My Rock #3 (The Rock Star Romance Series - Book #3) (7 page)

“Hey, what are you doing here?”
I
asked her, and not nicely.

“Seriously, Tristan?
You invited
me
over, and then I take a cab all the way
out here and you’re not home. What is up with you? Are you always this rude to
people you invite to hang out?”

My
fucking head was pounding again. A few days ago,
I
couldn’t wait to get my dick in this girl. Now, all
I
wanted was for her to go away.

“I had things to do. You should go, Brooke. I’m not
in the mood for company tonight.”

“Too bad.
Do you know how much the cab cost
me
? You can at least
offer me a beer.”

“I’m all out.”

“I doubt that ever happens. Then let’s smoke some
weed.”

“Damn it, Brooke! Can you hear
me
talking?
I
don’t want to hang out with you.
I
want to be alone, which means I want you to go the fuck
away. Is that clear enough? I’m seriously not in the mood for this shit.”
 

“Screw you, Tristan! You came on to
me
just to make that bitch Elly jealous, didn’t you? You
know they have rules against screwing around with staff—and she knows it, too.
You
’ll get disqualified
and she’ll get fired. Don’t
make
me
tell somebody what’s going on. You’re not above
following the rules, and neither is she.”

I couldn’t believe she was actually threatening to
tattle on
me and Elly
. I would have laughed if I
wasn’t
so pissed. She had the nerve to call Elly a bitch?
These fucking women were giving
me
a headache.
 

“Do what you want to, Brooke, I honestly don’t give
a fuck,”
I
told her as I went into the apartment and
closed the door in her face.

Before
I
’d gone into the
studio earlier, I had done a few lines.
I
couldn’t
wake up that morning.
I
’d smoked too much weed and had
a few too many beers. The mirror, still coated in dust, was on the table. There
was a straw lying next to it. The bong
I
’d used to get
high was on the counter next to the box I kept my weed in.
There
was at least a half a case of empty beer bottles on the counter; as well as
half a bottle of Fireball, a bottle of Jack Daniels, and a vodka bottle that
had less than a shot left in it.

I
sat down in one of the dining room chairs and, as much as I hated to admit it,
Elly was right.
I
definitely had a problem.
I
still preferred that no one refer to me as an addict.
I
hated that fucking word. But a problem,
I
had to admit, that I had. Not a day had gone by for years that
I
wasn’t drunk or high.
I
hated it,
but I did it anyways. The reason
I
did it anyways was
because I felt like I needed it in order to cope….to function…to block things
out. The point was
I
needed it. The difference between
wanting it and needing it was the difference between partying and being
an
….having a problem.

I
dug through the pile of junk on the table until I found an ink pen.
I
opened the paperwork that Elly had given me and smoothed
it out. The header said, “
When you stop
chasing the wrong things, you give the right things a chance to catch you.”

I
laughed.
I
really was trying to take this seriously,
but did they have to use the clichés? As I filled out the paperwork, I hoped
that this place wasn’t
like
the ones they’d sent me to
when I was a kid: more clichés than action.
 
I
wondered, if I took this step, would Elly
prove she meant what she said about being supportive? To her that might mean
one thing, but to
me
it meant her naked and in my
bed.
 

CHAPTER
NINE

ELLY

The night of round six,
I
went into work nervous.
I
hadn’t seen Tristan since
our fight a couple days before.
I
was sure that Tony
bought my explanation of why we were fighting, but then I got home and got
myself all worked up thinking about what would happen if Tony decided to say
something to Tristan about it. Tristan was such a loose cannon,
I
never knew what he was going to say. He was liable to tell
Tony to go fuck himself and let it go at that. Everyone around here knew how
moody he was, so that might not be too much of a shock. What worried me most
was that he was also liable to tell Tony that the only person around here that
he’d fucked was
me
.

I
didn’t know if anything happened between him and Brooke or not, but judging
from the fact that they couldn’t even stand to look at each other, I doubted
it.
I
also liked to tell myself that. The point was
that
I
didn’t trust Tristan to keep his mouth shut. It
wasn’t because he was some kind of narc, or that he felt guilty about breaking
the rules; if he gave us up, it would be because he was pissed off at me, and
because he truly didn’t give a shit what anyone thought about anything. He
might regret walking away from a million dollars and a chance at a new career,
but he was just impulsive enough to do it.

I did my best to concentrate on my job and try not
to worry about whether or not he slept with Brooke or whether or not he was
going to fill out the rehab papers or whether or not he was going to screw up
and tell someone about us.
I
had to shake it off
before people started noticing. Molly already mentioned that
I
looked uptight. I didn’t think I was going to be able to stop feeling
like
I was going to explode until it was all resolved, but I
at least had to get better at covering.
 

When it was Brooke’s turn,
I
watched Tristan watch her perform. She did a bad job. That’s not
my
jealousy speaking; honestly, she sucked. Tristan flinched
and winced a few times. Diva had her hands on her head and the record producer
covered his ears at one point. When they finished telling her how bad it was
,
Brooke left the stage in tears.
I
felt bad for her. She was talented, but obviously having a bad night.
I
had to wonder if her problems stemmed from the same place
mine did: Tristan Rogers.

