Page 21 of Cherry Beats

“You might want to turn on your TV and take a look.”

I slipped the phone back into my free hand and pressed it firmly against my ear, picked up my mug of coffee, and turned around to face my switched-off television screen.

“What’s this about, Molly?” I dared myself to ask.

“It’s Presley.”

“What about him?”

“Don’t freak out, but—”

“Molly…”

“He’s been arrested, Tess. His face is all over the news. He’s everywhere, and it doesn’t look good.”

Chapter Seven

His facewaseverywhere, angry and twisted when the news channels showed the clip of him throwing the punch that landed him in trouble. Presley’s jaw was tight, his eyes wild as he swung his fist straight into the face of a guy in the crowd.

The video footage—taken by asupposedfan—was rewound, played in slow motion, rewound, played with sound, and then the process was repeated over and over. MTV were taking polls and phones calls from fans, asking stupid questions like:

Do drugs and alcohol ruin all the best talent in the music industry?

Should Presley West get away with it just because he’s good looking?

Is he heading straight for rehab?

Should musicians receive harsher punishments for lashing out in a bid to curb their ridiculous rock star behaviour?

How can society prevent superstars from seeing themselves as above the law?

Regardless of the fact that I knew tabloids shouldn’t be trusted, I found myself perched on the end of my sofa anyway, staring at my TV screen like it was supplying the very oxygen I needed to survive. The remote hung limp in my hand as I continued to change channels over and over again, the fingertips of my other hand pressed against my bottom lip in worry.

Presley’s band, Youth Gone Wild, had been leaving a nightclub in the very early hours of the morning. It was daylight, with the burning, rising sun highlighting every smoker’s line and dark circle under the band members’ eyes. They were wasted and tired, that much was clear.

Rhett Ryan was the gravelly lead vocalist leading the way as they streamed out of the black, heavy-looking door where they had a car waiting only a few meters away. His dark hair was shaved around the back and sides, with a shaggy black mop on top styled to stand high on his head like a damn landing tower. It was obvious to everyone that Rhett was the sparkling personality behind Youth Gone Wild. As he walked out, swaying and smiling like he’d just received a blowjob—possible—he flashed a wink at the camera phone he was been videoed on and waved to the small crowd of fans that had been waiting to see their superstars.

Big D was next, Dave Stripe, the long-haired bass player with jet black eyebrows and a short, jet-black beard. Despite his dark features, he always looked friendly and approachable, even when he was clearly drowning in alcohol at six thirty in the morning.

Behind Big D were Hawk and Coops—Hawk being the lead strummer and Coops being the rhythm guitarist of the band. Otherwise known as Haley Axel Wilkins, you can see why he chose to christen himself as the bad boy of rock by calling himself Hawk. He had eyes like a hunting bird, bright yet narrow, but his head was practically bare aside from the tattoos of music notes mixed with lightning and fire that ran down either side. Coops’ choice of name was always the butt of every magazine interview the band ever did. Named Bradley Cooper at birth, he had to go by his schoolboy nickname to avoid being confused with the actual Bradley Cooper—although they were hardly easy to mix up. The real Bradley Cooper was insanely good looking. Coops was… all right. He was fairly plain with a mousy brown haircut seen on most men of this era. A typical man from the streets, neither devilishly handsome nor ugly. Just… there.

Thenhestepped out.

Presley West.

The lonely, smouldering drummer, always at the back.

As soon as I saw him, my heart skipped a beat.

Presley’s head was down, as usual, and he used his long hair to try and hide his face as he followed his bandmates. But I saw. I saw it every time I pressed pause at the very moment he looked up from under his thick, perfectly-structured dark eyebrows. I saw the moody stare and the sheen of sweat that made his forehead glisten. I saw the rough stubble on his jaw and the unlit cigarette he had dangling loosely from his dry lips. When I pressed play again, Presley leaned to one side, his foot misjudging the step and causing his boot to go over on one side, making him stumble before he corrected himself.

I ached, and the longing hurt.

If I could have reached through, stroked his cheek and held him for just a breath, I would have given up a month’s salary to do so.

Wearing loose, ripped-jeans and a white T-shirt that literally clung to the abs beneath it, every inch of Presley looked like the rock star of the century. He was the one they all wanted. He was the face of the band—always up front and centre on photo shoots to attract the attention of the women around the globe.

I’d kissed him. He’d been inside me. He changed my life in one night.

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