Page 6 of Paparazzi

“Home. I don’t feel like spending the evening looking at you sticking your hands in places I don’t want to see.”

“What about her?” He nods toward the pouting brunette.

“She’s waiting for Damian, but I’m sure you’ll be able to make her forget about him.” I roll my eyes when a sly smile crosses his face.

“Come here, darling. There’s enough for both of you.” He pulls her in and, without wasting time, sticks his tongue in her mouth while her friend dives into his neck.

There’s one thing we’re all sure of: sooner or later, Michael’s dick will fall off if he keeps using it with every woman he lays eyes on. I leave the club without feeling too guilty. Iris’s cascade of red hair and smart mouth has filled my thoughts since I laid eyes on her.

*

I sip my hot coffee while watching the city wake up beyond the window of my apartment. From the sixty-second floor, it looks so peaceful it’s hard to believe there are people down there who have been working for hours, who may not have gone to sleep yet, who keep the “city that never sleeps” alive. There’s always something open, something to do even at night, someone getting up when others go to sleep.

I didn’t sleep last night either, but not because of the club or the wild night I actually didn’t have. Nor is it the pain in my tailbone, where a purple bruise is spreading. No, I think what kept me awake is the fact that I can’t get my mind off a pair of sweet green eyes and a mass of red hair I’d like to stick my hands into. Never in my life have I spent a sleepless night over a woman, especially one who’s not even slipped into my bed.

I hope the coffee will wake me up soon, or they’ll have to punch me in the face to keep me awake in the studio today. Luckily, all I have to do is hang out with Damian while he finishes the vocals on a couple of songs. I go with him because I get bored staying at home. After the tour and recording the album, the drop in adrenaline leaves me bored and restless. I should find myself a hobby, but I never even had one as a kid. I ended up in prison too young to find out what I really liked. My adolescence was not like most kids’ and, despite coming out of it okay, I missed out on some things, like discovering what I like besides music.

The only passion I still have from childhood is decorating cookies, like I did with my mother when I was a kid. I get my artistic side from her, although I never told anyone—we still make fun of Michael for his passion for carving wood. I don’t want them to start with me too. This, however, is something I’m protective of and continue to carry on because it reminds me of my mother’s generosity. When I was a kid, we churned out huge batches of cookies during the holidays to give to those who couldn’t afford them. A tradition I continue, in the tranquility of my apartment, because the donations are still undoubtedly needed, but mostly for the gesture of giving to someone who does not expect it and cannot afford it. It puts a smile on the face of those who have nothing, and that makes me happy.

I finish my coffee and place the cup in the dishwasher of the ultramodern kitchen in my apartment. Everything in this place is brand new, high-tech, and a little sterile, to be honest, but I didn’t choose it. I bought this place sight unseen, and I didn’t have time to try to furnish it properly. Despite the fact that I’m always complaining about making this apartment a little more personal, when I sit down and think about it, I don’t have the energy to do it. Instead, I do everythingbutremodel.

The hot shower calms my nerves and relieves the tension headache hammering my head since last night. When I get dressed, bending down to put on my jeans, my back pain stops me in my tracks.

“This is a joke, right?” I whisper in a low voice, clenching my teeth and giggling like an idiot. I need to lean on my dresser just to slip on these damn pants. Walking around Manhattan in my underwear, as much as people are used to anything, including giving money to the half-naked cowboy in Times Square, is still not socially acceptable. I grit my teeth and take a deep breath. I’m a man, not a kid. Something like this can’t stop me. Or at least that’s what I keep repeating to myself to feel less like a decrepit wreck at twenty-six.

I call Max, our driver, to take me to the studio, and when I get in the car, I notice he is a little perplexed at of my inability to move. “I know, I can’t sit down. I swear if it doesn’t go away by tomorrow, I’ll go to the doctor,” I say when he notices that I’m all tilted in the seat to avoid putting weight on my tailbone.

Max looks at me for a few seconds before entering Manhattan traffic with his usual angelic calm. “My wife, when she gave birth, had hemorrhoids. If you want, I can lend you the donut pillow she sat on to relieve the pain,” he suggests out of the blue after a few minutes.

I look at him through the rearview mirror to see if he’s kidding, but his face is pretty damn serious. “Please don’t say the word hemorrhoids in my presence again. It hurts to hear you say it. And also, do I look like a woman who just gave birth?”

Max has been accompanying us everywhere like a shadow for years now; he’s become part of the family, but that doesn’t mean I want to talk to him about this.

“Can you sit your ass down or not? It seems to me you can’t, so maybe you shouldn’t be so picky about that pillow. Can you imagine the press photos of you walking with your legs all spread out or sitting all crooked?” he teases good-naturedly, as he usually does.

“Okay, all right, bring me the damn thing but don’t tell the others or they’ll drive me nuts with their jokes,” I mutter.

Max chuckles but says nothing. He’s a good guy, and I know that not a single word will come out of his lips about this conversation. He’s seen so many stupid things driving for us that he would have every right to judge, but he never has. Not only because he’s professional, but because in the end, he loves us as much as we love him, and he protects us like family.

“Do you think you can get out of the car, or do I have to help you?” he asks earnestly as he parks in the basement of the recording studio.

“No, I’m going to get out of here alone...or I hope so, anyway.”

The walk through the hallways to the recording room goes quickly, despite my pain. When I arrive, I am surprised to find the sound technician and Lilly sitting in a corner writing on her laptop.

“Good morning!” She looks up from the keyboard and smiles at me as soon as she sees me coming in.

“Good morning. Did Damian drag you out of bed this morning too?” I look for a fairly comfortable chair to sit on without attracting attention; my friends are oblivious to my encounter yesterday because my back didn’t hurt so bad when I went back to their apartment. They were so busy kissing they didn’t even notice my presence. After a quick dinner, it’s normal for me to run to Michael’s. This is one of the problems you have when your best friend is in the “honeymoon” phase.

“I had nothing to do this morning, so I thought I’d come here and do some work for the band. There are thousands of fan emails.” Her eyes widen in disbelief.

Lilly insists on wanting to reply to the messages herself because she wants to be more in touch with fans, but she will soon realize that they’re becoming so famous they’re going to need press offices and assistants.

“How’s the album going?” I ask.

“We’re almost finished. I’m meeting with the others this afternoon to decide whether or not to include a couple of songs we’re not sure about.”

“If you need another opinion, you can always count on us,” I offer sincerely.

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