Unlucky 13

After years of drowning myself in parties, hookups, and pain, all it takes is one viral sex tape to be given a choice: Hide out on an island or lose my trust fund. Having to share a room with the one man I let hurt me is my worst nightmare. I’m the broken shell of the boy he walked away from on the worst day of my life. I hate him almost as much as I hate myself.

Welcome to Black Diamond Resort and Spa… Where the rich and famous go to disappear. Some to relax, some to get sober. For me… It's my last shot, my final chance at redemption. I'm hotheaded. Reckless. Self-Destructive. I don't want to be here, but not doing so means losing everything I've worked my whole life for. It means losing my band. The only family and the only constant I've ever known. They say I have a problem. That I need help. I say it's just part of fame. The drugs help numb the pain. Keep the demons away. I'm doing my best to keep my head down and bide my time until I can go home.

Here, it's different from my crazy, loud, glitzy life. It's quiet and peaceful. No one seems impressed with my celebrity. No one is less impressed than the sexy, aloof member of the cleaning crew. He couldn't care less who I am or why I'm here. He's convinced I'm one of the fortunate ones—and I suppose I am. I've had it all—big houses, the best care, money, fame, and shallow adoration... but I've never been loved. I've never known if people like me for who I am underneath it all or just for my money and fame. And to me... that seems awfully unfortunate.

When I fled my small town home to fly across the globe for a potential job on a remote island, I did it on a whim. And let's just say my parents were not happy. According to them, the journey of self-discovery is not nearly as important as tending the family farm.

A guy in a skirt wouldn't turn a straight guy on, right? I spent the last decade performing next to him. I've never looked at him as more—until I walked in on him in a skirt. He's as broken as I am. We survived our childhood together. And when he's finally trying to embrace the parts his father tried to beat out of him, I can't handle it. He's taunting me with smeared eyeliner and a filthy smile, singing to a sold-out crowd, and it's getting too hot under these stage lights. I can't look him in the eyes. I can't be with him—not like that—but I can't stop thinking about him.