Page 2 of Wild Stars (Rock His World #2)

CHAPTER 2

Mateo

Press is the bane of my existence, but then again, I might be salty because I’ve been fielding it for the last year since my break up with my ex, Edward Haverish. Who just so happens to be Hollywood’s favorite actor at the moment.

Not that Edward doesn’t deserve his successes, but his rising stardom only sours my fucking life.

Seriously, every interview I manage to do, they find some way to bring up the fact Edward is starring in some fucking movie or has been photographed with some fucking guy who’s got two dicks and a front-row seat to Paris Fashion Week or some shit, all the while smugly waiting for me to crumble into a million pieces.

Fucking idiots.

But even I know how to turn on my charm and stare those fuckers in the face and tell Edward and everyone else about my epic tour and my recent cover with Rolling Stone, or my current number one hit, Satellites, which is well on its way to holding its number one spot for the fifth week in a row! After a hiatus of five fucking years!

But no one will even remember my accomplishments carefully pinpointed at tonight’s press junket, because Dare fucking Wylde had to have a damn stroke while trying to give a semblance of an interview, and then go on to live out his Coyote Ugly dreams in Luciano Sylvestro’s kitchen like this event was nothing more than a damn kegger in the woods.

And now he’s upchucking his insides violently, and I am more than annoyed.

I am pissed.

I had retired to Luciano’s observatory to get away from the drudgery of dumbass reporters who want to shove my ex’s latest gold star down my throat, so I could drink and wallow in solitude and do the one thing that makes me feel less alone.

Stargaze.

Luciano’s got an amazing observatory, one that puts mine to shame. I figured I could give my speech, slip away to do some stargazing, and no one would miss me.

At least, not with Hailee around. My sister could do the social thing.

Besides, the press likes her better. She’s younger, prettier. More palatable.

If it wasn’t for her, you wouldn’t even have a comeback.

But I couldn’t even salvage a few moments to myself, because Dare stumbled into the observatory, like a newborn lamb, and I didn’t think. I just... reacted.

Which I never do.

Other people and their bad choices aren’t my problem.

Well, not unless we’ve signed an NDA and agreed on safe words, first.

So why did I give a shit about the Jolly Green Giant all of a sudden?

I grit my teeth, trying to ignore the stench of puke as I gather his thick, dark hair in my fist, holding it back to keep from getting in the way of the repercussions of said bad choices.

Dare groans, and I almost feel bad for the kid.

Because at seventeen years my junior, that’s what anyone under the age of twenty-five is to me. A kid.

I let go of him like he’s made of fire.

No. Absolutely not, Mateo. Now is not the time to play hero. He’s fine.

Dare slumps forward, catching his breath, and I take a step back. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I.

Instead, I just stand there like a lunatic watching him run his tattooed knuckles through his wet, dark, shoulder length hair.

“Fucking hell,” I curse, fighting the overwhelming desire to help the poor bastard up and find him somewhere to sleep off his poor decision-making.

I turn away, because I know nothing good comes from my need to fix people.

I couldn’t fix my ex, and I certainly can’t fix Dare Wylde.

I reach the door and turn around to see Dare lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. The position makes his black tank top scrunch up the sides, showcasing his pale “love handles” as he calls them.

Just because I’ve been out of the biz for the last five years, doesn’t mean I wasn’t keeping tabs on Casualty Record’s newest talent, or his penchant for giving the worst interviews on the planet.

Seriously, his manager should hire him a coach or something.

I half debate waltzing over to where he lays to fix his shirt. But I don’t.

Instead, I take a deep breath, tell myself he’s fine, and I leave.

I shut the door softly, sighing as I put one foot in front of the other.

He’s fine.

Lost in my thoughts, I nearly run right over Richie, Dare’s less annoying brother and Heart Killer ’s bassist.

Though when I say he’s less annoying, I only mean the guy at least has a sliver of a sense of preservation, where Dare is missing that part of his brain, clearly.

Richie is still annoying, with his mop of blond hair, his big blue eyes, and his perpetual “I’m happy to be here” look.

Like they’re well-bred golden retrievers and not rising stars in the music business.

“Your brother’s in there,” I nod toward the bathroom. “If you’re looking for him.”

Richie’s eyebrows furrow with concern.

“I was. Is he?—”

“He’s fine,” I murmur, shooting an angry glare at Richie, whose eyes look more than a little red.

Fuck me.

These damn kids don’t know shit about responsibility these days.

I slide my phone out, jumping to speed dial as I look Richie in the eye.

“You live together, right?” I ask, not trying to give away my concern.

Richie nods. “Yeah. Wait, how do you know?—”

“I’m calling you both a driver. You will text me when you and your brother are safe at home.”

