Page 2 of Resurrection
Too late. I’m tugged into photos with one of the lead voice actresses on theshow. "Always so shy, Tyler!" She giggles, snapping a selfie right there on the red carpet to the delight of all the reporters.
I manage a smile, quick and crooked. More celebs drift by in a sea of bling and Botox. It’s a game we all know, and I play along, nodding and handshaking, but my eyes keep scanning the crowd, looking for something or maybe someone that'll never be here.
The past always clings, even when you think you’ve shed it.
On the way into the venue, a girl with a press badge and too much enthusiasm thrusts a mic in my face. "Tyler! We’re all dying to know—is there a special someone?"
I wink, fast on my feet. "Only one," I say. "But she has six strings." The press girl pouts as I slip away.
Inside, the sea of people move about, laughing and drinking. In the center of it, there’s a goddess of a model, her smile wide enough to eclipse the sun.
"Tyler," she says, wrapping herself around my arm like a diamond-studded snake. "You’re making all the other boys look bad." She sounds like champagne fizz.
I let out a lazy laugh. "You overestimate my talents, Celina."
The ladies, they all love the laid-back rockstar vibe. And I’ve been hiding underneath this look for so long, I sometimes feel like I don’t know who I really am anymore. Maybe I became that other fictional persona, that other version of myself, while wearing the paint mask on stage.
Someone hands me a drink. I take it, my fingers wrapping around the ice-cold glass. I’m bored, I realize. I head outside to the back terrace, where the noise of the party is minimal, and call Cruz. Last time we spoke—it was months ago—we agreed to meet up. But the call goes straight to voicemail.
Seconds later, a text lights up my screen.
Hey, man, can't talk today. Me and Mrs. Velez have a date night. Trying this new BDSM club. You know how it is.
I bark out a laugh that makes a woman standing nearby look at me suspiciously, then type up a reply.
Damn. Go get it, bro.
Later.
Later.
Fucking Velez, a husband and a father of two, has more fun than I do. And I’m a free agent.
I flinch when the phone rings. It’s Mom. I hesitate, but deep down, I know there’s no avoiding it.
I slide the Answer button. "Yeah?"
"Hi, baby."
"Hey, Mom. What’s up?"
"Why is it so noisy? I can barely hear you," she starts immediately.
"I’m at the premiere."
"Is that today?"
"Yep."
"And you're staying out of trouble?"
Colette Brady is a helicopter mom. Even all these years later, she’s still terrified rock’n’roll will corrupt me. I can understand her fear, considering whose place I took. The guy is gone. Drugs got to him in the end. Sad fucking story.
"Absolutely," I reply.
"Good."
"Mom, it’s not the best time to talk. Can I call you tomorrow?"
