Tom takes a long breath. “I understand that, Jett, but I’m looking at this from another perspective and what I’m seeing is not only your frustration at what is happening, but also your inexperience dealing with being away from someone who means a lot to you. And I’m here to tell you, that is something you are going to have to learn to deal with if Presley is someone you want in your life. Hell, you’re planning on a tour later this year that is going to last for more than six months – you’re going to be away from her for a long stretch of time so you’re going to have to figure out how to cope with that.”
I listen to everything he says and then I turn around and punch the wall. “Fucking hell!” Needing space, I stalk back down the hallway to the stairs and make my way down ten flights of stairs. When I reach the ground floor, I push the door open and find myself in the lobby. A lobby full of fucking reporters who’ve obviously been waiting to catch us.
They see me and rush my way. The only thought I have is that I have to escape and a taxi outside seems like the best way to do that so I head in that direction.
“Jett, what do you have to say to the rape allegations?”
“Jett, why would West rape a woman when he can have any woman he wants?”
“Jett, is it true other members of your band have also raped women?”
They throw question after question at me, each one getting more and more ridiculous and at the last question, I stop and stare at the reporter I think asked it. “What the fuck did you just ask me?”
Excitement flashes in his eyes and I should realise he’s goading me, but I’m too angry to put it all together. “I asked if it’s true other members of Crave have also raped women?”
Anger like I’ve never known in my life shatters all around me. My body is alight with it, and I want to hurt whoever is the cause. Unable to control myself, I punch the reporter. I punch him so hard, he collapses, and blood goes everywhere. Momentarily, I wonder if I’ve broken a bone in my hand because the pain shooting through it is excruciating, but I don’t let that stop me. I bend over the reporter, and thunder, “If you ever fucking ask me something like that again, I’ll do more than break your fucking nose.” Without waiting for his response, I stalk out of the hotel and into a waiting taxi. “Take me to the closest bar,” I bark and settle back into the seat.
What a colossal fuck-up today has been.
And then Presley calls, and what sanity I have left goes to hell in a hand basket.
Oh God, I should not have drunk all those cocktails last night. My head kills, my stomach is rolling and every muscle in my body aches because not only did we drink, we also danced most of the night away. I crawl out of bed and head straight for the bathroom because I’m sure I am going to vomit, however nothing comes up so I make my way to the kitchen in search of headache tablets. And as I walk past the fridge and see the photo of Jett and me on it, I have a vague recollection I was talking to him last night.
Shit, I was. And I’m fairly certain I promised to call him when I woke up. I stumble back into my room to find my phone, clutching my stomach as I go.
He answers on the second ring. “Hi.” Uh oh, he sounds shitty.
I rush to get the words out but my brain hasn’t woken up properly yet and I stumble all over them. “Jett, I’m sorry about last night on the phone . . . sorry I was so drunk, oh God, I think I’m gonna vomit.” I rush into the bathroom and throw up before sinking to the floor and feeling sorry for myself. And then I remember I’ve got Jett on the phone and put it back to my ear. “Are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m still here.” His voice is harsh but when he speaks again, it’s softened a tiny bit. “Are you okay?”
“No, I feel awful. I shouldn’t have drunk that much last night.”
He’s silent for a beat and then his voice is harsh again. “No, you shouldn’t have. And you really shouldn’t have hung up on me. I’ve been going out of my fucking mind worrying about you.”
Goodness, he’s really angry with me. “I’m sorry I hung up on you. I think I was worried you’d be late for your interviews.” The conversation is slowly coming back to me and I remember something about interviews he had to attend today.
“And who were you out with?” he demands to know, still in that harsh voice I’m beginning to hate.
“I was out with Erin.”
“You said something about being with some lawyers. Who were they?”
My mind sorts through my memories, trying hard to remember these lawyers. “Oh them, they were just some guys we were talking to. I was actually trying to hook Erin up with one of them.”
He’s quiet again, and I’m not sure what I hate more – his harsh voice or his silence. I’m beginning to regret making this call. Eventually, he speaks. “I don’t like you being out so drunk with men you don’t know.”
I suck in a breath. “You’ve got to be kidding,” I say in disbelief.
“I’m not fucking kidding, Presley. I was worried sick about you, not knowing if you got home safe and worrying who those guys were and what they could be doing to you while you were off your face. I’m a fucking country away, and I felt useless.”
“Jett, I’ve been out drunk many times in my life before I met you, and I managed to survive all of those times.”