The Singer

PROLOGUE - THE SITUATION

IRIS

SIX MONTHS PRIOR

Vomit.

Vomit all over my boots.

I look up and meet the eyes of the man who has now ruined the boots I bought yesterday. The same eyes that are every fucking where. I don't think you'd escape them if you lived in a cave.

"Sucks." He shrugs, turning towards the stall behind him. He stumbles through the door and drops to his knees as soon as he's standing in front of the toilet.

I take a deep breath, conjuring up the maturity to not break a drunk man's nose. Especially if said drunk man can hire the best lawyer in the country. If I hadn't agreed to come out with Valerie, I would be in my PJs, in my comfy bed, watching Jersey Shore.

This is not the Situation I was interested in seeing tonight.

"I'm gonna go find your friends," I said. There is a very slim chance I'll even be able to find them, but I'd rather run around the club screaming their names than be in this bathroom right now. I'm cursing my bladder for forcing me to use the men's bathroom right now. Maybe I should be cursing this stupid club for not having more than one women's restroom.

He grunts, which holds me back from leaving the bathroom. "Don't bother, they left," he slurs, the sound of him dropping his head onto the toilet seat echoes through the bathroom.

I'm gonna murder the whole band. Then I'll be known as "the girl who killed the band". That's a shit PR move. God, this is so fucked. Valerie ditched me, his friends left him in the club alone and belligerent, and there is grown man throw-up seeping through my shoes.

"Finish your business and give me your keys," I tell him, side-stepping the throw-up on the tile. He only cackles from the other side of the door. No response. "I'm serious, I have no ride, there is no way I'm paying for an Uber, and I didn't drink."

"Fuck no, crazy woman." His clothes rustle behind the door. It opens up revealing the most disheveled man I've seen in my life. Scoffing, I hold out his palm for him to put the keys into.

We lock eyes for a few moments, in an odd standoff of sorts, and much to my surprise he obliges. Scrambling through his pockets, he finally finds the keys and drops them into my hand. I almost jump for joy, grateful to get the fuck out of here. Until my happiness is soon cut short when the man topples over onto the floor.

Fuck me.

❀❀❀

Carrying a drunken six-foot-four man out of a club packed with people was not on my bingo card for the evening. It's not like I'm holding the guy bridal style, he's just kind of slumped over my shoulders. Very ragdoll-esque.

Then it hits me. There are dozens of paparazzi outside the doors, waiting for him. I am no fan of the paparazzi, nor do I want to be seen with America's favorite screw up but I'm at a dead-end.

Shoving both of us through the doors, I practically march through the hundreds of camera flashes. "Excuse me!" I shout, trying to barrel my way through the vultures blocking my path to the private parking garage. I feel the weight move off my back.

"Get the fuck out of our way." The voice shouting and shoving sounds much more stable than it did when I heard it in the bathroom. The speed he is pummeling us through the crowds is insanity, and I'm getting higher off the adrenaline than I have from a blunt.

"Keep your head hidden." He says, close to my ear. A shudder runs through my body and I shake my head to get rid of the feeling.

"No shit." While I'm thankful for him getting us out of this, why couldn't he magically sober up when I was carrying his ass through the club?