Cosmic by celeste, p.2
Cosmic by Celeste, page 2
For a little while, at least, she doesn’t mind being alone. The night is full of possibilities, and her nose is still alive with memory, lavender, pepper, iris, and the faint, metallic thrill of a star being born.
CHAPTER THREE
The walls pulse with bass, and every molecule in the air is electric. Winter Daggers is thirty seconds into their fourth song, and already half the crowd is hoarse from screaming. The venue is one of those Berlin warehouses repurposed into a cathedral of sound: concrete pillars, steel rafters, every surface sweating with condensation, and the raw collective energy of 1,500 bodies.
Stage left, Thad Hastings’ boots grind into the platform, sending up a soft, satisfying squawk from a monitor. His hair, damp and ungovernable, hangs over one eye in a sheet of golden static, the rest matted to his temple. He’s dressed like a fever dream of the 1970s: velvet blazer in bruised midnight blue, no shirt, high-waisted pants the color of old whiskey. Across his exposed chest, a constellation of tattoos writhes and dances with each chord he wrenches from the guitar.
The house lights cut out, replaced by a volley of laser beams that sliced the haze into ribbons of viridian and neon pink. For a moment, Thad is a silhouette only, a scarecrow cutout with a Fender jagged at his hip and a mic stand swaying dangerously close to the edge of the pit. Then the strobes hit: a snap sequence, white and blinding, and the crowd surges as if physically yanked toward the stage.
He’s always known how to work a room, but on nights like this, it feels less like performance and more like possession. He stalks the edge of the riser, fingers spidering up and down the fretboard, lips peeled back in a half-snarl, half-grin. The music is violent, and the sex braided together; sharp, relentless, and sweaty. The drummer, a slip of a girl with arms like steel cables, keeps time with merciless precision. Bass is a low, throbbing predator, stalking the lead. The synths shimmer above, glassy and cold, punctuating the din with moments of jagged clarity.
Thad’s voice, when it comes, is rough silk. The lyrics are all doomed romance and barbiturates, delivered with enough conviction to make every heart in the house believe they were written for them. “You, in the dark / Come undone / I’ll take the fall, baby / If you bring the gun-”
The last word is lost to a detonation of fireworks along the stage lip, magnesium-bright, scattering the first rows with flecks of ash and applause. He rakes a hand through his hair and leans into the microphone, letting his breath ghost over the mesh for a hot, intimate moment before retreating.
Between verses, he prowls. The crowd is a single organism, arms undulating, mouths open and hungry for whatever comes next. Some are here for the music, some for the spectacle, and a few for Thad himself; he can spot them in the flashbulb glare, the way their eyes never quite leave him, even as bodies jostle and swirl around them.
He lives for this: the feedback howl, the adrenaline kick, the holy certainty that for the next two hours, the world belongs to him. Here, he is everything: an idol, an animal, a priest. He hurls himself into the next chorus, guitar swung low, neck veins standing out as he rips through the bridge. A girl in the front row claws at the security barrier, her face streaked with glitter and mascara, mouthing every word. Thad locks eyes with her, holds the gaze for two complete lines, and she breaks, hands over mouth, overwhelmed.
To his left, the drummer ratchets up the tempo, a grin splitting her face as she cues the rest of the band with a raised eyebrow. They know the signal. It’s a hairpin left into an unrehearsed riff, a trick Thad pulls only when the energy’s this thick in the air. The band follows, half a heartbeat behind, then perfectly in sync. The song evolves into something longer, rougher, a living organism that refuses to end. The light show responds in kind, the lighting designer reading the mood and dialing everything to eleven; red, then strobing white, then darkness punctuated by ultraviolet stars.
By the time they careen into the final chorus, the room is in chaos. Thad throws his head back, sweat flinging in an arc, and screams the last verse until his throat shreds. The house responds in kind, a tsunami of noise and hands. As the song skids to its end, he crumples to his knees, riding the decay of the feedback, one hand pressed to his heart as if to keep it from bursting through his ribs. The ovation is instant and absolute.
He kneels there, gasping, fingers still twitching on the strings, for a full five seconds before the lights go black. The city outside doesn’t exist. There’s only the aftermath and the promise of more.
