Sasha: Why do you go to so many parties, if you hate talking to new people so much?
Me: Because I like talking to MY people while surrounded by new people I can gawk at but NOT talk to. Especially tonight, when we’re celebrating KC’s bday.
Sasha: Aw, wish KC happy birthday for me! Have you performed a birthday dare for him yet?
Me: Not yet. He’s still deciding what brand of humiliation to inflict upon me.
Sasha: LOL. Don’t do anything dangerous.
Me: It’s always all in good fun. Give Mimi a hug for me.
Sasha: Already did. She loves the video. Says she loves you and stay safe.
Me: Love her, too, and you. Tell her I’m fine and mostly traveling by bus on the next leg of the tour.
Sasha: Will do. Goodnight. Have a blast.
My cousin is being sincere when she tells me to have fun. But I can’t help feeling guilty she’s there on a Saturday night, hanging out with our grandma and one of the nighttime caregivers I’ve bankrolled, while I’m at a star-studded party in LA. Not to mention that Sasha works hard at a real job in Chicago—she’s a massage therapist—while I traipse around the world and swoop into town for occasional visits, whenever convenient, like I’m Weekend Daddy after a divorce.
Sasha always says she wouldn’t have it any other way. She’s ten years my senior and always says she’s gotten her partying out of her system. Plus, she always reminds me, she’s a homebody by nature, anyway. “I’m happiest when I’m hanging out with Mimi, reading or knitting,” she always says. “I like sitting still and watching TV.” And so, I bought my beloved homebody her own home last year, where she now takes care of our beloved grandma, along with the caregivers, and mostly believe my cousin when she says she’s truly not the least bit angry with me for continuing to play rockstar.
I send a quick goodnight text to my cousin, stuff my phone into my pocket, and tune back into my bandmates’ conversation, just in time to hear Titus saying, “I think it’s bullshit. I mean, yes, if you’d already gotten to know the reporter, and had done more than spot her across a crowded room, then, okay, calling dibs on her makes sense. But I certainly wouldn’t back off a woman, simply because you spotted her. And I sure as hell wouldn’t back off just because Reed might be interested. Would he extend the same courtesy to any of us? Fuck no!”
“Reed’s more than ‘possibly’ interested,” I interject. “During my ping pong game with Georgina, I noticed Reed spying on her the whole time from behind a bush.”
Everyone laughs at the imagery, except for Titus, who’s shaking his head.
“No way,” Titus says. “Reed must have been standing near a bush, looking at his phone or talking to someone you couldn’t see. I love roasting The Prick as much as anyone, but there’s no way Reed Rivers would hide behind a bush, at his own party, while surrounded by some of the world’s hottest women, in order to keep tabs on a summer intern at Rock ‘n’ Roll.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Georgina’s an intern at the magazine?”
Titus gestures to his pink-haired twin sister, Ruby, our keyboardist, who’s standing nearby talking to our manager, Eli. “When Ruby and I played cornhole with the reporter, she said she’d just graduated from UCLA and that her ‘internship’ with Rock ‘n’ Roll is her first professional gig.”
“I never would have guessed that,” I say.
Titus nods. “Georgina is just a baby. She said she’s turning twenty-two next month.”
I’m floored. I glance at her across the packed room, where Georgina is presently talking to the bass player of 22 Goats—a sweetheart of a guy named Fish. “I never would have guessed she’s that green,” I say. “With all that swagger, I would have thought she’s large and in charge at Rock ‘n’ Roll.” I chuckle. “Well, either way, I know what I saw. Reed was definitely spying on Georgina, from behind a bush, like a goddamned stalker.”
Titus nudges Kai’s shoulder. “Did Reed spy on you when you talked to Georgina?”
“No. Not that I noticed.”
“And he didn’t spy on Ruby and me playing cornhole with her, either. Huh. I wonder why Reed felt the need to spy on her with you, Player.”
I wink. “I guess he’s only worried about the good lookin’ ones, eh?”
Titus flips me off as Kai flags down a cocktail server who’s walking by with a slew of margaritas, and we quickly relieve her of her entire burden. His new drink in hand, our trusty manager, Eli, bids the group farewell, saying he’s going to “schmooze” for a bit. Ruby joins our conversation, and we continue bantering and people-watching as a full band.
“So, have you decided on Savage’s birthday dare yet?” Kai asks his younger brother, Kendrick. Earlier tonight, Kendrick made Kai fanboy all over some blonde actor on a Netflix show I’ve never heard of. And ever since, Kai has been dying to watch me get equally humiliated.
For the past ten years, on each of our respective birthdays, Kendrick, Kai, and I have played a shitfaced game of “Birthday Truth or Dare.” Although calling it that is a misnomer by now, since we’ve long since taken the “truth” option off the table in our game. Why waste the chance to inflict humiliation in order to ask some stupid question we probably already know the answer to? Kai and Kendrick are brothers, after all, and I’ve known them both for well over ten years.
“Not yet,” Kendrick says, answering his brother’s question about my dare. “I’m still weighing my options.”
“Oh my gosh!” Ruby blurts. “Savage was right about Reed and the reporter! Look at Reed now, guys! He’s totally spying on her from across the room!” We look to where Ruby is indicating and discover Reed covertly staring at Georgina while she chats with the guys from Watch Party. Almost certainly, it’s Zach Rosendo—their frontman whom everyone calls Endo—who’s attracted Reed’s eagle eye this time. That dude’s definitely got a reputation as a lady killer.
“I just decided on my dare,” Kendrick declares, his mischievous gaze trained on Reed. He looks at me, smiling wickedly and rubbing his palms together. And, instantly, I know what’s coming.
“Aw, fuck. No,” I mutter.
“You’re not allowed to say no,” Kendrick reminds me.
“I know the rules, motherfucker. Do you?” I’m referring to rule number one of our game. Namely, that the birthday boy can’t pick a dare that’s likely to maim, kill, or send his victim to prison. Rule number two is that the birthday boy is king—a deity whose dare can’t be refused, as long as it complies with rule number one. And, finally, rule number three is that the dare has to be something that can be performed on the spot. In other words, birthday dares can’t be some elaborate prank or hoax that would require weeks of planning.
Kendrick smiles. “Yeah, I know the rules. And I promise no bodily harm will come to you. The only thing that could possibly happen to you, in theory, is that you’d get onto Reed’s shit list. But you’re already there. So, really, there’s no downside.”
He’s right. I’ve been on Reed’s shit list for a while now, despite all the money my band makes him—powered in large part by me, personally. All because, years ago, I hit on his little sister, Violet, at my first Reed Rivers party, without having a clue who she was. This was long before Violet met her husband, Dax, the lead singer of 22 Goats. And, frankly, she seemed pretty receptive to my flirting, as I recall. And yet, Reed’s held it against me, ever since.