I tap the young lady on her shoulder and hand her two hundred dollars. “Here you are, love. Go on and take an Uber back to your home. I’ll call you later. Daddy has to work now.”
She kisses me passionately and blows a kiss to the others before leaving.
“Well, call the PR person and tell her to come back,” I offer.
“No. Myka will not come back; she has other clients to help. Some that are way better than the likes of you, might I add,” Lenny emphasizes.
“Oh, I see. It seems like you need to get another firm if she can’t be available to me twenty-four hours a day.”
“She’s not your personal assistant, Simon. She’s here to—never mind. Just don’t blow this. No one else wants to work with you,” Sebastian scolds.
“She’ll meet you tomorrow at your show. Don’t forget sound check is at four. Please don’t miss that…again.”
“He won’t, Lenny. I’ll see to it.”
“Good, Sebastian. You guys can go on now. And Simon, go eat and get some sleep. The soft tour kicks off soon and you want to be fueled and rested. Hopefully, Myka can do some damage control on your identity before the sponsors start bailing on us.”
“What damage control? I’m Simon Ashton; lead singer of Osiris and the world loves us. Especially here in America. Nothing needs to be controlled. Go ahead and call your hounds off, mate.”
“That’s enough, Simon. Let’s go now before we don’t have a record label.” Sebastian grabs me by my arm and pulls me to my feet before shuffling us out of the door.
“Wha’ you do that for?” straighten my shirt from his rough handling.
“Fucking hell, Simon. Can’t you get your shit together for one fucking meeting? This label is all we got, and you stroll in here late, with your tramp on your arm and ready to blow your little willy in front of everyone.”
“She was fit, though.”
“That doesn't mean you stick your cock in every fit girl that bats her eyes at you. Bloody hell, Simon. If this band crashes and burns because of your doing, I will have nothing to do with you any longer. Get it together.” My brother storms off, leaving me to hang my head in shame.
I don’t try to be the arsehole of the group, or even the family. If only they knew what drives my impulses, then maybe they would have pity on me. Who am I kidding? I barely have pity on myself. Instead of following him to the lift, I decide to take the stairs to the parking garage, leaving me alone with my internal thoughts.
Not sure what this PR rep can do that the others couldn’t. I rather thought the last one did a fine job. I hardly saw the bloke. Reaching my destination, I hop into my two-seater, with the top already off, and pull out onto the street and give the paps something to write about in the next rag by speeding while driving recklessly down the boulevard.