The greenroom is a crime scene of excess, half-empty liquor bottles, shredded setlists, cigarettes smoldering in glass vases, and bodies draped over every available surface. The air is so thick with sweat and perfume that it’s a wonder the fire alarm hasn’t choked. Thad is wedged into the deepest corner of a battered leather sectional, legs stretched out and boots propped on a crushed road case, an open magnum of Veuve clutched in his left hand. There’s a blonde on his lap, twisting a lock of his hair around her index finger, and a brunette perched on the armrest, thigh pressed to his shoulder, laughing at something he only half-remembers saying.
“Deine Augen sind wie… how do you say, ” He stops, searching the ceiling for the right word, even though he doesn’t care. He knows exactly how to say it in English, but it’s more fun this way. “Sterne? Is that it?”
The blonde tilts her head, blue eyes wide. “Like stars,” she says, accent deliciously thick, and she pronounces it ‘stahrs.’
“That’s it. Your eyes are like fucking stars.” He says it too loudly, but no one is listening except the girls, and that’s the point.
The brunette leans in, her lips close enough to brush his ear. “And what about my eyes?”
He considers her, then tips the bottle so a cold splash of champagne lands in her empty flute. “Yours are more like a night sky,” he says, softer. “Deep. You could get lost in there.”
She grins and clinks her glass against his. “Smooth, Hastings.”
“International language,” he says, raising his eyebrows and the bottle in tandem. “Seduction doesn’t need grammar.”
The drummer perched nearby with a group of roadies cackles. “Jesus, Thad, are you writing a Lonely Planet guide to European hookups?”
He toasts her with the bottle. “Someone’s gotta do the research.”
The blonde giggles and slides her hand up his thigh, fingers expert even through denim. The room is full of these little experiments, perfect moments of possibility. The crowd outside is gone, but the aftershocks linger, rattling everyone’s nerves enough to make them reckless. A line of fans waits by the loading dock, cell phones raised, desperate for a glimpse or a selfie or, if they’re lucky, an invitation.
The bassist wanders by with a crate of cheap beer and two redheads in tow. “You coming to the afterparty, or is this it for you?” he asks, nodding at Thad’s lapful.
“Depends, who’s throwing it?”
The brunette whispers something in German to the blonde, who giggles again and nuzzles into Thad’s neck, her breath sweet with schnapps. He grins, feeling a tug of genuine anticipation. The chaos of the tour is brutal, but tonight, it’s a welcome lubrication. He can already taste the hours stretching out ahead, liquor, laughter, city lights, then a bed or two or three. He’s never had a problem sharing.
The backstage slowly empties as the band and entourage migrate to the waiting fleet of vans. Thad scoops up his coat and the girls, their arms looping around his waist and neck as if this is how they’ve always walked together. The ride to the hotel is a blur: bass vibrating through the vehicle, the girls pressed close and whispering, sometimes in English, in German, always conspiratorial. He slips them handfuls of strawberries from the minibar, and they feed each other, juice-slicking their fingers and lips.
The hotel is all glass and steel; the penthouse suite is a parody of opulence, with mirrored walls, velvet curtains, and a king bed so massive that you could drown in it. Thad watches the girls take in the room, wide-eyed, then tosses his jacket over a lamp and pours three glasses from the bottle on ice. The city unfurls below, a smear of red and yellow lights, every window another story unfolding.
He toasts them: “To Berlin. To tonight. To whatever happens next.”
The blonde winks, takes her glass, and sets it on the nightstand without drinking. She pulls Thad down onto the bed, her lips already parting, and he falls into the kiss with no resistance. The brunette joins them, first tentative, then urgent, hands in his hair, tongue flicking at his earlobe, the glide of her leg as she straddles his thighs. They taste of sugar, cigarettes, and sweat.
The girls are as different as day and dusk: the blonde, sweet and relentless, biting at his lower lip, nails tracing hard, pink lines down his back; the brunette all mystery, drawing out every second, savoring each new inch of skin she uncovers. Thad lets them set the pace, and when the blonde peels his shirt away and runs her tongue over the inked geometry of his ribs, he feels her smile against him.
