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Player, I remind myself. Player who enjoys drinking too much.
Chapter 8
Fake dating – apparently includes the actual act of going on a date. Who knew?
Gibson
I groan as I roll over in bed. I’m exhausted and my head hurts. But I didn’t drink last night. I was with Mercy. What happened? I remember having an allergic reaction but the rest of the night is a blank. How did I get home? I—
Whoosh! Water rains down on me.
“What the hell?” I jump out of bed.
Cash, Dylan, Fender, and Jett surround me. Jett’s holding a bucket. I glare at him.
“Why did you douse me with water? I was sleeping.”
“You were supposed to be at the studio rehearsing for our upcoming tour,” Cash points out.
I was? What time is it? “Sorry. I forgot to set my alarm.”
“Because you were drunk,” Fender grumbles.
“What?” I rear back. “I wasn’t drunk. I had an allergic reaction.”
Dylan snorts. “An allergic reaction? Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“You know I’m allergic to peas.” When they continue to glare at me, I motion to Jett. “Tell them.”
“I don’t know what peas have to do with anything.”
“Because Mercy put peas in her fettucine alfredo.”
Fender grunts. “No one puts peas in fettucine alfredo.”
“Mercy did.” I point to my cheek. “You can probably still see the rash.”
I remember scratching at my cheek before Mercy gave me some antihistamines and I promptly passed out. I probably shouldn’t have chugged half the bottle but I haven’t eaten peas since I first found out about my allergy.
Dylan leans close to inspect my cheek. “He does have a rash.”
“Remember the time he tried a veggie burger and didn’t realize it contained peas?” Jett laughs. “The rash practically covered his face.”
I glare at him. “It’s funny I was in agony?”
He shrugs. “You laugh whenever I break a bone.”
“You jump off buildings on purpose. I don’t have an allergy to peas on purpose.”
“I bet Mercy felt all bad for you and kissed it better.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Or she would have if she were actually your girlfriend.”
Crap. I knew this was coming. I knew my bandmates would never believe I have a girlfriend. Especially a woman they’ve barely met.
But I need to sell it. Really sell it. I’ve seen the looks they think I haven’t noticed. I recognize the suspicion in their eyes. And I’ve dealt with Fender trying to hide my beer for months now. They’re gearing up to do an intervention about my drinking.
There’s no need. I’m not an alcoholic. Do I enjoy a beer or two? Hell yeah. I’m a fucking rockstar. It’s part of my job description.
But I’m not addicted to alcohol. I can go without it. In fact, I have. I haven’t had so much as a sip of alcohol since Mercy and I struck our deal. She doesn’t want me to drink? I won’t drink. Easy peasy.
