I raise an eyebrow.
“Tested,” I repeat, thinking of Ronnie, handing me a condom for a blow job. If he's that worried about it, I guess I should be glad. Instead, I just feel empty. I don't want to feel like this anymore. I want that life, that excitement back that we had at the beginning of the tour. Sure, I'm glad I'm not working for Stephen anymore, but I need something. Life. I need to see the wheels turning and the cart rolling along towards greener pastures. I'm just not sure how to make that happen. “Sounds like a bloody brilliant way to spend a day.”
Ronnie chuckles and reaches out a finger, drawing the whorl of his fingertip against my lips. I sigh and lean into the touch, my cigarette held out at my side, my chest heaving with desperation. Transition. Nobody ever told me it was a dirty word, but it is, and it's hard, and it sucks.
“Let me know the results as soon as you get 'em,” I say, pushing his hand away and rising to my feet. I look up at Ronnie's face because to look at his chest or his abs or his tattoos would be too much right now, and I make myself smile. “If you're clean, I wouldn't mind a bit of raw doggin', if you catch my drift.” His laughter follows me as I turn and head back inside, finding Sydney sitting in her bikini in the kitchen. Her breasts sit on the edge of the counter, propped up by the granite like they're too heavy to stay up on their own. Only I know that's not true. Sydney's fake ass tits are nice. I won't say I'm jealous, but they look good on her.
“Any word from Dax?” I ask, wishing for someone else's drama to come in and save me from myself. I open the fridge door, marveling at the expansive mass of stainless steel and step back, surveying the contents within. Since we can't easily go out right now, Milo ordered in groceries. There's more than enough leafy greens in here to last me a lifetime: tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, and in the cabinet last night I found chia seeds and whole grain bread. Nothing I much feel like eating. I want some fucking takeaway, like a Mrs. Mac's Pie from the service station. My stomach rumbles and I press a hand over it.
“He's … staying at a hotel downtown. The same one you guys stayed at actually. I've only seen him once since the concert, and he doesn't look good. I know he'd hate to hear me say this, but he's a sensitive guy. He doesn't deserve all of this shit.” I hear a slamming sound and turn to find Sydney closing her magazine with more force than necessary, sitting up and staring at me from a pretty face surrounded by perfect blonde hair. Colorful sea creatures crawl across her neck and chest, her shoulders, her arms. I like 'em. Makes her seem more animated somehow, more alive. Don't understand anyone who doesn't have ink. “I want to see him again, but I don't know how to go about doing it. If I call, he answers, but what can I say? Me and him, we're nothing to each other.” Sydney sighs and purses her lips, blue eyes sparkling with something. I'm not sure what – anger, frustration, longing – but I can at tell that at the very least, she wishes they weren't nothing.
After staring longingly at the raw contents of the fridge, I close it, wishing they'd morph into something edible. My stomach rumbles again, and Sydney smiles.
“Think we could get a pizza delivered here?” she asks, and I shrug. I don't know shit about shit when it comes to 'celebrity' life. Pretty sure that's what Indecency qualifies as now. Can't turn on the fucking TV without seeing their faces, can't read a magazine without seeing an article, can't go online without finding them trending somewhere or other. This morning on Twitter, all I saw was #turnermotherfuckingcampbell, #indecency, #amatoryriot, #naomiknox, and #rocknroll. Pretty clear that the public mind is still firmly entrenched in our shit.
I reach across the kitchen island and snag an apple from the silver bowl there, biting into it and wondering if Milo Terrabotti intends on living here with his band. I'm not sure if I've seen him leave once since we got here. To be honest, I feel sorry for the man; he works his fucking ass off taking care of these boys.
“We could always call and tell 'em to bring our shit to the biggest, most ostentatious house on the block,” I suggest, leaning against the counter and closing my eyes against this brief slice of normalcy. I might be standing in a kitchen worth more than my family's entire farmhouse, but this feels real. I need real right now.
I open my eyes and watch Sydney reach out for her cell, sliding her fingers across the screen as I munch on my apple and wrinkle my brow. My body's itching for music. I want to hit a kit, slam my sticks and feel a beat work its way under my skin. If Ronnie happens to be standing behind me while I play, sliding his fingers along my inner thigh, reaching up to that sweet, hot space under my skirt … fuck. I bite my lip and shake my head, putting my fingers against my temple. One track mind, anybody?