Stars in Your Eyes (Queen/Roger Taylor)

39. Roger

"Roger."

I vaguely compute that I'm naked and either hungover or possibly still drunk. Fucking A, what's that terrible noise? With a groan, I look at the clock on the generic bedside table situated in this generic hotel room.

"Roger, open the bloody door."

I sit up, instinctively pulling the duvet over myself. I sit there groggily, willing reality to kick in. Next to me, the phone rings. Ignoring the angry woman outside my door, I reach over to pick up the receiver.

"Hey, you." Skylar's warm voice permeates my brain, and, at this moment, there's nowhere in the world I'd rather be than curled up in bed with her.

"Sky," I croak, not even realizing till that moment how fucked my voice is. Maybe she's right, and I do need to give up cigarettes.

"You alright?" she asks, concerned, even though I'm the one who should be worried about her. God, I'm a prat, I'm a fool, I'm a--

"Roger, open the fucking door," Dominique yells from the hallway, redirecting my attention back to the situation at hand.

"Fuck," I mutter, sitting up straight, eyes wide open, realizing what day it is.

"Is that Dominique that I hear?"

"I gotta go--"

"Rog--"

"I'm so fucking late, Sky, I gotta go."

Twenty minutes later, Dominique basically shoves me into the hotel suite where the interviewer is waiting. He graciously ignores the fact that my hair is still wet from a hurried shower, and I'm probably still oozing alcohol.

"I haven't done one of these in a very long time," I say to the interviewer as I take a seat across from him, offering up my most winning smile. "So be kind."

"I haven't done one in, oh, ten minutes," the bloke replies jokingly, referring to John, who is laying on the sofa a few meters away, an issue of Melody Maker in hand.

He presses a button on his recorder, and off we go. We're playing Madison Square Garden next week, are we excited? Yes, thrilled. (And nervous as hell, though I'll never go on record with that little morsel of truth). I have the reputation of being the most like a typical rock-n-roller in the band, any truth to that? I'm just as I am, really. Is the punk rock thing real or just a trend? Too early to say, but I'm not convinced it's caught on with the public.

We natter away for a good thirty minutes before he mentions last night's party.

"So who's idea was it to hire strippers?" He gives me a wolfish grin that tells me he didn't mind last night's post-gig entertainment one bit. "Off the record, of course."

"John's," I say flippantly, pointing accusingly at my bandmate. "He's always getting us in trouble."

Across the room, Deaky scoffs. "Do not print that," he mutters, his eyes still on the magazine.

"I know you all have wives and, um, girlfriends, so how do they feel about it?"

I'm about to reply when the door opens, and Paul walks in.

"Fred's ready." The interviewer's eyes light up, and it's clear that Freddie Mercury is the real prize of the day. In the hallway, I can hear Dominique cajoling him to join the interview.

"They're all a bunch of shits," Freddie grumbles, clearly audible to the journalist sitting across from me.

"You promised," she hisses. "The others have already done their bit."