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Chemical
Cooper
Whoever has put the jackhammer to my skull can kindly fuck all the way off. Or maybe not so kindly. My head is killing me, and I swear the sun is playing tricks with physics to purposely shine in my eyes through the minuscule gap between the curtains.
Jesus.
I met up with a few of the other members of Murderous Crows, Logan, our bassist, Skyler, our drummer and Logan’s fiancée, and Remy, our rhythm guitarist, last night for some drinks and to see some of our friends in other bands play. It turned into a night of bar hopping down Sunset, and somehow, I made it home safe, sound, and in bed. By the level of pain coursing through my head, I had a great time. I swear, once Remy starts with the shots, it’s game over for everyone.
Carefully lifting my head to avoid the sun, I glance down and see I’m on top of the sheets, still dressed, and my shoes are on. I guess I should be lucky I’m not in some random chick’s bed. Sad to say, that’s happened a few too many times lately. It’s hard to tell right now, but I hope the worst I did last night was drink too much. I’ll need to get a recap from Remy.
“Rise and shine, Dickhead.”
Speak of the devil, and he doth appear.
“Fuck off, Remy,” I groan, sitting up gingerly. The world tilts slightly, and a wave of nausea rolls through me. I grip the edge of the mattress to hold on for dear life and somehow keep it together.
“Mac wants you to call her as soon as you wake up.” He’s leaning in the doorway to my room in the house we’re still sharing, and he doesn’t look hungover at all. Asshole.
A message like this from Mac can’t be good. She is great. A fantastic manager. But she’s good at it because she’s all business all the time, which is really fucking annoying right now. I’m not in any mood or condition to be yelled at like a child, as I’m pretty sure she’s about to, because I have a feeling she wants to “talk” about whatever I did last night.
While sure, ninety percent of what’s on the internet isn’t true, there is that pesky ten percent that is. I need to know what that ten percent of last night is.
“How bad is it?” I ask, squinting at him while scratching at the stubble on my jaw. I’m trying to wrack my brain to remember what I did last night that might warrant a reaction this morning. Sometimes, if I’ve done something wild or off the wall, it can take a few days to show up in the press. But now, we are getting more popular. Shit is much closer to the proverbial fan it’s about to spin into.
Remy scoffs at me. “Dude, are you for real?”
That gets my attention. I look straight at him. The scowl on his face tells me he is not happy. Fuck. “What do you mean? For real about what?” A knot that’s been forming in my stomach tightens.
“See for yourself. Pull up the Blindsided website. That’ll give you an idea of what Mackenzie wants to talk to you about.” He looks disgusted.
I don’t get it. He was with me last night.
“Weren’t you there? You were the one buying shots. Why do I need to look at a damn website? Just tell me what happened.” I raise my voice, and it’s a terrible idea. It echoes in the blood rushing through my skull, banging on the walls as it goes. I need to take something for this headache.
“You disappeared around midnight, man. We were going from the Whisky to the Rainbow, and you took off with some chicks to fuck knows where, then stumbled in around five.”
I glance at the clock. It’s almost one o’clock in the afternoon. Shit.
Grabbing my phone, I ignore the missed calls and texts and navigate to the Blindsided website. All the while, I’m holding my breath because fuck if I even remember what I did with those chicks last night. This is not how I want to find out either.
Not only do I see what everyone is upset about, it’s the top fucking story.
DAVIES HAS AN APPETITE FOR DESTRUCTION
‘It seems being home sweet home hasn’t curbed the disturbing behavior of Murderous Crows guitarist Cooper Davies. Reports from late last night have him being forcefully removed from the Viper Room by the club’s bouncers, who had enough of his antics. Photos and video taken by eagle-eyed patrons show Davies heckling the band on stage and drunkenly hitting on just about everyone in the club, then attempting to get into an altercation with a bartender who cut him off. Apparently, the incident in Amsterdam not long ago wasn’t the peak of his troubles, as this behavior clearly shows someone who is solidly unhinged. Recent continued reports from the band’s former merchandise assistant, Nyx, paint a rather bleak picture of the guitarist and his history of drug and alcohol abuse. According to her, he was a regular customer.
Is this simply a toxic trait or something more? Should fans worry about this reckless behavior? Is he heading down the same path as their late drummer, Andy Young, who died so tragically due to substance abuse? We can only hope this isn’t a red flag of more to come. Requests for comment from the guitarist and Blackmore Records have gone unanswered as of publication.’
“Yeah…you’re not going to want to look out the window either,” Remy says, a bit sheepishly but mostly annoyed.
I’m still studying the pictures that have been posted. It’s me in the photos, but I don’t remember any of the stuff I’m doing in them. Hell, I don’t remember any of it.
“Did you hear me?” he repeats, louder this time.
“What? Yeah. I heard you.” Then it hits me what he said. “Why don’t I want to look out the window?” I think I might be sick after all. I can feel myself turning green.
“Paparazzi.”
