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As if reading my mind, Axel pulls a pen from a bag and shoves it into my hand, knowing I won’t be able to relax until every word is scribbled into my notepad. It’ll be a mess of words tonight, but on the flight back to LA tomorrow, I’ll turn that mess into art, and by spring, every household across the globe will be singing these words.
Getting to work, I flip to a new page and scrawl the words across the paper while Axel peers over my shoulder, reading the jumbled mess. “Fucking hell,” he mutters, reading the overly sexualized lyrics. “This better not be about my sister.”
A grin tears across my lips. The poor fucker. He’s spent years performing my songs, and while there are a handful that are very clearly about Raleigh, like “Hypothetically Yours,” the rest he has no clue about.
I tell him stories, let him think they’re nothing more than random scenes that play out in my head. But joke’s on him because the truth of the matter is, every last song I have ever written is about her.
It’s always her.
Our first single off our current album, Bleed for Me, is our opening song for the tour. I told the guys that it was inspired by a wild night with a French woman, but in reality, it’s about physically needing someone so bad that you crumble because you can’t have her. It’s about not being able to breathe without her, desperately needing to hear her soft moans, her touch on your skin, her lips on yours. It’s about raw, passionate sex, and every word that comes out of my mouth when I first hit that stage comes from those lonely nights when I fantasize about having Raleigh in my bed.
Ha. The fact that it’s one of Axel’s favorites only makes it funnier. If only he knew he was singing backup vocals to a song about nailing his little sister. Not that we ever had the chance . . .
Rock moves in on my other side and glances over the lyrics before laughing at Axel. “Dude, that’s fucked up,” he says before crashing on the couch and kicking his feet up. “I don’t know how you do it, man. If this bastard was writing songs like that about my little sister . . .”
My grin widens as he lets his words trail off, and as I finish off the thoughts tumbling around inside my head, I do my best to zone out as the guys rave about how epic that show was. We’re all fucking exhausted, but that’s not going to stop us from heading out to the rooftop bar that looks out over the Sydney Harbour and making the most of our last night in this beautiful country. Just as soon as we get back to the hotel and have a chance to get out of our rain-soaked clothes, that is.
Content that I’ve gotten everything down, I grab my notebook and shove it into my bag, not trusting it with anyone. I take this notebook everywhere because I never know when the inspiration might hit, but having it everywhere often means leaving it everywhere. There have been multiple occasions when I’ve left it behind in a restaurant, a dressing room, a train, hell, even at a fucking urinal. But even those times when I’ve left it in another city, nothing has stopped me from going back and getting it. These words are liquid gold, and if it were just my career riding on it, I probably wouldn’t be so pedantic about it, but it’s all of ours. If I don’t write good shit, the boys will suffer for it, and we’re not even close to being done yet.
Leaving the arena, we make our way back to the hotel, and within twenty minutes, we’re ready to hit up the VIP party at the rooftop bar.
There are fans spilled out onto the road while security works overtime trying to keep them contained, and as our SUV pulls to a stop outside the venue, each of us plasters on our fake smiles. “Showtime, boys,” Dylan announces, being the first out the door.
The crowd roars for him, and I watch his performance as he strides toward the door. He’s the best at turning it on for the fans. We could have walked through hell and back, and he would still have the energy to engage with his fans.
Rock scoots out of the SUV next, followed by Axel, and then finally, it’s my turn.
It’s a short walk from the SUV to the venue entrance, but that short walk seems to take a lifetime. Girls weep as I try to engage with as many fans as possible. I sign autographs and instinctively lean in when people shove smartphones in my face.
Women hang off me, refusing to let go after they’ve had their photo, and when one woman screams directly into my ear, I call it quits and continue to the door where the boys are waiting for me.
We ride the elevator right to the top, and the moment we step out into the VIP party, the place goes off. The DJ welcomes us over the microphone, and the eager partiers lose their shit.
Dylan fucking loves it, putting his hands up and striding through the roaring crowd as our manager beelines for the bar, hopefully to tell them our drink preferences with clear instructions to keep them coming.
The music is loud, and I’m grateful the DJ steers clear of our songs. There have been far too many times that we’ve walked into a party, hoping to relax, only for the DJ to play our songs. I understand it, of course. Plus, the fans love that shit, but when I’m out at a party, I’m done performing.
We’re ushered into a private area that looks out over the incredible city, and Rock immediately flops down on the couch. “Fuck me,” he says with a heavy sigh, bracing his hand behind his head as he gazes out at the eager partiers. “I’m wrecked.”
I couldn’t agree more.
I drop down beside him as Axel and Dylan hover by the balcony that overlooks the city. They gaze out at the sight, and I can’t lie, it’s fucking beautiful. We’ve been in Sydney a handful of times, seen all the sights, and done all the wildlife experiences, but there’s nothing quite like the city lights at night.
When our drinks arrive, the boys waste no time diving in.
Dylan remains by the balcony but turns to take in the two girls dancing by us, and judging by the desire in his eyes and the way they look back at him, there’s no denying that he’ll be taking both of them to bed tonight. A smirk lingers on his lips. “What are the chances they’re down to get fucked up?”
Rock groans. “Just keep it private,” he says. “We don’t need pictures of you snorting coke splashed across the internet first thing in the morning.”
“Since when am I not discreet?” he questions, already moving toward them. “Don’t worry about me, boys. I always keep it classy.”
I roll my eyes and drop my head forward, and even over the sound of the raging music, I can still hear their giggles as Dylan approaches.
Management ushers a few women into our space, and while they immediately drop down beside me, it’s Rock who gives them the attention they want. “You wanna have a little fun?” the girl beside me whispers in my ear as she drapes half of her body across me.
I glance up at her, and the look in her eye suggests she’s not talking about a quick fuck. “What do you have?”
“Molly. Coke.”
