Fame can be a two-faced bitch. More often so lately than back in my twenties.

Running my palm over my scruffy cheek, I drink in the crowd packing The Black Lagoon. I don't hate blades or shaving per se, but I hate the fact that I have to do it religiously day after day when I'm on tour.

Ditching the ritual for a few weeks feels good. Makes me feel...more human.

"Back to the studio in January?" Tony, one of the bouncers working for Marvin, grins at me from his spot across the table. He shoves a handful of onion rings in his mouth.

Marvin, the owner of the joint, went all out when I told him I was going to stop by to see my nephew, Jake's, band. He called in extra security and loaded our table with every item on his menu. Not that it's that big of a menu. The Black Lagoon is no Spago. Either way, I don't have much of an appetite. I'm still on European time.

"You know what they say. No rest for the wicked." I nod, watching Jake talk to his bandmates. Reminds me of my own first show here. Back when I still somewhat worshipped my famous jerk of an uncle, Elijah, when his opinion about my music still mattered to me, when my best friend Chance was still clean and sober. When we were merely local guys full of dreams, ready to kick ass, ready to rock 'n' roll. We had no clue our first EP would blow up the Billboard charts a few years later. We just wanted to play music. Dirty, loud, and unapologetic music.

"You need a break, man," Tony says, shaking his head.

Tonight, he's undercover, sporting a blue Dodgers jersey and a pair of sneakers.

TMZ rarely stalks me all the way to Tahoe, but since a leaked copy of my divorce is the hottest Twitter trend at the moment, having extra security by my side can never hurt.

At the start of my career when I changed my last name, my publicist hired a few computer wizzes to clean up my presence on the net. The things money can buy. Elijah isn't listed as my uncle anywhere. Not on my Wikipedia page, not in any of the fan clubs or socials. Press is not allowed to ask about my relation to the infamous Hale. Fuck that asshole and fuck The Gates of Hale legacy. I made it okay on my own.

"It's time to write another album, brother," I say, watching the crowd.

It's not that I disagree with Tony—after over a decade of nonstop touring I could definitely use some rest. The short breaks we took in between were always deliberate, always coinciding with our longings to be back in the studio. It's become as routine as brushing our teeth. The question is whether we need another album right now. We've got six of them. All platinum.

I shake off the unsettling feeling and take a sip of my beer that I've been nursing for almost ten minutes. Alcohol doesn't have the same hold on me that it does on my soon-to-be ex-wife. Nikki has been to rehab more times than she's done the red carpet. I consumed my fair share of booze and drugs in my twenties, but a sense of self-preservation kicked in after my first and only overdose. A wake-up call like never before. After that, the desire to keep getting fucked up dulled down on its own. I can still have a drink or two and be able to stop if needed, which makes me think that maybe I was never into that shit in the first place. Everyone in the band was doing it because it was cool, because that's what a bunch of dudes with tons of cash coming in do when they're on tour.

Play a show. Get fucked up. Bone some chicks. Pass out. Wake up. Repeat. Week after week. Year after year.

Until someone slips.

Chance was the one who slipped.

Tony's voice pulls me back out of my reverie. "You've been on the road for two years now."

"I'll rest when I die," I mutter, relaxing on my bench.

The booths weren't here eighteen years ago. Marvin's remodeled since then. The Black Lagoon isn't just a dive bar now, it's a dive bar with class where rich assholes like me can hide out in so-called VIP sections. I laugh internally at Marvin's idea of VIP. It's just a fucking booth. And despite my pleas not to bring attention to my spot, he did put two extra bouncers nearby...in case people want an autograph.

Pulling the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, I close my eyes and inhale the sharp smell of alcohol, cigarette smoke, and sweat—the smell of live music. People are fools for thinking being in a rock band is glamorous. It's anything but. The only glamorous thing about The Deviant is the posters. We're bad motherfuckers in full gear, with our war paint and our stage costumes. Women all around the globe, and I suspect men too, want to lick us from head to toe. Sex appeal sells. And we're going to keep selling it for as long as we can.

The first sounds of music blast through the bar like a merciless tornado. I can hear every mistake the mixing board guy is making, but I don't think this crowd can tell the difference. If they haven't worked with mine, they don't know what a good sound engineer can do in a place this small.

