Revelry (Taint #1) (7 page)

I sigh, and decide to answer him truthfully, because right now I’m tired of lying to save face and secondly, if I don’t get a shower in the next few days, then it’s gonna be pretty hard to hide the fact that I’m homeless anyway. “I lost my apartment. Got kicked out, actually.”

“You can stay at my place. I’ll even let you be on top.”

“Excuse me?”

He shrugs. “I have bunk beds.”

“You have bunk beds?” I question, because there’s no way in hell I heard him right. One look at his face tells me that I definitely did. I shake my head. “You’re not even kidding, are you?”

“Nope.”

“You’re a grown man, Zed. Possibly even one of the best drummers of our time, and I’m not going to lie, you’re definitely the hottest drummer of our time, and you sleep on bunks?”

“I like bunks. They make me feel safe.”

I laugh, because the idea of a big-arse giant like him needing to feel safe is about as ridiculous as the idea of him having bunk beds. “How do you even fit on one of those?”

“King size.” He grins. “Custom made, baby.”

“You’re insane.” I laugh.

“Probably.” He smiles.

A shiny Maserati, more than likely belonging to the owner of Decker’s Studio, pulls into the lot. A man gets out of the car and I’m surprised to find his clothes are just as casual as ours. He greets Zed and gives me a small nod before disappearing inside the studio.

“Hey, Zed?” I say, and he turns to look at me. “Don’t tell Coop I’m living out of my car, okay?”

“I’m pretty sure he already knows.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and glances over at the sleek black BMW that pulls in beside my car. “I think everyone knows.”

“Great.” I sigh.

“Except Levi.”

“Except Levi what?” a new voice says from behind us, and I turn and find the devil in question, and a really pissed off looking Cooper Ryan staring at us.

“Looking good, Red,” Levi says, sauntering around the car to stand next to me. He reaches out and tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear and whispers in a low voice, “Is that sex hair?”

I swat him away. I’m just about to give him an idea of what beaten-up-by-a-girl-less-than-half-my-size hair looks like when Cooper’s icy voice has me glancing back at him again. “We got work to do. Where the hell is Ash?”

“Lying in a pool of his own vomit, most likely,” Zed says, matter of fact.

“Call him.” Cooper stalks past us, and Zed throws an army salute to his back.

“Jones, we’re gonna need coffee and food when you’ve woken up long enough to drive a car.”

“Yes, sir,” I snap automatically, and then regret it when he turns to face me with a smirk.

Typical. It’s not enough for him to be a hot rock star—he has to be a control freak with a kinky-side too.

Thirty minutes later, I’m staring at my face in the mirror of a mall bathroom. I glare at my raccoon eyes and cringe. Jesus. No wonder everyone I passed stared at me like I was crazy. I look like shit. I look like a crack addict. I look like a homeless person. And all of this in front of the world’s hottest rock band—and I know I said I hated Taint and everything they stand for, but show me a girl who doesn’t want to look good in front of that many rock stars and I will eat my own damn pussy, or I’ll die trying.

I run the tap and splash a little water on my face, trying to remove the makeup I slept in. My efforts only serve to smear it further, and make my panda eyes that much rounder. It could be worse, I suppose. I could have woken with jizz on my face—not that that has ever happen to me before, or anything.

I pat my face dry with a paper towel and stare at myself some more. I don’t know how I got to this point. Three months ago, I was happy. Three months ago, Brad and I were moving forward. We were living in a slightly crumby but also kind of cool Ultimo apartment, along with our friend Tim. I’d loved living with those boys; there was no drama. There
was
cheap tequila, and a jar of peanut butter, and ramen noodles were our friends, but then we graduated from university and got jobs. Tim got engaged and moved out to live with his fiancée and Brad and I got desperate for a new roommate in order to meet the rent.

We’d gotten a new roommate, alright—a stripper. I’d spent the weekend in hospital with my Grams and came home to find that not only had Brad not talked to me about the possibility of having to share my space with some whore who takes her clothes off for money, but that he’d already helped her move in.

Before long, he and his mates were going to watch her shows, something he’d tried to hide from me at first, until Tim let it slip. He made out like it was just the boys blowing off steam, and I’d begged him not to keep going. Bad enough that we had to see her perfectly sculpted long body strut around the apartment in a towel—I didn’t want him seeing her pink bits up close and in stereo. Not long after that, I’d gotten my very own peep show when I came home and found her giving Brad his very own special lap dance. On. His. Face.