He went next.
I
found
myself holding my breath every time he performed; hoping he’d do well.
I
couldn’t read the look on his face when he took his place
at the microphone on the stage. He looked tired…or high. His eyes
were streaked
with red and he had dark circles under them,
as if he hadn’t slept in a while. He signaled to the band and they started
playing. As soon as he hit his first note,
I
knew that
this was not going to be one of those performances he owned. This time,
I
only had to hold my breath for several seconds before I
realized that there was going to be nothing good about it. He was screaming
again; it sounded like he was furious. He looked angry and
I
could tell that the judges hated it, maybe worse than they’d hated Brooke’s
performance.

When Tristan finished, he stood there looking at the
judges as if he was daring them to tell him what a crappy job he did. If that
was what he’d really wanted, they didn’t disappoint.

“Wow, Tristan…it’s hard for me to believe you’re the
same guy that wowed us last week. You have to be more consistent, man. One
performance like that is all it will take to get you voted off the show. In
real life, a performance like that could have a stadium full of people
requesting a refund. I’m sorry man; I know that’s not what you wanted to
hear….” Tristan’s face was neutral. I’m sure it’s not what he wanted to hear,
but he either knew how badly he’d done, or he was learning how to react for the
cameras—or both. He gave the country singer a barely perceptible nod and turned
his attention towards Diva.

Once again, she looked like she was going to cry.
She’d been a pop singer for years, but
I
really think
she missed her calling as an actress. She did know music, though, and it was
apparent from the look on her face what she’d thought of the performance. She
started to open her mouth, and then she shook her head and closed it. Finally,
she said, “I’m sorry baby. That was so bad.”

She left it at that and the record producer said, “I
have nothing at all positive to say about that. A positive person might say,
‘At least he showed up,’ but considering that performance, it may have been
better if you’d stayed at home. I won’t be surprised if you’re in the bottom
three tomorrow night.”

The camera had a close-up on Tristan’s face. He was
getting good at keeping it neutral. He had to be hurting.
I
couldn’t imagine performing and then having to stand there and be told how
awful it was.
I
was a coward like that. It was the
reason
I
refused to sing solo—I hated the thought of
people judging me. Tristan let them finish though and then walked off the stage
with his head held high.

CHAPTER
TEN

TRISTAN

I
knew before I’d hit my last note how bad I did during round six.
I
couldn’t blame the judges for saying how bad it was. The
truth was
,
I would have lost respect for them if they
hadn’t.
I
had so much shit in my head and I couldn’t
let it go.
I
think it all came out in my song…and it
wasn’t pretty.
I
stood there and listened to the
judges, knowing that the camera was on my face, and I tried not to give
anything away.
I
was scared to death that if I let my
face move, it would betray me to millions of people and the whole world would
know how disappointed I was in myself.
I
wished I
really didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought. That would have made it easier.
I
should have gotten high before I came; that would have
made me numb.

I
didn’t look at Elly’s face when it was all over.
I
could see her in my peripheral vision and I knew she was watching. As bad as it
was to have to face the judges, it would have been a hundred times worse to see
the disappointment in her eyes. She probably would have blamed it on
me
being high.
I
blamed the poor
performance on sobriety. So far, it sucked. After
I
filled out the rehab papers, I had dumped everything.
I
flushed it down the toilet, or I would have been digging it back out first
thing in morning, or maybe sometime during the night.
I
woke up with a pounding head and my hands were shaking so hard I could barely
hold my own dick to pee.

All day long, I went back and forth, telling myself
that I didn’t want to do this shit and Elly could go fuck herself if she didn’t
like it; and then telling myself that I should do it if for no other reason
than I didn’t want to be my parents someday.
I
considered calling my guy.
I
had enough cash to get
something to get me through at least for a couple of days.

I
’d
get pissed at myself for dumping it all.
I
should have
saved just a taste of it…but I hadn’t, and I didn’t call him. If
I
was going to commit to this rehab shit, I was committing
to it.
I
was brave about it for a few hours at a time,
and then I’d freak out again. Before the show,
I
’d
downed two beers. It was enough to take the edge off, but they lasted about an
hour and then
I
was climbing the walls again.

I
didn’t think I was a junkie.
I
was not sweating and
twitching and hallucinating and shit, but my mind was spinning and it hurt to
think.
I
went out on stage feeling like that, and as
soon as I opened my mouth, I knew it was a mistake.

I
was sitting on the stage during the results show, again trying to keep my face
neutral.
I
hated knowing that fucking camera was
pointed at my face.
I
was in worse shape than I’d been
in during my performance.
I
was pissed at everyone and
everything.
I
’d already snapped at half the crew.
I
avoided Elly because I was really pissed at her. This was
all her fault.
I
was doing fine until she came along
and fucked everything up.

When it was
my
turn, I
swore the host enjoyed once again replaying my horrible performance and the
judge’s reactions to it.
I
’d never been a violent guy,
but for some reason, I firmly believed I could whoop the shit out of this
little man without giving it a second thought.
I
had
to actually will myself not to punch him right there on stage and in front of
the cameras. The last young teenybopper we had hanging on, the one that looked
like daddy’s little princess, was in the bottom three again. She landed there a
lot, but she always made her way back. She never looked worried.
I
wondered if she was a good actress or if she was just that
confident. The host finally looked at
me
and said,
“I’m sorry Tristan, but you’ll have to go join Hayley in the bottom three.” He
didn’t really look sorry. You think with all the money they paid him to do his
job, he’d at least be able to fake it better.