The club has turned into an after party. Under age fans have been ushered out, and in their place are other artists apart of other bands. I see famous youtubers, ones that have definitely been paid to vlog what's going on. There are groupies and management and friends of friends but my mind is still reeling.

Oliver can't sing. Oliver can't sing.

I just assumed everyone in the band could; I mean we auditioned. But I remember, I remember how the only times I've heard him sing are on stage, in stadiums or in little gigs like this, where he can lip-sync, where they can play a track of an auto-tuned version of his voice, where he can fool an entire fandom of people who love and adore that voice.

It's why he doesn't have solos, why he's never front and centre. Because he can't fucking sing.

I don't know what it means, I don't know why they would make him a part of the band if he couldn't sing. I asked him why, what they had said in his audition. But he refused to talk; he had just shaken his head and apologized, before he left, looking for Candice.

Candice, his true love.

I'm stood with a group of people I don't really know, at the edge of the dance floor. They're talking about something about music management, but I don't have a fucking clue. I can see in between a few dancing people, where Candice and Oliver are swaying a little to the music. It's not a swaying song, but Candice is slow on her feet, a bottle in her hand. She keeps drawing Oliver's face close and kissing him tenderly.

My chest tightens.

She's buries her face into his torso, being so much shorter than him, it looks like she's being cuddled by a giant. I see a few people vlog it, snap sneaky pictures on their phones, but it's ok, they've probably been told to.

Neither Candice or Oliver look too happy, but when my and Oliver's eyes meet, his eyes are reddish, his grip on Candice tightens, and he just stares at me.

"What do you think, Scott?"

I turn back to the conversation I was apparently having. Three men are waiting for my opinion on something.

"You don't know where the loos are, do ya?"

They look dumbfounded. I like it. "The bathrooms are just before the fire exit, down there." One of them points.

"Cheers." And I disappear.

.....

The toilets are literally the biggest dive I've ever been in. Spreading shit on the walls might even be an improvement. There are fucking puddles on the floor, puddles of what? No clue, but I'm too scared to even see. There's writing on the walls, some in marker and some that have been etched with a knife or scissors. Who brings scissors into a club?

I only need a piss, and I take one look at the urinals, one ready to fall right off the wall.

Nope.

I take the only available cubicle, and go about my business. I can hear muffled moans in the cubicle next to me, one of which is distinctly a girl's voice. I try not to vomit.

"Scottie, is that you?"

My eyes widen in horror.

"Luke? What the fuck?" I can hear shuffling, and the flimsy wall between his cubicle and mine wobbles. "Don't try and fucking come in here! How did you know it was me?"

"There's a urinal and you're using a cubicle. Of course it's you." I roll my eyes and the girl whose with him giggles.

We both come out of our cubicles at the same time, me alone, and him with a girl so out of it I think she might collapse. She's gorgeous though, tanned skin, dark hair, wearing a playsuit that's become stained from alcohol. She looks familiar.

"I got a mate who's having a party up in the Hollywood Hills."

"So?"

"So let's go! Grab the gang and let's leave this shit hole." Grab the gang? He puts an arm around the drunk girl and pulls her close to him. "What d'you say? You wanna party with some rock stars, love?" She flails her arms about drunkenly and almost falls over.

I don't correct him when he says rock stars, but the words are on the tip of my tongue. We're not rock stars, we're pop stars. But I know he hates it.

Luke fixes his man bun a little, before scratching his chin. "I'm going now but I'll give you the address should you wanna come." He pulls a sharpie from his pocket and grabs my hand. His writing's sloppy already, but drunk it looks like a child has drawn on my arm. I can just about read an address though, and he leaves me, unnamed girl in tow.

"Scottie, are you sure this is the right address?"

"You wanna read my arm again, Demi?"

We stand outside some wrought iron gates of some flashy house in the Hollywood Hills. We're so far above, my ears popped in the Uber on the way up and it was a nice break from the ringing that was there before.

But now the car has gone and left us in the middle of the road, staring up at white walls and cast iron numbers stuck to them; 3389. I can hear the distant thunder of a bass line, presumably on the other side of the gate where Luke has promised us one of the best parties in L.A.

I love parties, nightclubs, ones that are on boats or in basements. I'm almost always with Luke and sometimes Demitri, but I never, ever, go to a party with Oliver. Oliver didn't just act up the clean-cut, he was the clean-cut. He lived and breathed the sober and the smiles and steady road.

And while I love nightlife, while I love getting lost in the music and the crowds who didn't care if you were famous or not (because they were off their fucking faces), there were some parties you didn't go to.

And these were the parties Luke went to.

"We'll stay for an hour or two, to be polite." Oliver and Candice cling to each other, already tipsy, Candice more than Oliver. It's embarrassing Oliver being here, and my cheeks redden every time I look back to him. It's like bringing your high school crush to a college party. He doesn't want to be here, and I really don't want him here.

If I don't belong here, then clean-cut certainly doesn't.

"We're just being polite. Dawn Senate are fucking climbing the billboard charts over here. Face it, we need friends." Demi's right; we know no one in the entertainment industry who's in the same boat as us. Apart from a few small time musicians at home, we'd completely isolated ourselves by only hanging out with each other. Dawn Senate are a pop-punk band with a reputation of fucking shit up. Whether they actually do, is debatable. Sure, they have tattoos and colours in their hair and ripped clothes and one of them had nudes leaked once, but their songs still fucking suck, just like ours do.

I have no intention of knowing them and judging by the look on Oliver's face, neither does he. We're bigger than them everywhere else but the U.S, and if we want to get to the top of the charts, cool by association is our golden ticket into the chocolate factory.

"An hour and a half." I nod to Oliver, and he agrees.

"We're outside mate, can you let us in?" Demitri asks Luke on the other side of the phone, and then a couple of minutes after Demi's explained what he's on about because Luke is already fucked, the gates slowly open, revealing a long, wide and winding path to a large, white house perched on the top of a hill.

I brace for my ears to pop again.