I moved all my crap into my Grams’ house. It was nice—if not a little pathetic—living with my eighty-two-year-old grandmother, but it wasn’t long before her in and out visits to hospital turned into longer stays, and then to something a little more permanent. The leukaemia eating away at her frail body won, and suddenly, within the space of three months, my whole world had shattered. My Grams had raised me, she had always been there, and then she was nowhere … she was just gone.

The bank had foreclosed on the house, and by the time the funeral expenses were paid, all that I’d been left with was my shit-box of a car, my measly half of the savings that Brad and I had eaten away at while we made our way through uni and Grams’ bastard cat. The only good thing to happen to me in the last three months had been landing my dream job at Harbour Records. Sure, my boss was a mega bitch from hell, but everyone else in the office was fine, and all I had to do when the Lizard Queen started ranting and raving about how long it took to get a decent coffee was look at the pictures I had taped up against my cubical wall. Pictures I’d taken at concerts. Pictures of Josh Holme and Kings of the Iron Age that I’d cut out of
Rolling Stone
, and a picture of a very fresh-faced me with my arm slung around the shoulders of Billy Idol, and another of me with Robert Plant, a huge smile on my face and sparkling eager eyes.

One day, I’d be managing bands like this—assuming there were any bands like this left to manage, because if Taint was the future of the industry then music was screwed every which way from Sunday. Okay, maybe that wasn’t true. If they could just pull their heads out of their arses for five minutes and quit letting the record label pressure them into being just another emo punk rock band, I could totally learn to appreciate them.

So far, I hadn’t seen much of Levi’s talent past having a massive member—that, let’s face it, probably deserved its own bunk on the tour bus. Ash had been pretty absent yesterday, but I knew from the tracks the label played around the office that he had skills, and I’d already been pretty clear on my feelings towards Zed and Cooper. I’d actually seen the band live before they’d gotten picked up. They’d played a little Irish pub venue near Central Station about a year ago, and as much as I disliked his stupid pompous arse, the fact remained that you couldn’t see Cooper Ryan on stage without feeling it right down to the very last nerve ending in your vagina. This was fact. And as much as I hated to admit it, I hadn’t been the exception to that rule.

I run my hands through my hair. Not only is it sticking out at all angles, but it’s also limp and greasy at the roots. I move closer to the mirror, peering at the small white stick poking out from the nest at the back of my head. I wrap my fingers around it and pull out a lollipop, sticky and matted with my hair.

“Oh, ick,” I say to my disgusted reflection and then I stare at the lollipop, wondering where the hell it had come from because I must have been all of seven the last time I had one of these. I throw the offending sucker in the bin and cradle my face in my hands. And for the first time since my grandmother’s funeral, I lose it. Right there on the disgusting floor of a dingy public bathroom, I fall apart. I cry. I breathe, and then I pull myself together. I leave the bathroom and I pull the last five-dollar note from my wallet. I march through the mall to the supermarket, where I buy a bottle of two-in-one. Then I go back to that bathroom and I wash my hair in a sink with a leaking tap and next to no water pressure, and I dry it by crouching down under the hand dryer.

My hair poofs out like a big fluff ball. I look like a freaking Pomeranian, but at least I’m halfway clean. Just two more days and I’ll get paid. I can stay in a backpackers’ until I find somewhere more permanent to live. Just two more days and things will get better. I know they will.

Z
ed had found me the following morning, and the one after that, cramped up in my tiny car. The record company had screwed up my pay, and if it weren’t for the free food stationed at the studio I’d have more than likely starved to death. I’d found a gym nearby and had stuck close by a group of gym bunnies as they entered the building early last night. I’d followed them as far as the elliptical machines before I’d made a run for the bathrooms. I’m pretty sure the manager was onto me, though, so I may have to find someplace else to shower tonight. Maybe I’ll take Zed up on his offer. I mean, I hate to ask anyone for anything, but until the record company sorts out my financial situation, I’m destitute. And losing a crap tonne of sleep. Finding him alone will be the hardest part, and isn’t it just my luck that when they are done for the day, the boys decide to leave together.

“You coming, Red?” Levi asks, as I hurry through the building and out the door. He catches up to me though and slings his arm around my shoulder.