Page 43 of Patchwork
“There was more,” I grunt. “He said something about not even knowing my real name and implied that I only want him around for sex.” My chest tightens as everything starts to come together. “I can see where he got that impression. I just… I was trying to protect myself. What kind of narcissistic moron would think a fucking rockstar could fall in love with him and want to give up his glamorous life to move to Bumfuck, Nowhere?”
Milo leans forward with his chin in his hand. “Dad, don’t take this the wrong way, but you really are a fucking idiot right now. Onyx is already in love with you.”
My heart rate spikes, and I shake my head, Milo nods rapidly in response. After a second, I still and swallow hard.
“Did I fuck this up? He’s supposed to be back in a few days. Should I just wait and tell him that I’m an insecure jackass and beg him to stay?”
“That’ll probably work.” He picks at the waffle that’s already on a plate. “It’s not what I would do. Then again, I’m impulsive, sooooo…” He shrugs.
“What would you do?”
A slow smile spreads across Milo’s face, and I already know I’m going to do whatever he suggests.
Chapter 20
1.5 YEARS AGO
ONYX
There’saplucky,disjointedtune in my ears and every time unfamiliar, sweaty skin brushes against mine, my brain rings with a metallic squeal that sounds like a finger dragging too hard on a guitar string. I wince away from another “accidental” touch. I’m met with a glassy eyed look and a sloppy, off-kilter smile that I’m sure is meant to be flirtatious.
“You’re likethemost amazing guitar player alive,” he slurs, stumbling closer to me, his eyes bloodshot and his breath reeking of whatever Gray is passing around in shot glasses to all the groupies crowded inside the tour bus.
“Thanks,” I mutter, forcing a polite smile. I want to tell him that objectively I’mat mostprobably the tenth best guitarist alive, but I don’t think he’s actually interested in the cold hard facts. Besides, I doubt he gives a single shit about my skills, he’s just trying to stroke my ego, kiss my ass, and pepper me with just enough compliments that I’ll unzip my pants and tell him to blow me so he’ll have a good story to tell his friends tomorrow.
I recoil at the thought. It’s not like I’m a prude. I’ve had plenty of sex with plenty of random people. It just started feeling so fucking gross once I became famous. It took all the sport out of it or something. It’s one thing flirting and picking up a stranger at a bar, but people who claim to worship you, even though they don’t know the first thing about you, just feels… hollow.
Someone refills his shot glass, and he throws it back without hesitation. While he’s swaying on his feet, I take my chance and slip away, elbowing through the bodies to get to the door that leads to the single bedroom at the back of the bus.
“Hey, you want some compa—” I close the door before whoever is asking can even finish their question and turn the lock to make sure I remain alone in here.
We have a rotation, and I’m pretty sure it’s Jett’s night to get the bed, but too bad. He can bitch at me about it tomorrow. I sigh and flop down on the uncomfortably stiff mattress. The party rages louder outside the door, and people occasionally bump into it and rattle it. The smell of weed and sweat and booze can’t be stopped by the plastic barrier, and neither can the sound of laughter and moans.
I’m a rockstar, isn’t this supposed to be my dream? A drunken orgy on the tour bus is basically rockstar 101. It’s not me though. None of this feels like me. How could I have wanted this life so badly and end up hating everything about it? I stupidly thought it would be more about the music. But I don’t even get to play my own songs. I feel like a robot on stage more nights than not, mindlessly strumming the music someone else wrote for me and told me to memorize.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and pull up my text thread with Hero. We were chatting back and forth about his cat last week, and I’ve been wanting to text him every day since. Except all I really have to say is a lot of whining about my stupid, perfectlife. Who the hell wants to listen to a rockstar cry about how hard it is to be on tour and how misunderstood he is as an artist? Fucking yawn. I flick my lip ring with my tongue and stare at the screen before typing out a message.
ONYX: You up?
It gets marked as ‘read’ immediately, and my heart jumps as I watch the text bubble bounce with dots to let me know he’s typing back. I roll onto my stomach, propping my chin on the pillow and grinning at the screen as I wait for his reply.
HERO: Why, are you in town??
ONYX: I wish.
HERO: Oh, well in that case, no I’m not up.
I muffle my laughter into the pillow, tuning out all the noise going on outside of this claustrophobic little bedroom.
ONYX: You must be sleep texting then. What are you dreaming about?
A response bubble pops up again, then disappears, then reappears. After more than a minute, a three word answer comes through.
HERO: Motorcycles and tattoos.
I wonder what he was typing and erasing before that.
ONYX: Haha, not a bad dream to have.
