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For a man who’s stood on stage in sold out arenas, singing the poetry that bares his soul to hundreds of thousands of fans... I’m being a fucking pussy right now.
All I need to do is charm my way into the building, find the parking garage, and break into Lorenzo’s car. Simple shit. It’s delivery day, and the last thing the Copelands need is another month of dear old dad acting like a paranoid tweaker because he’s sitting on a mountain of party drugs.
So... I’m going to steal the drugs before they ever make it to their destination.
Or that’s the plan.
I don’t know enough about dealers to know where they keep such a large supply. But I’m betting that black duffle bag is in this fucking building somewhere.
Otherwise, Ms. Rawlings is going to have hella fun getting me out of a breaking and entering charge.
Fuck it.
I’m going in.
I don’t bother moving my car from the entrance. I just toss the security guard a hundred-dollar bill and keep walking like I can’t hear him shouting at my back.
Being a rockstar has taught me there is a fine line between confidence and arrogance.
I’m going for the latter today.
I rake my left hand through my hair as I smirk at the receptionist. She blushes as she straightens her slouchy posture. Her pupils swallow her blue irises, and I turn up the charm to seal the deal as quickly as I can.
“Can—can I help you?” she stutters, shocked that The Quin Copeland is standing in front of her.
I don’t love the attention, though when it gets me what I want, it’s difficult to complain.
“I’m sure you can,” I say smoothly, scratching at my chest to bring her gaze to the colorful tattoos climbing from beneath my V-neck. “I’m looking for a friend. Actually, I’m trying to surprise him while I’m in town. But he isn’t answering his phone, so I’m hoping you’ll be my savior and put me on the elevator.”
“We’re not supposed to,” she whispers, grimacing as she glances around. “But I can make an exception, just this once, as long as you’re going straight to… What did you say his name was?”
I didn’t.
One of the few perks of being famous is that she’s too starstruck to recall if I ever mentioned it.
“He’s on the second floor.” I look around and lean closer to her, propping my elbows on the desk. “I’d rather not give his name. You can guess, but I’ll never tell my secret. We don’t want everyone to know we’re friends. He doesn’t need to get caught up in the paparazzi and all that. It took me forever to get rid of them to make it here.”
“I understand. There are only four apartments on the second floor. I’m sure I already know who you’re talking about.” She passes me a hotel-type key card, rambling on. “This is a maintenance card. It won’t get you into his apartment, but it will open the elevator, up to floor three. The top two floors are by invite only, even for maintenance and housekeeping.”
“Thanks, beautiful,” I purr, leaving her with a swoon-worthy wink.
I sort of feel like a dick for using her and potentially getting her fired... But then I remember why I’m here.
Drugs.
Ecstasy isn’t my go-to. Probably because of my dad’s penchant for rolling during his house parties for the last twenty-five years... But mostly because I think downers suck the life from me, leaving me with no will or motivation, drooling in the corner of some hotel room in a city I’ve never been to.
I prefer coke.
The uppers keep me going during the long nights on stage or recording. They give me just the right amount of get-up-and-go to get shit done and feel creative while I’m doing it.
Ezra sticks to his joints… But after smoking pot for so long, I find it boring.
I glide into the elevator like I have every right to do so, like I live here, paying a small fortune for a tenth of the square footage my house has. But instead of going to the second floor, I hit the button with the P on it.
I keep my chin tucked, playing on my phone to have a reason to look down without being suspicious. And everything is going according to my impulsive plan until the elevator stops.
As the doors slide open and I step out, a muscular Spanish man steps into the elevator, his phone between his ear and shoulder as he pats his pockets.
