by Max Henry
“You should take some timeout yourself,” Rick says. “Before the schedule fills up close to recording.”
I shunt the cart toward the nearest aisle and cringe at the recognition that spreads across some random chick’s face. “I am.”
“I mean, a proper holiday.”
“I hate the beach.”
He sighs. “You know what I mean. You babysit the guys all tour; take some time to look after yourself while they do their own thing.”
“Yeah. Perhaps.”
The chick glances over her shoulder as I move down the aisle, seemingly to keep tabs on me. She’s not too bad on the eye, but complications are the last thing I feel like at home. I can’t be assed with coming off tours to find some crazed chick camped out at my door—like Emery does.
“Call me when you hear from Jericho.” I disconnect and pocket the phone.
The chick stalls at the end of the aisle, back to me while she spends an excessive amount of time selecting organic cereal. I’ve seen the ploy a thousand times over; pretend to be busy and keep eyes on the target. Let me be the fool rather than risk denial if they make the first move.
I toss my favorite berry muesli into the cart and make my way toward her.
She pulls a box from the shelf, faking interest in the advertising spiel on the back.
“If you have something you want to say.” I pause behind her, my words feathered against her ear. “Then say it.”
She expels a breathy sigh. And says nothing.
“I thought so.”
The woman turns, head tilted back to stare at me with a mixture of shock and arousal.
Bor-ing. “You’re all gutless, and you know what that means?”
She finds her voice, slender fingers pushing hair behind one ear. “What?”
“You’re not interested in anything other than fucking a famous person.”
I leave her gaping, organic oats lax in her hand as I turn the corner.
Seeing Kris find a woman who couldn’t have cared less if he made two dollars on a street corner gave me something to think about those final weeks on the road. The intention has to be right from the get-go. A chick needs to want what’s inside the package before she’s interested in what that package can do for her physically, mentally, and financially.
She needs to love me for me.
And as long as I have the guys to watch over, I don’t see how I’ll find that woman. I don’t have time to dote on a chick. I don’t have the mental space or energy to devote to giving her what she would deserve. And so, I wait. I wait until Rey can regulate himself. Until Kris isn’t a nervous wreck each time we change the schedule. And until I know for sure, Emery won’t be found face down in a pool of his vomit.
I wait for a day that feels as though it’ll never come before I make time for myself.
And where has that left me? Shopping for the basics with the enthusiasm of a packhorse overladen with somebody else’s shit. Because that’s what I am, isn’t it? A fucking beast burdened with the load while everyone else skips along ahead of me, free of the additional garbage.
I reach the end of the next aisle and come face-to-face with the chick from earlier. She pauses, lips curled into a snarl, and slaps one hand to her hip. Now I’m in for it.
“Perhaps it’s you that has the issue if you assume that we’re all out to fuck you,” she says, garnering the attention of a nearby mother who promptly slaps hands over her child’s ears.
“Tell me then.” I take a half-step back and bend forward to rest both elbows on the handle of the cart. “What was the first thing that came to mind when you saw me?”
“Who you are, of course.” She lifts an eyebrow.
“And next?” I match the expression.
Her lips twitch. “That you’re single.”
“Pardon?” I cup a hand to my ear. “Didn’t quite hear what you mumbled.”
“Fine.” She rolls her eyes. “I wanted to hook up.” Her scowl returns. “But you can kiss a second chance goodbye after this.”
I straighten and nudge my cart past hers. “Good thing I wasn’t after one then.”
She recoils at my low tone, stunned silent for a second time.
If the girl has any sense, she’ll stay where she is for a minute or two to avoid crossing paths again.
I’m fucking done with people treating me like an asset. As though I’m some novelty toy that can be used once and put back for somebody else to ravage. I’m mostly done with nosy fucking journalists and the assholes that set their morals aside to earn a quick buck from the snakes. That rat better hope Rick never finds out who they are, or they’ll realize that whatever my privacy was worth, it wasn’t enough.
