Page 70 of Not Another Rockstar
Axel cursed when he saw Cillian’s door wide open. Two people were in Cill’s bed.
“Get out!” Axel barked, and the couple startled.
He flicked on the lights and watched them scurry for their clothes before hurrying out. Luckily, Axel had Cillian’s journalin the basement. If someone had got their hands on his personal thoughts, he didn’t even want to think what they would do.
Axel locked the door behind him and reminded himself to yell at Nick tomorrow when he was hungover. Taking a deep breath, he walked down the hall to see how Phoebe was coping.
He found Nick with his head in the toilet while Phoebe sat on the bathtub rubbing his back.
“How’s he doing?” Axel asked.
“I can tick seeing my brother’s stomach lining off my bucket list,” Phoebe said grimly.
“I’m sorry, guys. The house just got so damn quiet.” Nick’s words were muffled by the fact he was resting his face on the toilet seat. Axel tried not to enjoy his misery.
Phoebe glared at Axel, pleading with him to sympathise. He clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to yell or laugh. Given that he had been glued to Phoebe and that August wasn’t the most comforting person to lean on, leaving him might not have been the best move.
“It doesn’t matter now. Let’s get you to bed,” Axel said, helping Nick up.
His friend groaned as he helped him to bed. Phoebe removed his shoes and covered him with a blanket. They left a bin by his head— not that it mattered, since they would have to get the carpets cleaned anyway. They closed the door quietly so Nick wouldn’t wake up.
Axel lingered in the hallway. He knew he should go downstairs and clean up a little; his suppressed anger would make sleeping impossible.
“Nick passed out, and August is distracted. You could stay with me for a little while,” Phoebe hinted, backing up towards her own room.
Who am I to deny such an irresistible request?
“I should go downstairs,” Axel said, but didn’t move.
“You should.” She closed the gap between them.
“I need to clean up, and make sure no one left anything burning.” He didn’t know if he was trying to convince himself or her.
“Sounds reasonable,” she replied, running her hands down his chest.
“Fuck it.” Axel took her face in his hands and kicked her door closed behind them. She squealed, and he gripped her thighs, wrapping them around his waist.
She startled, clinging to him. “Someone could hear.”
“Like you said, Nick’s out cold and August is busy with his own guests,” he said, trailing kisses along her neck. He pressed her up against the door, only to feel something slick on the door.
“What is that?” she asked, pulling at her T-shirt as it clung to her back. He eased her down and saw his hands were covered in a red, sticky substance.
“Son of a bitch,” Axel snapped, and pulled her behind him. He flicked on the lights, revealing what was dripping down the door.
“‘Leave, bitch.’” The words escaped Phoebe’s lips flatly, as though she were reading an item from a grocery list. “Hardly original.”
“Is it blood?” he asked, daring to say it aloud.
“No.” She observed the words closely. “Paint, I can smell it. Spray paint. It must be Sheen.”
“We’ve got cameras, we can see who came in here,” Axel said, ready to catch this prick.
“There was probably a hundred people coming and going, and my door wasn’t locked.”
Axel wondered how she could be so calm, if it was just the shock or, worse, she was getting used to the hateful comments.
“Oh crap! It’s all on my clothes. This is one of my favourite T-shirts,” she muttered, pulling at her top to see the spray paint splotches.