I tap out my text to my driver, who confirms within seconds that he has another driver lined up and on his way to pick up the kid and his brother, Tweedle Dee.

“I— I don’t even have your number...” he drawls.

I sigh in exasperation. Clearly, whatever he’s smoked has eaten up some brain cells, too.

“Your phone, jackass,” I bite.

Richie scrambles ungracefully for his phone in his pocket as I scowl.

He listens, though I am not surprised.

Most people can’t help but obey me when I use my Dom voice.

Not that I want to dominate Richie Wylde or his brother, but sometimes we use what we have to get the result we need.

And right now, I need Richie to make sure his brother makes it home safely.

Lord knows the trouble Dare would get into otherwise.

Richie barely has the phone out in his hand before I tap his screen with mine, transferring my number to him.

His eyes widen as he nods. “Shit, that’s cool, I didn’t even know you could do that...”

“This isn’t a discussion, Richard. You will do as I say, or your manager will hear about this.,” I threaten him, though it is an empty threat. But Dare, Richie, and the others in their band are still so green and I haven’t exactly been around much, so I can use that to my advantage.

Scare him just a little.

As long as Dare is safe at home, I’ll feel better.

God, what is wrong with me?

Why do I give a shit about the kid?

Richie nods as I slide the phone in my pocket.

“Get your brother, and get the fuck out of my sight,” I bark, spinning on my heel and leaving him to his devices.

I traverse the steps, seeing my sister down on the landing, smirking.

“What was that about?” she asks, her violet contacts sparkling under the chandelier.

“None of your fucking business. Are you ready? Or do I have to arrange a carriage for you, too?” I snap.

Hailee rolls her eyes. “I could call it an early night. Get a jump on rehearsals tomorrow. This place is totes boring anyway.”

I nod in approval. Smart woman.

“Stop talking like a damn teenager. You’re thirty-five,” I chastise her, but she only shakes her head.

“You’re thirty-nine, Matty. Not eighty. Loosen up a little,” she retorts, slipping her arm into the curve of mine.

I scowl at her, but she takes it in stride.

“I am too old for this fucking shit,” I say as I gesture around the room. Felix and Duncan McKay—Sullivan Reign’s replacement drummer for the tour—look to be locked in deep conversation while Jinger and Geo are dancing so close I’m half certain they’re glued together, while various other c-list acts of Casualty Records continue to throw back drinks and act like fools. Grinding on girls, spilling their drinks. All while, the big wigs count their stacks and smoke their dumb cigars.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

* * *

Once my feet hit the black marble floor of home, I don’t bother with much more than getting ready for bed.

Hailee breaks away for her wing—the left wing of the house—without so much as a Good Night, which I’m sure some would find rude as hell, but I find more than refreshing.

I know I could technically live on my own, in my own mansion. But after my break up, I didn’t want to be alone. I’d just spent years with Edward, living together, and the very thought of waking up in a house by myself gave me anxiety. It still does.

Thankfully, Hailee and I bought this place when we were just rising stars like Dare and Richie, and she has been occupying the left wing ever since. Plus, the woman knows me better than anyone, so it’s a seamless, easy arrangement.

Together, but separate.

I head for my bathroom, if only so I can wash the stink of Dare’s bad decisions off my skin, off my brain. The hot water always helps center me when I feel out of sorts. It’s not exactly a hot spring in the middle of Iceland during the auroras, but it’ll do.

I run my hands through my hair, letting the scent of bergamot and white sage mixed with eucalyptus fill my lungs. I close my eyes for a moment, the heat infiltrating my senses.

When I finally get out of my shower, I can see the text notification from Richie that they’ve made it home. I breathe a sigh of relief as I towel dry my hair and slip into a pair of silky, tight briefs, and make my way to my bed.

In all the years I’d been with Edward, I never brought him in here.

To be honest, I’ve never brought anyone into my inner sanctum.

I always said it was because I didn’t want any residual energies lingering in my space. I like having my privacy, and I like having things that are just for me. Edward never understood that, even after I moved into his posh home in the valley.

But tonight, as I look at the oversized California King that is nested in the middle of a room full of windows—there is a skylight ceiling and the entire room is made up of floor to ceiling windows—I can’t help but feel a sting of sadness.

The stars shine bright, like they always do, as I lie down in the plush blankets, staring up at the sky, but I don’t feel less alone like I usually do.

Just once I wish I could share this... with someone else.

My chest tightens as I swallow down my sudden emotional thoughts. I shake my head as I get comfortable with the array of pillows and soft bedding, trying not to focus on the chill that comes from sleeping alone.

“You just need a good night’s sleep, that’s all,” I tell myself.

The silence around me is heavy as I curl into my blankets and pillow, alone, closing my eyes.

I let the darkness pull me under.