I reply to Kai, “You never need to ‘call dibs’ with me. Just tell me you’re in hot pursuit and that’s that. But I think you’re gonna need to set your sights on someone else this time, brother. When I played ping pong with Georgina earlier to talk about my interview, I got the solid vibe she’s already with Reed. Or if not, she’s definitely at the top of his To Do List.”
“Reed?” Kai bellows, like that’s a preposterous notion. Like every woman at this party wouldn’t give her left tit to get with Reed. The guy with the big house, the fit body, the garage full of sports cars, and a bank account that puts every band member here to shame. But, whatever. My bandmates and I are drinking and having fun tonight, and roasting the bastard who takes way too big a cut of our royalties, thanks to the shitty contract we signed as puppies, before Eli started repping us, is one of our favorite drinking games.
Titus and Kai continue roasting Reed for a bit. And as they banter, I reach for my phone when it buzzes in my pocket. I wouldn’t normally check my phone at a party. But only my inner circle has this particular number, and almost all of them are here tonight.
When I check my screen, it’s a text from my cousin, Sasha, as suspected, regarding our grandma.
Sasha: Are you available to FaceTime, by any chance? Mimi had a nightmare you died in a plane crash. She wants to see your face.
Me: Can’t FT. I’m at a noisy party and kinda drunk. How about a quick video?
Sasha: Awesome.
I shoot a brief selfie video in which I smile, make silly faces, and blow kisses to my grandma amid the noisy throng around me. And after I press send, Sasha quickly replies in all caps.
Sasha: IS THAT ISABEL RANDOLPH BEHIND YOU?!?
I turn around, and, I’ll be damned, one of the most famous movie stars on the planet is standing directly behind me, chatting with a group of suits I don’t recognize.
Me: It is, indeed.
Sasha: HOLY SHIT. Do you know her?
Me: Nope.
Sasha: Go meet her and send me a photo for my birffday! Pleeeeease!
Me: Your birthday isn’t for two months. But more importantly, doing that for you would require me to speak to a new person, which, as you know, I try to avoid at all costs.
Sasha: Why do you go to so many parties, if you hate talking to new people so much?
Me: Because I like talking to MY people while surrounded by new people I can gawk at but NOT talk to. Especially tonight, when we’re celebrating KC’s bday.
Sasha: Aw, wish KC happy birthday for me! Have you performed a birthday dare for him yet?
Me: Not yet. He’s still deciding what brand of humiliation to inflict upon me.
Sasha: LOL. Don’t do anything dangerous.
Me: It’s always all in good fun. Give Mimi a hug for me.
Sasha: Already did. She loves the video. Says she loves you and stay safe.
Me: Love her, too, and you. Tell her I’m fine and mostly traveling by bus on the next leg of the tour.
Sasha: Will do. Goodnight. Have a blast.
My cousin is being sincere when she tells me to have fun. But I can’t help feeling guilty she’s there on a Saturday night, hanging out with our grandma and one of the nighttime caregivers I’ve bankrolled, while I’m at a star-studded party in LA. Not to mention that Sasha works hard at a real job in Chicago—she’s a massage therapist—while I traipse around the world and swoop into town for occasional visits, whenever convenient, like I’m Weekend Daddy after a divorce.
Sasha always says she wouldn’t have it any other way. She’s ten years my senior and always says she’s gotten her partying out of her system. Plus, she always reminds me, she’s a homebody by nature, anyway. “I’m happiest when I’m hanging out with Mimi, reading or knitting,” she always says. “I like sitting still and watching TV.” And so, I bought my beloved homebody her own home last year, where she now takes care of our beloved grandma, along with the caregivers, and mostly believe my cousin when she says she’s truly not the least bit angry with me for continuing to play rockstar.
I send a quick goodnight text to my cousin, stuff my phone into my pocket, and tune back into my bandmates’ conversation, just in time to hear Titus saying, “I think it’s bullshit. I mean, yes, if you’d already gotten to know the reporter, and had done more than spot her across a crowded room, then, okay, calling dibs on her makes sense. But I certainly wouldn’t back off a woman, simply because you spotted her. And I sure as hell wouldn’t back off just because Reed might be interested. Would he extend the same courtesy to any of us? Fuck no!”
“Reed’s more than ‘possibly’ interested,” I interject. “During my ping pong game with Georgina, I noticed Reed spying on her the whole time from behind a bush.”
Everyone laughs at the imagery, except for Titus, who’s shaking his head.
“No way,” Titus says. “Reed must have been standing near a bush, looking at his phone or talking to someone you couldn’t see. I love roasting The Prick as much as anyone, but there’s no way Reed Rivers would hide behind a bush, at his own party, while surrounded by some of the world’s hottest women, in order to keep tabs on a summer intern at Rock ‘n’ Roll.”
My eyebrows shoot
