Behind the Lyrics by Melissa Riddell
Chapter 30
Viktor Farrow
“What in the bloody hell is this?” I yelled as I read Angela’s text.
First, she said she missed me and was ready to talk, which made my heart soar into the fucking clouds, then she cussed me out and demanded I delete her number.
Bipolar much? I shook my head. No, my angel was a lot of things, but moody wasn’t one of them. I re-read that last text. What the fuck was she talking about? Saw me on TV? Millions of people saw me on the telly. Big fucking deal.
I threw off the covers and jumped out of bed, grabbing the phone as I headed to the bathroom for a piss.
What on earth did she see? In my head, I replayed the concert from the night before. I sang, I signed autographs, then I left my mates and had Clive take me straight to the hotel. That was it.
After returning to the room, I sat in the recliner in the sitting area and turned on the telly for background noise then decided to switch to the entertainment channel, hoping to catch a glimpse of the concert and whatever had set her off.
A story droned about an American actress who’d filed for divorce from her long-time husband. Who the fuck cares, you sorry sots?
A simmering, dark energy lurked under my skin, ready to lash out if I didn’t take the edge off.
I replied to Angel’s message, praying she hadn’t blocked my number.
Me: I don’t know what you think you saw. Trust me, I’ve been a motherfucking choir boy on this tour. No drugs, no women, no alcohol. Not even fucking mouthwash.
Ten minutes passed and no reply.
“Fuck this shit.” I dialed her number.
A polite, recorded message explained she wasn’t taking calls at the moment.
“Fine.” The mobile sailed across the room to land on my rumpled bed sheets, and I stalked to the in-room landline and dialed her again. It rang and rang and rang. “Fuck me.” I slammed the receiver into its cradle, causing a small chip of plastic to break off and bounce on the desk.
Bright lights strobed on the screen, pulling my attention.
Lines of people stood outside the venue from last night. Alan and Justin, always more than happy to autograph tits and whatever else was offered, grinned like fucking idiots.
Then the view moved to me.
What the fuck? There I was, my back to the camera, holding a beer and another woman.
“No. That’s not what it looks like.” I ran to the flatscreen hanging on the wall, as if seeing it closer would make it untrue. But no, from this camera angle, it appeared I’d been drinking and making out with that damn woman.
“That’s not what happened.” I jerked the set off the wall, the rage boiling over until I could only see red. With a sideways toss, I sent the telly careening into the wall. The plug jerked out of the outlet, and the glass shattered against the floor. “Fuck!”
I’d been leaving, ready to go straight to my ride and then to the hotel, when that bimbo called out from behind me. Out of reflex, I’d turned, and she’d flown into my chest, nearly spilling her beer all over my shirt. I’d grabbed the bottle before her drunk arse tipped it over, and she’d pushed into my arms, gushing her undying love.
Stu and his gang managed to drag her off, apologizing profusely for not reacting quick enough.
Fucking media didn’t show the whole story, did they?
My hands squeezed so tightly my knuckles ached. I wanted to punch something or find a hit of anything to take away the pain thrumming through my chest.
No wonder she’s angry if that’s what she saw. Desperation beat inside me to fly straight to the States and beg her to believe me, but that wasn’t the way to handle this.
I had a show tonight—the last before the band jetted to America, but I’d keep trying to reach her. Her assumption about what happened was wrong, and I’d do anything to prove my innocence—even if I had to do so in a roundabout way.
She’d become precious to me, and I wouldn’t let her get away without a fight.
After throwing open the double-doored closet, I snatched some clothes and dressed, thoughts and plans swirling in my head.
Need to tell Andy what I want him to do.