Page 138 of Before You Fell

“What, like a real fight?”

“Yeah. One threw a drink. The other threw a shoe. Cruz stood there, looking proud of himself, until a heel nearly took his eye out.”

A laugh bursts out of me. “Please tell me someone filmed it.”

“Jax did. Said it was the best after-party we have ever had on tour.”

“That sounds like Jax.”

“He also got into an argument with a reporter two nights later.”

“What did he say?”

“He called a reporter a talentless parasite with a podcast, so now we have a small public relations problem.”

“How small?”

“Front-page small.”

I laugh into my coffee.

I tell him a little about rehab. About the days I hated everyone in the room and the days I hated myself even more. Then I tell him I think I have written another song.

His fork stills. “Yeah?”

“Maybe.” I glance down at my plate. “It might be shit though.”

“It won’t be.”

The certainty in his voice makes me look up.

A group of women near the front counter keeps looking over.

There are three of them, all gorgeous in that glossy, effortless way. One has long, dark hair and wears a red dress under a denim jacket. Another is blonde, all legs and confidence, the kind of woman who looks as though she belongs stretched across a billboard selling something expensive. The third has a phone in her hand and wears the bright little smile women get when they realize a famous man is close enough to touch, photograph, and turn into content before lunch.

They whisper. Glance over. Whisper again.

I notice them before Phoenix does.

I sit there with my second cup of coffee, waiting. I know this part. This is usually where Phoenix notices. Where the smirk appears. Where the attention hits him and his whole body answers as if being wanted were the same as being alive.

The three women approach our table.

“Sorry,” the blonde says, with a bright smile and perfect teeth. “Are you Phoenix Stone?”

Phoenix leans back, and there he is. The frontman with the lazy confidence, crooked smirk, and an ego stretching its legs after being forced to behave during breakfast.

“Depends who’s asking,” he says.

They laugh. Of course they fucking laugh. The line isn’t even funny, but Phoenix could read the terms and conditions of a credit card application in that voice, and half the room would start unhooking bras before he reached the interest rate.

“Could we get a photo?” the brunette asks. “We loved the show last week.”

The blonde in the middle holds her phone out to me. “Would you mind taking a photo of us, please?”

“Sure.”

I stand and take her phone.