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When they said we’dbe filming in the desert, my mind didn’t automatically connect to a casino in a weather-beaten town. Sure, its setting is great as it’s nestled amidst rolling hills of reddish-brown sand, and the area is like some resilient mirage, with its scattering of timeworn buildings from a bygone era.
I stare out the window of the only diner in this town. Its faded sign swings gently in the desert breeze, creaking with the echoes of this silent town. The sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of pink and orange, and I’m grateful that tonight’s my last evening here.
We’ve filmed here for the past three days, and it’s been hell being confined in such close proximity to Eden. We might live in the same house in LA, but at least I have the freedom to disappear when I want without having to give anyone any reason. Here I’m stuck with this diner as the only escape I have.
Considering the next motel isn’t for miles, the label arranged trailers for us to stay in directly on the lot next to the casino we’re filming. That way we can spend more time filming and less time traveling to and from the set. I’m sharing a large trailer with the fellas while Eden has her own with Rick in a trailer next to hers.
Little did the label realize that she’s in a relationship with three-quarters of the band, and there wasn’t a chance in hell she’d be left alone in her trailer. For the last two nights, while all three men have piled into her much smaller mobile home, it left me to spend my nights with a bottle of jack and watching the stars emerge like diamonds scattered across a night sky, reminding me of the isolatedlife I chose when I decided to not join in my fellow bandmates in their poly relationship.
At least I can be thankful for the liquor store next door to the diner and remind myself to pick up a bottle on my way back to the trailer to get ready for the evening shooting the director wants us for.
And yet, tonight won’t even be the last of this video we’re making. Tomorrow, we’re heading back to LA and driving to Malibu, where we’ll be on some super yacht to film the remainder of the video. After that, they’ll piece all the bits and bobs together and create one clip in which our single Phoenix Rising will be premiered online.
So if I thought these three days were hell, I have no fucking clue what I’m going to do for forty-eight fucking hours on a yacht in the Pacific Ocean with a – probably- scantily clad Eden in my face throughout the filming.
I’m so fucked.
“Refill?”
I look up at the blue-uniformed waitress. Why the fuck do they have this poor woman in a uniform in a diner that rarely generates any traffic other than travelers passing through. There are two places to eat, here and at the casino where the rest of the crew are tonight.
“Refill, honey?” she repeats again, holding up the glass coffee carafe, her eyes traveling down the ink on my arm, stopping at the Big Ben design I have on my hand. Probably one of the most meaningful pieces of ink on my body.
It stands on my skin tall, a guardian of time, each detail etched with precision while the shadows dance along the edges, adding depth to the mesmerizing pattern behind it. The intricate clock face looms large, its hands frozen in time, a permanent reminder of a moment that changed the course of my sobriety. Behind Big Ben, a delicate web of lines weaves a mesmerizing pattern, replicating the inner workings of the clock. Inscribed on my fingers and along the edges of the design, a series of numbers commemorate a significant date – the day I took a decisive step toward a better future. These numbers, marking the moment of my abstinence from everything addictive in my life, serve as both a timestamp and a talisman against the shadows of my past.
I gaze up at the woman, her question echoing in my mind.
What is it with Americans and their free refills?
“No, thank you,” I say politely to the woman and her offer of watered-down brown muck.
A cuppa is more my thing, but I’m not going to find tea here. And I wouldn’t trust some desert town diner in the middle of nowhere America to make me a decent cup either.
I’d rather have a pint, but that won’t happen here either.
Fuck. I miss England.
The further away I am from the desert siren, the better I can deal with the addiction I am currently consumed with that transcends in the realm of my unattainable desires. While my fixation may not be with substance, this woman is worse. She’s an enigma, her presence a captivating mirage that draws me into a labyrinth of desire with every fleeting glance and whispered word. Like a moth to a flame, I am drawn to her, captivated by the allure of what I can’t possess.
Because a taste of the siren is like a toxic elixir that simultaneously feeds my starved soul. Her image is constantly etched into the recess of my mind like an indelible tattoo. The mere thought of her becomes a drug, a potent cocktail of longing and frustration that courses through my veins, leaving an indelible mark on my psyche.
Eden is fickle.
She’s on the edge of another nervous breakdown, and I know that when she does a runner again, this time it’ll be for good, and we’ll be left once again trapped, like sailors lost at sea, riding tumultuous waves of hope and despair. My demons will resurface, becoming a haunting melody, echoing their voices through the corridors of my soul, and the only way out will be death this time.
That’s why Eden is the most dangerous creature around me and why I loathe being anywhere near her and despise watching my brother and two best friends love her as I can only dream of allowing my emotions to be freed from the prison I’ve trapped myself in.
“Can I get you anything else?” the waitress asks, clearing my table.
“The bill, please,” I mutter, taking out my phone and seeing several missed calls and unanswered text messages.
“Who?” she asks, holding my empty plate and mug.
“The check,” I say, silently laughing.
It’s all one fucking language, yet we still can’t bloody understand each other. Thankfully, Eden shed her pronounced Brooklyn accent during her teenage years, thanks to Oliver Jones, who insisted she undergo speech classes. It was hard to understand everything she said when we first met. Then again, as a twelve-year-old discovering a liking for the opposite sex, it wasn’t what she said that I wasinterested in but her beautiful face that kept me mesmerized every time she was around me.
Even now, I can occasionally detect remnants of her previous accent when she forgets to pronounce the "r" at the end of certain words. This occasional slip adds a charming touch rather than being bothersome. Oliver, in his characteristic way, scolded her for it, deeming it as low-class and ignorant, not the kind of accent fit for America’s pop princess.
