Page 59 of Filthy Rock Stars

Adrian squares his shoulders, and his mood has shifted. His eyes narrow into an icy stare, and when I stare back, defiant, I notice his bulky muscles tense.

“If you tried to leave this band, Shadow, I would fucking destroy you.”

He says it so simply, so matter-of-fact, it’s terrifying. But it’s not myself that I’m thinking about.

It’s Nico. If these two knew about me and Nico, they might come for him with just as much venom as Adrian is using to threaten me right now.

Fuck. I’m trapped. I dart my eyes to Elle, but she doesn’t flinch, clearly with Adrian on this.

“Maybe,” I say, shooting back a cocky smile because it’s my best defense. “Or maybe I’d destroy you. Maybe I’d tank every concert and share your most humiliating stories with the press.” I cross my arms over my chest and dart my eyes between Adrian and Elle. “Maybe if you pull one more fucking stunt with Kissing Dirt, we’ll find out.”

“Or maybe you’ll slack off like normal,” Elle counters, her voice tired. “Take a week or two, Shadow. It’s been a while since you fucked off, and we could probably all use the break.” She glances to Adrian, who gives her a nod.

I have an urge to push it, but when Elle creases her forehead, I decide to take the out. I need to come back to this with an actual strategy in mind.

“You don’t have to ask me twice.” I turn to walk out of the loft. “Have a shitty couple weeks, guys!”

“Fuck yourself sideways, Shadow,” Elle calls after me. “And don’t forget about the show in LA.”

The second I’m in the garage, I let out an enraged roar and kick the concrete wall. Even an impulsive threat to quit the band got me nowhere, and I’m not sure I have any more cards up my sleeve.

I sit on my motorcycle, idling in the alley behind the loft building. It’s fucked up, but the only two people I can think of to call are my lawyer and Nico. I need advice, like serious perspective, but who can I turn to? Even Cutter, the one member of the band I actually like, might inadvertently leak the info, same for any of the friends I’ve made touring with other rock bands over the years. There are plenty of people I can share a beer with, party after a show, but who could I trust with this?

Shit. Am I really this alone?

Except I’m not. Up until a couple months ago, I might have been alone, although I didn’t realize it. But now there’s at least one person I can honestly talk to. Someone I’m starting to trust in ways that scare the shit out of me.

He picks up immediately when I call.

“I talked to her.”

“You did? How did it go? No, wait. Where are you?”

“Just on my motorcycle. And it went, uh… complicated.”

“Shadow!” Nico yelps, alarmed. “You can’t talk and drive.”

I laugh, pleased that he cares and not at all surprised his brain went straight there. “I’m parked. Don’t worry. Do you want to meet up?”

“Yes,” Nico answers quickly, his voice lifting. “Oh, but there’s a small problem.”

“What’s that?”

“If there are two people waiting outside my apartment all day, one in a car and one on the street, and they both have cameras, and they both keep looking at my building...”

“Paparazzi,” I confirm. That normally wouldn’t happen from a guest spot on a late night talk show, but the feud has made things special for us.

“What should I do? I guess I can just walk to my car like normal.”

“They’ll follow you. What’s your place like? Is there a back exit? Side fire escape? Anything like that?”

“There’s a fire escape out back. In the alley.”

“Perfect. Text me your address. When I pull up in the alley, climb down. Just wrap a scarf over your face first, in case one of your neighbors is nosy. Don’t want pictures online.”

He sighs. “This is really what I have to do now, isn’t it?”

I wince. I’m not going to tell him it’s easy. Fame is hard, and his first taste of it is a strong dose.

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