I collapse into bed, too drunk and disappointed in myself to even shower. Hoping that I’ll feel less disgusted with myself in the morning.
But no. That is not to be. If anything I feel more disgusted with myself when I’m once again awakened by Viola knocking on the door and then letting herself in.
At least this time I have clothes on. The same clothes from last night, but still …
Yesterday I hadn’t minded her seeing me buck naked. Let her get an eyeful of what she’s missing out on by shoving me away like I’m diseased that first night.
But now? I’ve done enough. Tortured her enough. I need to stop.
Last night was a step too far.
And why am I being a dick to her anyway? Because she’s not Blaire?
It’s not her fault Blaire abandoned us. She doesn’t deserve to be treated like shit because I’m too wrapped up in myself and my own bullshit to pay attention to what’s going on around me. I didn’t pay attention to her video interview. I didn’t recognize her when she introduced herself. I made assumptions about her before she even opened her mouth. I’m the dick. Who can blame her for being cold and impassive with me?
“Marcus wants to see you,” she announces without preamble when she sees me sitting up in bed and blinking at her. She’s dressed in her usual uniform of leggings and a T-shirt, only she looks more rumpled than usual today. More … drained. Her hair’s in a messy bun like it was last night—this morning?—when she came to pick me up from the club. Normally it’s pulled back in a sleek ponytail or framing her face in a glossy curtain.
I open my mouth to ask if she’s okay, but she’s clearly not. She looks like she needs to go back to bed and sleep for a week. And I dragged her out of bed for no damn reason. I really am an asshole.
“I’m sorry,” I say instead.
Her only response is to raise her eyebrows. “For?”
“Last night.”
She hums in response. That fucking hum that doesn’t tell me a damn thing. I apologize and this is what I get? “Thanks. As I said, Marcus wants to see you. He’s in his suite.” She looks me up and down. “Since you’re dressed, I’m assuming you can find your own way there.”
“Yeah. Of course.” My answer comes out more disgruntled than I want it to, not when I’m trying to apologize to her, but before I can correct it, she gives me a perfunctory nod and leaves.
Dragging my hand down my face, I heave out a sigh, then stumble down the hall to Marcus’s room barefoot.
Marcus answers, his face grim. He gestures me in with his head, crossing to a table covered in newsprint.
I bite back a groan when I see it. Tabloids. Multiple. And a few printouts from digital gossip sites. All with headlines and pictures of my sex party last night.
That’s what they’re calling it.
A sex party.
“I thought we’d reached an understanding,” Marcus says at last, his voice low and even.
I shrug, irritation simmering inside me and coalescing into anger. First the realization that I’m a dick. I came to that conclusion on my own, so I can handle that. But to have my apology dismissed and then my bandmate summon me to his room for … what? Another sermon about appropriate behavior? I got enough of those growing up as a preacher’s kid. I left all that behind me. I don’t need it from Marcus.
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say for yourself?”
Raising my eyes to his, I fix him with a cold glare. “Last I checked, you’re not my dad, Marcus. I don’t need your permission to blow off some steam.”
“Fine. No. You don’t. But I thought you had at least enough self-respect to quit dragging your name through the mud. Or enough respect for the rest of us not to drag Cataclysm’s name through the mud.” He picks up one of the tabloids, shaking it at me. “At the very least, you need to do a better job vetting who you let in. Take security with you and have them collect everyone’s cell phones so we quit getting pictures of you getting your cock sucked plastered all over the internet and supermarket tabloids.”
I suck in my breath at the self-respect bit. It’s a dumb trigger word. I know it. But there it is. That’s what my dad used to always say when he’d berate my brother and me for acting like kids at church. That we needed to have more self-respect. And his chosen way to teach it to us was with a belt.
“Guess not,” I say through clenched teeth, shutting down just like I always did. There was no winning an argument with my dad. There’s no winning one with Marcus, either. Not when he’s like this. It’s useless to even try.
He gives me a long look, like he doesn’t quite buy my capitulation.
“Next time I’ll have security hold everyone’s cell phone hostage, alright?”
Marcus gives a tight nod. “Normal call time. Nothing else is on the schedule today. But tomorrow we have a radio show. We have to leave at four forty-five in the morning. Keep that in mind when you’re making plans tonight.”
My eyes bug out. “All of us?”
Face hard, Marcus shakes his head. “No. Just you and me. Be ready. Go take a nap, finish sleeping off your hangover. And don’t forget to shower before the show. You look like shit.”
I turn to leave, thoroughly dismissed, jaw clenching, gut churning. When my hand is on the doorknob, Marcus calls after me. “Oh and Mason?” I glance back over my shoulder. “Don’t make Viola come pick you up at three in the morning when she has to be up at four, too. She’s still adjusting to life on tour. Cut her some slack.”
For
