writing and touring.
Jonas and Quinn had both agreed to slow it down after this next album…the album I was holding up because my lame-ass brain couldn’t write anything decent, which only fed into excuse number three billion and two to reach for a bottle: I’d never written a song sober, and quite frankly, I wasn’t sure I could.
Add that to my inability to sleep and I was two for two.
“I’m going to take a shower. How long are you guys planning to supervise me?” I questioned.
“We’re not supervising you.” Quinn folded her arms across her chest. “And we’ll be here as long as you want us to be.”
Hell. No.
“Great, so you guys have flights scheduled for tonight?” I lifted my eyebrows and picked up my bag.
They all averted my gaze.
I sighed hard. “Guys. Go home to your families.”
“We will,” Jonas assured me. “Once we know you’re okay. Now go take your shower. We’ll order up dinner. What are you in the mood for? Thai? Burgers?”
News flash! I’m never going to be okay.
“You guys pick, and don’t get comfortable. You’re leaving tonight.” I left them discussing food and headed up the stairs to the second floor of my apartment, pausing at the picture framed in the hallway.
We were young then—eighteen and nineteen—with our arms around one another, smiling for the camera after our first show at the bar. Eight years later, Jonas was still the broody poet, Quinn, the blonde with the sharp tongue and the golden sticks, and me? I was just as fucked up as I was back then. Maybe even more so.
Funny thing about money? It only amplified who you were on the inside—it didn’t fix you. It patched the cracks on the surface but generally greased the mechanics underneath so you destroyed yourself faster. I was past the point of fixing anyway. I’d only gone to rehab to keep from dragging the band down with me.
I walked into my bedroom and froze. There was a very round, very nice ass peeking out from under my bed. It wasn’t the first time a fan had found her way into my bedroom, but it was the first time it had happened since moving into this building three years ago.
“Son of a bitch, how big is this thing?” she swore, rocking her ass back and forth, obviously trying to tug something free. “Bigger. Is. Not. Always. Better!”
Well, that was definitely a first.
“I’d have to disagree with you on that.” I dropped my bag and slid my phone out of my back pocket to call security. Usually, I’d be down for a little anonymous hookup, but my rehab therapist had lectured me against using sex to fill the alcohol void, so Little Miss Nice Ass had to go.
“Oh!” There was a distinct thud followed by a muted swear as the woman wiggled her way out from under my bed. She was a tiny thing and had some killer legs under that black skirt. A cloud of long, auburn hair appeared as she shuffled back on her knees, dragging a laughably giant bottle with her.
Then I was the one cursing as she scrambled to her feet.
Giant green eyes and plump lips appeared behind that curtain of hair as she tucked it behind her ears. “Hi.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I bellowed at Ben’s gorgeous, pain in the very nice ass assistant. Over the last few years, I’d had more than my fair share of fantasies involving my bed and that little redhead, but she’d always been in it…not under it.
Sin number four: I always wanted what I couldn’t have, and Shannon was definitely on the “couldn’t have” list, for more reasons than I could count.
“What? I got it all out before you got back! Well, all but this one.” She fisted her hands on deliciously curved hips. “Every bottle. Every can. How was I supposed to know you had the world’s largest vat of champagne under your bed? What were you going to do with that thing?” She motioned toward the novelty bottle that stood nearly as tall as she was.
“Drink it with a really big straw. Now what the hell are you doing in my bedroom, Shannon?” But wasn’t it obvious? I groaned at the realization. “You’re the one Ben sent to handle everything.”
“Welcome home.” She sang the sarcastic little tune. “It’s nice to see you too.”
“Everything okay in here?” a linebacker asked from the doorway. How many people were in my fucking house? “Mr. Winters,” he addressed me with a