Not for what I have in mind.
EIGHT
Jeanie
“Nothing Personal” – Night Riots
“Your exclusive isn’t so exclusive anymore.” Charles scoots his office chair across to my desk and places his phone down.
I stare at the latest story on Rey. Or I should say the latest conspiracy theory. Everyone has an angle this past week—including me. Pity mine isn’t restricted to a single band member like their stories are.
“Drivel.” I push the phone his way. “Anybody could summarize why fame would take a toll on a guy.”
Charles leans back in his seat, over the edge of my desk, so that he can stare me in the eye. “So, why does your headline use the word pressure?” He grins.
I minimize the document. “It’s not about the fame.”
“Mm-hmm.” He scoots back to his over-sized monitor.
“It’s not.” Against my instinct to leave it, I spin and dig in. “It’s about what led to the fame.”
He stops clicking the mouse. “His upbringing?” He turns slowly and gives me his full attention.
I nod. “Their upbringing.”
The smirk that livens Charles’s lips is positively menacing. “You’re after Toby too?”
“Why not?” I shrug. “Why should Rey get all the fun?”
I leave him with that thought and turn back to my document, renewed with energy for the exposé. I told Toby I’d rip Rey’s carcass wide open, but after days of allowing the story to simmer and expand in my mind, it became clear that the most direct hit would be on Toby’s ego.
Henceforth, why I write a damning article about how a perfectionist older brother’s pressure led to Rey’s feelings of inadequacy.
I know; I’m a genius.
“When do I get my loan back, then?” Charles asks.
I finish the sentence I work on. “When I get an advance for this.”
“You know Devon doesn’t pay advances.” He scoots across again. “Where will you run it?”
“With anyone who pays enough.”
“Enough being…?”
“The most.” I pause to hammer out the next wave of inspiration.
Chuck watches as I do. “You’re unusually cruel for somebody so cute.”
I snort, eyes on my monitor. “Was that a compliment?”
“Can be.” He shrugs in my periphery. “Can’t be sexual harassment when it comes from a gay guy, right?”
“I suppose.” I type another three paragraphs before I pause to look at him. “Why do you still watch me?”
He feigns fascination, leaning in close with his eyes squinted behind the protection of his glasses. “Curious what evil looks like at work.”
“Get back to what you were doing.” I give him a playful shove, sending him rolling into the file cabinets that join our two areas.
He chuckles, scooting himself back to his side with long legs.
I enter the zone.
My fingers fly over the keyboard; the thoughts come quicker than I can transcribe. With each new angle, I find myself tumbling down a further spiral into what sort of childhood would create a monster such as Toby. Or I should say, a monster such as the one I make him out to be. I should write fiction. The thought makes me snort as I tippity-tap the icing on the cake.
The perfect final line.
The end of a project usually brings joy—a sense of relief that I’ve once again pulled off the incredible. Yet as I stare at the three-thousand-word essay on my screen, a sick dread fills my gut.
Lies. It’s all lies—not that I’ve had an issue with that before. But this is personal. I don’t merely attack their career or their content. I attack who they are as people, outside the world we follow.
“Having second thoughts?” Charles’s question snaps me from my reverie.
“Not at all.” I save the doc and then promptly Airdrop it to myself. “Marveling at my masterpiece is all.”
“Evil woman,” he mutters, reclined in his seat while he positions an ad on the screen.
“I’m out for lunch.”
“It’s ten-thirty.”
I gather my hip-purse and sling the strap over my body crosswise. “I’m hungry and in desperate need of caffeine.”
“Fine, but don’t expect me to cover your ass if you take second lunch at the right time.”
I pat the dude on the head and lean down to kiss his cheek. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The new article burns against my hip the entire walk down the block to my favorite little hipster joint. The people here are an eclectic mix of stereotypes that never fail to inspire the extra bullshit I pepper my articles with.
