The Spiral Down (The Fall Up #2)(25)

Yet, to hear Nikki tell it, I was still gay.

“No, I didn’t think you needed to know! Because I’m not f*cking gay!” I roared. “I told you on our second date that I was bisexual. Wait. You are right about one thing. I didn’t tell you Shannon was a man. But who f*cking cares? You sure as shit didn’t while I was balls-deep in Neil’s ass.”

“And it ruined us!” she shouted back.

“No offense, Nik. But I’d had ass before you. It wasn’t exactly my first time.”

She scoffed. “Real classy, Evan.”

“And you calling me gay is?” I barked a laugh. “This entire conversation is ridiculous. Jesus f*ck. How did we get here? I’ve been waiting for over a week to get the chance to talk to you. To tell you that I do care about you. Maybe not the way you want me to, but I do. And this is what I get? Fuck.”

“I just want you to accept who you are so you can finally be happy,” she whined.

After marching to the minibar, I retrieved a bottle of beer. My patience was gone. I didn’t even know the woman on the other end of that phone anymore.

“I think the only thing that I’ve accepted during this conversation is that we’re done. And, if you want my opinion, if this is how you view me, we never should have been together in the first place.”

“Evan!” she screeched.

“I’ve got to go. I’ll be home tomorrow night. Please have your shit out of my house.” I pressed end and tossed my phone on the bed, wishing I could have thrown it against the wall instead.

I drank beer after beer while staring at a tiny, black spot on the ceiling above my bed. I imagined I was flying. Gliding down through the clouds—only a tiny speck of the world below peeking through. It infinitely relaxed me, and slowly, my anger toward Nikki washed away. She didn’t understand. She couldn’t. Hell, I didn’t even understand myself half the time. But there was one thing I knew: I wasn’t wrong for being who I was.

I found the remote on the nightstand and set about mindlessly flipping through the channels on the TV. Nothing caught my attention, and before I’d realized it, I had looped back around to where I’d started. Pressing the On Demand button, I hoped there was a movie I hadn’t seen.

I must have hoped entirely too hard, because I got several.

Front and center on the screen was a previously purchased folder, and though the icons were small, it was impossible to mistake them as anything but porn.

I quickly clicked the folder, and then I gaped before I lost it completely. Howling with laughter, I took in the titles of the videos that had been purchased.

Transformer Trannies, G.I. Jack Off, He-man: Uncut, and last but not least, Spock It To Me.

Yeah. Henry Alexander was a lot of things, but subtle was definitely not one of them. And I was quickly realizing he was shameless too.

But he also made me laugh.

I glanced behind me and saw that the clock only read nine fifteen.

I should have ordered up some room service for dinner.

I didn’t. Against my better judgment, I snatched a pair of jeans from my bag and went to the hotel phone.

“Yes. My name is Evan Roth. I believe my boss left a ticket down there for me? Right. Of course. Also, I’ll need a cab. Perfect, thanks.”





I WAS HALFWAY through my set, and Evan still hadn’t showed. It had been a long shot, but I was disappointed all the same. For as many times as I’d scanned the front row for him, Jessica and Tabitha may as well have gotten a private performance. My bassist had even noticed my overwhelming interest in that side of the stage and started blocking me in an effort to get me moving around more.

I’d slapped his straight ass. The crowd had roared.

He’d probably quit. Meh. It was still worth it.

My biggest concern at the moment was: Why was my biggest concern at the moment where the hell Evan was? Why was this guy affecting me like this?

It wasn’t even the chase anymore. I’d just really liked the idea of him watching me perform.

Apparently, I was wrong. That was my biggest concern.

Thousands of people were waving cell phones in the air and singing along to lyrics I’d written on a pad of paper while sitting on Levee’s old garage-sale couch when we’d been just two broke kids with dreams. And there I was, giving them a lackluster show because I was lost in thoughts about a man I had little to no chance with. And, even if I had a chance with him, it would be a fleeting experience.

It always was.

With a resigned sigh, I moved to the center of the stage and signaled to the guitar tech. He came rushing out with my guitar and stool.

“How’s it going so far, Los Angeles?”

The place went nuts in reply.

“That bad, huh?” I laughed, adjusting my mic stand. “Come on. Let’s try that again. I said, ‘How’s it going, Los Angeles?’”

My lids drooped as I filled my lungs with the mixture of sweat and smoke from the pyrotechnics that had long since been programmed into my olfactory nerves as the smell of home. My body soaked up the loud roars of a crowd, readily transferring them into the fuel that drove me through utter exhaustion.

That feeling of complete and total adoration was why I devoted so much of my life to my work. Friends and colleagues who had been prevalent in the industry when I’d first started had all gradually slowed over the years. Most had taken a step out of the spotlight, opting to work on smaller projects in exchange for time with their family or the anonymity needed to enjoy lazy days on the beach.