“Nice art,” she says, tracing a tattoo with her fingertip.
“Got it in Paris,” he murmurs, then lets out a low groan as the brunette sinks lower, teeth grazing his hip. “Maybe I’ll get one here, too.”
The blonde laughs and pushes him back, then slides over him, guiding his hands to her waist. She smells like vanilla and something sharp and expensive. Her hair drapes around his face as she rides him, the light catching every movement in stuttered, slow motion.
The brunette is content to watch at first, running her hand up and down Thad’s chest, kissing the blonde wherever she finds bare skin. But soon, she can’t help herself, and she wedges in between them, licking and biting, then shifting to straddle Thad’s face while the blonde gasps and moans above him.
He adapts instantly, palms anchoring her thighs as he works his tongue, coaxing soft whimpers that quickly rise to cries. The blonde leans forward, breasts pressed to his chest, and they kiss messily over the brunette’s shoulder, all three of them connected and desperate, the room spinning around their bodies.
When the blonde comes, she arches and yells, riding the sensation down before collapsing onto his chest. The brunette shudders a minute later, her thighs clamped tight on his head, then melts to the sheets, sighing something in German that he can’t quite translate but feels in his bones.
He shifts, cradling them both, one in the crook of his arm, the other sprawled across his legs, hair tangled together in a single sweaty curtain. The city outside is a blur, the world reduced to this room, these mouths, this impossible abundance. Thad closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of sex and champagne, and lets the exhaustion flood his limbs.
He’s never felt more alive.
CHAPTER FOUR
The light in the penthouse suite is the cold, blue kind that slices through blackout curtains no matter how carefully you pull them. Thad wakes to the smell of coffee and the dull throb of a hangover already gathering behind his eyes. He rolls onto his back and gropes for the remote, killing the TV that someone left playing static all night. The girls are gone. Only lipstick prints on the empty champagne flutes and a tangle of hair on his pillow remain.
For a while, he lies there, one arm flung over his face, letting the ache and silence settle. This is his favorite part of his tour mornings: the hour before real life crashes in, when the only requirements are to breathe, hydrate, and pick the right playlist to jumpstart his blood. The suite smells of sweat, sugar, and stale alcohol. It feels lived-in, even after one night, which is how he likes it.
The room service cart is where he left it, plates stacked with croissants, berries, and a charcuterie arrangement he barely remembers ordering. He pours a glass of orange juice, drains it in three gulps, and then attacks the coffee, black and violently hot. There’s a note in the looping script, Danke schön! Tucked under the rim of a fruit bowl. He smiles, pockets it, and starts in on a croissant, flakes scattering over the marble tabletop.
The phone rings. Not the cell, which is somewhere in his jeans from last night, but the landline, which never rings unless it’s management, the label, or he freezes, croissant halfway to his mouth.
He lets it ring twice before answering it. “Yeah?”
A woman’s voice. American. Warm, trained, a little rushed. “Mr. Hastings? I’m calling from Ms. Hastings’ office.”
He swallows, voice scraping out. “Natalie?”
“Hi, Thad. Sorry for the early call. Your mother asked me to reach out.”
He can already hear the rehearsed lines in her voice, the careful scaffolding of bad news. “Is she okay?” he says, which is not what he means, but it’s all he’s got.
“She’s fine, but well. She didn’t want me to tell you, but I thought you should know. She’s been unwell.” A pause and the sound of her swallowing. “It’s serious.”
He pushes the coffee away. “How serious?”
“She was admitted for a procedure at Mount Sinai last night. They found something. A tumor. I’m so sorry, Thad.”
He stands, feels the room tilt, and catches himself on the counter. “You’re telling me my mother has cancer.”
“Yes, but she’s stable, and the doctors are optimistic. I’m sorry. She’ll kill me for saying anything, but I thought you’d want…”
He hangs up. It’s not elegant, but he can’t listen to the careful cadence of Natalie’s empathy for one more second. He stands there, both hands pressed to the slick glass counter, head bowed, the city slowly rotating outside the window.