Jake has always been into more aggressive music. He's breathed Metallica since he was a toddler. If he wants to scream his guts out on stage, it's his call.

My eyes drift open when the first song comes to an end and I take in the sight of the raging crowd. They seem to enjoy the music. I do too. I like the rawness of the sound.

Tony shakes his head to the beat. "Jake is killing it."

I agree.

The thought of posting a short video on my Instagram does cross my mind, but deep down I know this can lead to a potential disaster. Any other time of the year, sure. But not right now. Not three days into my vacation. This tour cycle has been brutal. The only human interaction I can bear tonight is with Tony and Jake.

I film a few segments with my phone and send them over to May.

She texts me back before I finish typing my note explaining that it's Jake's band.

May: What's this?

Justice: My nephew's band.

May: Are you in Tahoe?

Justice: Yes. Post this on my Instagram in two hours.

May: Why are you in Tahoe in the middle of the divorce clusterfuck?

Justice: Your point?

May: The press is crucifying you.

Of course, TMZ got their hands on the divorce papers before my soon-to-be ex-wife was served.

Justice: Tell me something I don't know.

May: http://www.tmz.com/2017/1/17/nikki-deville-says-justice-cross-has-a-short-fuse/

I clench my jaw and click on the link I receive from May. Blood starts pounding behind my ears as my eyes sweep over the text. Fucking Nikki. She's always been the drama queen, but calling me violent is a new low. I swallow hard and shove my phone into the pocket of my jacket. How the hell did the two of us stay married for seven years?

Lesson learned, Justice. Don't ever date an actress!

The music is suddenly too loud and too heavy, and I feel like someone just shoved a hammer at me to crack my head open. I suck in a breath through my teeth and glance at the crowd. The white clouds of fog spilling from the tiny stage mist the floor. The bodies twitching to the drumbeat give the place a dark, horror-movie-asylum feel. I like chaos, but not when it takes over my life completely. Like when Chance died or like right now when my soon-to-be ex-wife's ongoing domestic abuse allegations are starting to become unnerving.

"You're alright, boss?" Tony yells at me from across the table. His voice drowns in the music blasting through the bar.

"I'm good." I nod, reaching for my phone in my pocket to text May back. When I pull it out, a dozen messages are flashing at me from the screen.

May:Justice? I'm preparing a press release. Tell me something.

Funny thing, but at the beginning of my career, I practiced one simple rule when it came to my personal life. No comment. After I married Nikki, everything changed. Any gossip not contained in a timely manner turned into a fucking abomination.

For a second, I slip into a world of denial where ignoring the TMZ article seems like the best option, but the lie gets under my skin. I've never hit a woman in my life. Not unless she begged me to. If Nikki considers my spanking her in bed those two times we tried to get overly creative a case of domestic abuse, then I'm a fucking ballerina.

Justice:No comment. Just do your magic.

May responds with a thumbs-up emoji, which is her way of letting me know she's pissed because I don't want to personalize the messages she posts for my fans.

Fuck it. I don't owe any explanation to anyone for something I didn't do.

I put the phone away and absently stare at the hazy floor. A smile touches my lips as my eyes take in the sight of the drunk, carefree crowd. They love the band. I can see it written all over their faces, even through the cloud of fog and lights. The frenzy. The desire to hear more. The longing of a release. Hale blood running through Jake's veins is no coincidence. I've been doing this way too long not to know when a set is a success. The ability to read people is a gift, something every performer needs to possess. It's a vital part of the magic called making music.

This is when the streaks of gold enter my line of vision. She's small and slender, moving through the wall of fog and LEDs, and her hair sparkles in the heavy club mist like a star from another galaxy. All I need is a fraction of a second to determine she doesn't belong here. It's not even the funny-looking sweater and the lack of the heavy makeup. She has this strange, almost desperate look on her face, but not desperate for a one-night stand or anything of the sort. It's the kind of desperate that says she doesn't want to be here. I love the color of her eyes. Amber, like the fire.

"If you want to leave, boss, just let me know," Tony yells at me, chewing on his onion rings. I shift my gaze and give him a nod. Two seconds later when I look back at the crowd, the woman with the golden hair is gone.