a total mindfuck to boot.
To the whole bunch of them, it’s like these types of ridiculous stunts are what PR is meant to be.
We are never selling enough tickets. Or getting enough offers from big brands wanting to sponsor our tours. Or maybe it’s the millions upon millions of digital downloads over at iTunes that aren’t quite where they want them to be yet. Or it’s that we aren’t seeing enough Spotify playing-time as it is. Or that we could be totalizing a few more millions of visualizations on YouTube, on TikTok, and on whatever the fuck else platform is out there.
It doesn’t matter how much money we make or how big their cut is. They always push for more, and they don’t care about the rest when the rest is all we care about.
I should feel better we got rid of the entire team then, but I don’t. I know it’s going to be a pain finding new people, especially if we’re in the market for people with actual souls attached to them. Those are a rarity in showbiz.
Saying I’m feeling disgusted would be a euphemism.
My mind goes back to Mia then, and I immediately start to feel a little better.
It’s like the mere thought of her can make everything else that’s gone to shit in my life disappear between one breath and the next.
It doesn’t make sense.
I’ve met this girl a grand total of twice for a matter of minutes, and somehow I managed to fuck things up with her each time. But I can’t deny this is what I feel. I am totally smitten.
She’s like the best hit of endorphin to my system. I just want to see her again, be near her. I want to get lost in those warm eyes of hers. I want to learn how to talk to her so she can tell me everything there is to know about her. I want to stroke her plentiful curves all day long with my hands.
I feel my cock respond to my thoughts, pitching painfully in my jeans, and I grumble under my breath, shifting around to adjust myself.
“What just happened in there, man?”Rick asks, pointing at my head, his brown eyes studying me, the piercing threaded through his left eyebrow jumping up.
“Nothing,” I bark out, my arms crossed over my chest as I slide lower on the sofa and pretend to focus on the humongous flat screen again.
Rick looks at Sly, and they both shake their heads, chuckling.