For a while, he does nothing. The silence is deafening. He walks to the window, palms flat against the glass, and stares down at the tiny, tidy world below. Berlin looks so orderly in daylight, clean, reasonable, a place where nothing bad ever happens. The disconnect is obscene.
He finds his phone, thumbs through a forest of notifications, and dials his mother. Three rings, then her voice brighter, lighter, practiced like a monologue she’d given before.
“Darling!” she says. “You’re up early. Or late. Time zones, you know.”
He waits for her to say more, but she lets it sit, a perfect beat of silence.
“Natalie called me,” he says. “You’re in the hospital.”
There’s a pause, then a laugh that’s more performance than joy. “God, that woman. No sense of discretion. It’s nothing, Thad. They’re running tests.”
“You have a tumor.”
Another pause, then a faint sigh. “It’s small. And I’m in the best possible hands.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She’s silent for a long moment, and he can picture her perfectly: perched on the edge of a too-firm hospital bed, robe cinched tight, hair already perfect for visitors. “Because I didn’t want to worry you. You’re in the middle of a tour, darling. These things happen all the time. I’ll be out by tomorrow.”
He doesn’t know what to say, so he sits with the phone pressed to his ear, breathing her in. She fills every silence, always has, and now he wonders if it was ever for his benefit or a shield for herself.
“Are you alone?” she asks, and he can tell she’s smiling, even from five thousand miles away.
“I’m fine.”
She hums, unconvinced. “You’ll finish the shows, of course.”
He shakes his head, even though she can’t see it. “I can come home.”
“Nonsense. I won’t have it. I’m not dying, Thad. I’m resting. Doctors’ orders. I’ll text you a selfie later, prove I’m not falling to pieces.”
He tries to laugh, but it comes out thin. “Okay.”
“Promise me you won’t abandon your fans. Not for a silly little biopsy.”
He closes his eyes and lets her voice wash over him. “I promise.”
They talk a little longer, her questions about Berlin, the tour, whether he’s eating well or subsisting on “vodka and borrowed time.” It’s almost normal, and for a moment, he lets himself believe it will be. They hang up, and he stares at the phone for a long time, thumb hovering over her contact as if he could conjure her back.
He showers, dresses, and sits at the little glass desk to draft an email to management: emergency, New York, family. He types it three times and deletes it, finally settling on a text: Mom’s sick. Need to be in NY. Will call later.
Then he paces, the suite much too small, the view too bright. The restlessness is a physical thing, an ache beneath his ribs. He wants to smash something, disappear, or tear the city down to its foundations. He settles for yanking on his boots and stalking out into the hall.
The band is in the dining room, post-brunch, plates heaped with the wreckage of sausages and bread. The bassist is reading soccer news on his phone, the drummer is playing footsie with a barista, and the guitarist is fighting a losing battle with the espresso machine.
Thad drops into a chair, the table shaking beneath him. “I’m leaving after tonight,” he says, voice flat. “My mother’s in the hospital.”
No one laughs or asks questions. Neil, the guitarist, nods once, sharp as a blade. “Go,” she says. “We’ll figure the rest out.”
The Freddie drummer slides him a cup of coffee. No words, a squeeze of the shoulder that says everything. The band has seen each other through worse than this. The keyboardist, Amy, raises her mug: “To the Queen.”
They clink. For a moment, it’s almost funny. Almost.
He leaves the table and goes to the roof, where the city sprawls in every direction, gray and indifferent. He lights a cigarette, even though he hates them, for something to do with his hands.
The wind is cold on his face. His mother is five thousand miles away, and nothing he’s ever done on stage, no matter how loud or bright or perfect, has ever made her seem as mortal as this.
He stares at the skyline, the taste of smoke bitter on his tongue, and wonders if anything will ever feel truly alive again.
CHAPTER FIVE
At nine sharp, Celeste joins the boardroom tableau: a dozen bodies arranged around a glass slab, white daylight diffused through polarized bright windows, coffee in zero-tolerance mugs, not a fingerprint in sight. The only color in the room comes from hair dye and lipstick, prismatic war paint for a tribe that doesn’t believe in violence but practices it anyway.
