The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea (The Devils #2)(63)

By the time we get to Paris on the third day, I’m so exhausted I look drunk and I’m acting like it too, stumbling over my answers.

“How is anyone supposed to think you’re not on drugs,” Davis snaps, “when you don’t recognize the name of your own goddamn album?” He takes out a tiny silver vial and puts it in my hand. “Do a line in the bathroom and pull yourself together.”

My eyes squeeze tight, so frustrated and despondent I’m on the verge of tears. My entire life seems like an endless cycle of problems Davis has created, which he then fixes in problematic ways.

But I do the line because right now I need a solution, and I do more before I go on stage that night, because—as always—nothing matters more than the appearance of having my shit together.

I’m so tired I forget what city I’m in. “Thank you…” I shout at the end of my set. I very nearly say Berlin, but it feels wrong so I leave the words hanging and somehow get myself backstage.

I blow right past the crew members and waiting fans and head for my dressing room with Ashleigh at my heels. She feels more like a minder these days than an assistant, but as long as she got a brioche from my favorite place over on the Champs-Élysées—the one thing I’ve asked of her all day long—we’re good.

I missed dinner, I missed lunch, and I’ve been running since early this morning with no break, but if I can get these shoes off my feet and a little brioche in my mouth, I’ll make it to the finish line.

I enter the room backstage, ready to collapse on the long black leather couch at the far wall, but come to a dead stop when I only see a bottle of water waiting on the table.

“Where’s my brioche?” I ask, unstrapping a heel.

“Oh,” she says, unable to meet my eye, “Davis said not to get it for you.”

It’s such a minor thing but I feel like I’m going to burst into tears. “Did he say why?” I ask between my teeth. I’m barely holding it together.

“He thinks you gained weight in Hawaii,” she says. “No pastries, no sugar until we get through this.” Her words are hesitant, but it’s clear who’s in charge here and it isn’t me.

Anger burns in my gut. I pinch my lips together, clenching my jaw. Tears threaten to fall, but I squeeze my eyes shut and push them back. I should no longer be surprised, but I am. Is there really nothing about my life I’m allowed to decide for myself?

I take off the other heel and sink onto the couch, pressing my face into my hands and trying to hold it together. I know I’m just tired, and exhaustion makes anything seem worse than it is. But I just don’t have it in me to snap out of it tonight.

Ashleigh’s gathering stuff around the room. She glances over at me as if surprised I’m still seated. “Are you ready for the party?” she asks. “The car’s outside.”

“No one ever said anything about a party.”

She sighs. She’s probably thinking I’m just too careless to have listened before and she might be right. “Someone high up at LVP is throwing it,” she says. “It’s a big deal.”

Except it’s always a big deal. And I’ll be expected to smile and pose and try to stay awake for hours just like I am every night. I’m done. And there’s only one person in the world I want to talk to right now.

I pick up my phone.

Can you talk? Are you free? I text Josh.

Josh: For you, absolutely.

Me: Give me ten minutes.

Maybe I’m leaning on him a little, but how much harm can it do? He leaves for Somalia in a day. It’s not as if I’ll suddenly decide it can be more than this.

I turn to Ashleigh. “I’ll meet you in front in a minute.”

“We’ve really got to go—” she begins and then sees the look on my face and shrugs. “I’ll wait outside.”

I give her a thirty-second head start before I grab my phone and my purse and start walking, and then running, the other way.

I exit through the back with my heels in hand, run across the street and jump in a cab. Ten minutes later I’m entering my hotel room, dialing his number.

His voice, his quiet exhale—they’re like a warm bath I could soak in for hours. I can’t explain why just the sound of his breathing on the other end of the line is enough to make my ridiculous anger about the brioche crack open. I finally let the tears I’ve been holding in fall.

“Are you alright?” he asks, as if he already knows I’m not.

“Yeah,” I reply, but my voice has that rasp it gets when I’m upset.

My feet dig into the plush carpet as if gripping it for balance. I’m here now, alone at last, and I have no idea why I called him. Maybe I shouldn’t have.

“You’re exhausted,” he says. His tone indicates that denying it isn’t an option, and I don’t think I could anyway, not to him. Everything just feels like too much, and I don’t even know what everything is. I can’t seriously be this upset about a pastry. “Are you crying?”

“No,” I whisper. I drop the heels on the floor. “I don’t cry.”

“Of course not.” He laughs, but it’s a gentle laugh and for some reason that makes the tears drip faster. “Tell me why you’re not crying.”

I swallow and turn the lock on the door behind me. “I don’t know. I’m just tired. It was nonstop today, and then I had to perform, and I just…didn’t want to.”