This rockstar life

4.7 Too much

Content: Angst/comfort, aftermath of drink and drugs

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Hammering on the door is having exactly no effect, but I can hear music and laughter from the other side of it, so I know there are people in there. I'd tried both the bars, and the band's rooms, and the 'usual suspects', to no avail and was seriously contemplating pulling the fire alarm when a fan (read: groupie) that I vaguely recognised from the party earlier told me she'd seen him go into one of the suites on the eighth floor. The grey-haired, pyjama-clad guest from the first room I'd tried had not been sympathetic to my quest, but this one seemed more likely. They probably think I'm hotel security or something though.

"I'm not the cops," I yell, "I'm just looking for someone."

Maybe the English accent is reassuring because after a bit of scraping and rattling, the door is opened halfway by a shirtless Nikki Sixx-wannabe clutching a bottle of champagne.

"Chill out babe," he slurs.

"Is Steve Clark in there?"

"Steve 'oo?"

"Clark. Blond hair? Plays the guitar? Probably drunk and falling over?"

The dishevelled creature doesn't speak, but he opens the door slightly wider and gestures vaguely over his shoulder.

"Great, thanks, you've been so helpful," I mutter as I slither past him.

I'm greeted by your typical scene of rock 'n' roll debauchery - roadies, groupies, and assorted hangers-on, spilled wine bottles, white lines on the coffee table, cigarettes stubbed out on the carpet. I don't immediately see Steve, but then the sea of denim and teased hair parts briefly and I spot a familiar red leather jacket. When I get close enough to see the full picture, my stomach drops into my shoes. Steve is draped across a sofa, his head flung back at an unnatural angle and one arm dangling. Everyone else seems entirely oblivious to the unconscious man in their midst. He looks... but, thank god, when I shake his shoulder, he groans and rolls his head around to a less awkward position.

"Steve! Stevie! Wake up!"

He hoists his eyelids up long enough to take an unfocused look at me before letting them fall closed again.

"'Ullo, love," he croaks.

I've never been more relieved and more angry at the same time. I shake his shoulder again, more forcefully this time.

"WAKE UP!"

The eyes flicker open again, "Wha'?"

"Can you sit up?"

With some uncoordinated flailing he manages to shift his upper body round until he's propped halfway-upright against the cushions. Surveying the room with heavy-lidded eyes, it's not certain he even knows where he is.

"Better. Now can you stand up?"

The initial fear, and then flood of relief, has given way to a focused anxiety - people are starting to watch the spectacle, and I don't know who's in the room - industry people for sure, maybe journalists, people who will talk. We need to get out of here. I hold out both my hands, he takes them and I manage to haul him to his feet. With his arm slung round my neck and leaning heavily on my shoulder, we manage to weave through the morass of people to the door and the relative safety of the corridor.

Leaning against the wall for a breather, my hands pressed against his shoulders to keep him from slipping sideways, I contemplate the trek ahead of us.

"We need to go down four floors. So to the lift, and then about six doors along. Think you can make it? Or do I need to get Phil?"

He shakes his head slowly, wincing, "'m fine."