Page 28 of Whenever You Call

The white neon sign hanging above a heavy, gray, open door read:Alter Egos.

It was the big city place to be, where A-listers slipped in with ease, and Z-listers got thrown out, crying. It had become notorious in recent months for the parties it held and the people who wanted to be seen inside it.

I turned to Creed from the front seat. “You think they’re going to let an average Joe like me in there tonight?”

“I don’t think. I know.”

“Bullshit.”

He leaned closer and said, “Do I look like a bullshitter to you?”

It turned out he didn’t, and he wasn’t. Creed had trained some of the best and most well-known actors and stuntmen in Hollywood over the years, and I was starting to think his connections ran deeper than that of the mafia. For all I knew, the guy could run a mafia of his own. I sure as hell wouldn’t mess with him.

As soon as he approached the four doormen flanking the entryway, it became obvious that Creed had a natural presence no one could resist. With a few handshakes, and a few curious looks my way, we were allowed entry. We headed upstairs to the rooftop bar where the lights were low, the music loud, and the people as plastic as the artificial paradise palms that stood guard in every corner.

It was, quite literally, Hell on Earth.

Regardless, I followed Creed, keeping a strained smile on my face and my body tight while I gripped a bottle of beer with white-knuckle force as we walked through the packed-out rooftop bar. I was a fish out of water. A hermit thrown into a dirty festival of one-upmanship. The air smelled like money, and the people were vomiting it left, right, and center, not a care in the world of what was happening on the streets below them as they lived out their dreams in the night sky.

It wasn’t exactly a rarity for me to recognize people in showbusiness in LA, but it was another thing to find myself partying with them. Going to the same fucking urinals as them. Even passing awkward smiles in dark corridors with them. And it was even stranger to find myself standing next to Creed as he shook hands with the vast majority of people on that rooftop, never once failing to introduce me as though we’d been lifelong buddies who’d known each other through every one of our successes or tragedies. That was his ability.

Creed made you feel like you belonged.

The only problem with that? I didn’t want to fucking belong. Especially not in circles where I knew the drink in their hand was for show, while the excess powder around their noses and the pinball eyeballs were the things to show me the truth behind the masks they’d so carefully constructed for themselves.

After a couple of hours and a few beers, I was ready to leave…

But then Creed slapped me on the back and began to introduce me to the thirty-fourth person of the night, and I recognized him instantly.

Jasper Jacobson.

Lead guitarist of Envy-98.

Fuck!

The two of them hugged it out, and then Creed quickly turned Jasper toward me, putting me as the sole focus of the famous guitarist’s attention. I may as well have hadI didn’t save your lead singertattooed across my damn forehead—I felt that exposed.

Jasper stepped forward with a curious smile on his face, his free hand stretched out while his other hugged a bottle of beer. His long blond hair hung down on one side, while the other had been pushed back behind his too-big ear, and his dark eyes studied me a little too closely—the sign of a man who’d had too much to drink as he swayed slightly on his feet and leaned in, waiting for me to shake his hand. I forced myself to take it.

He gripped it hard, squeezing for effect, and for a split second, I wondered if he knew who I was and what I’d done. But then his face lit up like consciousness had flooded back into his brain, and his eyes brightened.

“Nice to meet you, man,” he said in his Canadian accent. “A friend of Mark’s is a friend of everyone’s.”

“Thanks,” I offered, keeping it simple as I pulled my hand away and tucked it into the pocket of my jeans.

“So, you’re a fighter. Must be a damn good one if this guy brought you along tonight.”

“He’s put me through my paces a couple of times, but I’m no pro.”

Jasper’s eyes searched mine, and they narrowed again, making me nervous. The guy was wasted, and I didn’t know how to play it the fuck cool around these people.

“You don’t have to be a pro to be able to handle your own business,” Jasper said. “And you…” He raised his beer bottle closer to my face. “You’ve got that look about you. The one that tells me you’ve got a lot of shit hidden behind that calm exterior you’ve got going on. You’re a monster beneath those good looks, aren’t you?”

I was about to ask him what the hell he meant when Creed’s arm came around my shoulder, and he jerked me into him. “I’ve only sparred with him twice, but I know a warrior when I see one.”

“That you fucking do!” Jasper cried, throwing his beer up in the air before he brought it down to his mouth and drained the contents in one. His head came back up sharply, making him sway on his feet a little before a young blonde woman slid under his arm, allowing him to use her as a means to prop himself up. She eyed Creed and me with a sly smile that spoke of victory. I didn’t think Jasper had a fucking clue who he was holding onto anymore. Nor did he care.

“You said the same thing about Cole when we were shooting that video in Japan,” he said, jerking his empty bottle at Creed. “Remember? You called him a natural-born killer.”

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