Armed with a fresh Americano and a spot in the late-morning sun, I nestle myself in the corner beside the street-front window and dig out my phone. The milky foam hits my top lip with a satisfying warmth, thumb flicking through to the newly minted words.
I read it twice, making simple adjustments to my prose and timing before I’m satisfied that I’ve created a believable lie.
And yet, I still can’t muster the bravery to send it to Devon for an initial reaction. These words are bonus material; he didn’t commission me to write them. Therefore I own the intellectual property rights over them. But I value Devon’s opinion, and knowing what his initial reaction is will give me insight into who I should pitch the story to for exclusivity.
Woman up, Jeanie. It’s a story—a lie.
Retribution for the way that asshole treated me.
I check my emails and missed call log anyway, just to be sure the rehabilitation center hasn’t changed their mind.
Nada.
Fuck.
“You not eating today?”
I glance up and find my favorite server, Moxie, poised with her tablet balanced in one hand. “Nope.” My gut wouldn’t tolerate anything at this point.
“Can I tempt you?” She spreads her crimson lips into a smile, snakebite piercings drawing my attention. “There’s a special on the organic cheesecake, and I know you love that shit.”
Correction: my ass loves that shit. “Nope. Honestly.” I lift my phone between us. “Doing a little light reading before I head back into the office.”
She nods, her black dreadlocks bobbing with the movement. “Well, if you change your mind, let me know.” Her eyes hold a strange emptiness for a chick who’s usually the liveliest person in here.
“You okay?” I set my phone on the table and send the screen to black. “You seem like there’s something on your mind.”
Moxie takes a seat, sparing a glance toward the register. “Housemate issues.” She shrugs. “She said she wanted to break up with her guy anyway, so I don’t see the issue.”
Same as I don’t find it odd that she happily parked her ass across from me; we’ve done this a few times over the year I’ve frequented the café. “What did you do?”
Her heavily lined eyes roll. “You know I’m straight up, right?”
I nod.
“Told the guy when he showed up to take her out that he shouldn’t waste his money on her.” Moxie huffs. “She overheard and went nuts. I started an argument, but it was coming anyway.”
“Perhaps she wanted to let him down softer?” I take a sip of coffee.
“Make the most of his dick, I’d say.” She grunts a laugh.
I glance around and make sure no customers overhear, although the type of people who come into this place probably wouldn’t give a shit. The staff are more friends than they are servers—the atmosphere makes the café stand out in a street crammed full of them.
“I’m sure it’ll blow over.” My gaze drops to the dark phone. “She probably needs time to think it over.” I look back to Moxie. “Did you apologize?”
She arches a thick eyebrow. “Why?”
“For spilling the beans,” I state. “I mean, you did sort of step into her shit.”
“So?”
I say nothing, my wide eyes all the reaction I care to give to her blatant apathy.
“He would have figured out she’s a user anyway. The guy didn’t need to waste his money and time on her; I did him a favor.”
I lean back and fold my arms. “So, um, why do you live with her anyway?”
Moxie shrugs. “Nobody else wanted to share with me.” She stands, resuming her earlier stance. “Still not hungry?” Her smile returns.
“Nope.”
I stare down at the phone when she walks away, a little perturbed at how little she cares that she created tension and chaos in her roommate’s life. Fuck a duck. What a goddamn hypocrite, right? I sell that story, and that’s exactly what I do to the Thomas brothers.
And yet, somehow, I justify the lack of compassion with their status as musicians.
As though fame is reason enough to pour petrol on an emotional fire.
I can’t publish the story. Not now, anyway. Maybe later when Rey has recovered, if he ever does. My thumb grazes the screen, bringing my fabricated words back to illuminated life. I paid close to a grand for a backdoor into Dark Tide’s lives. Money down the drain. That’s what irritates me more than my apparent lack of ethics.
I want something out of this, but I can’t, in good conscience, use vicious lies to get it. What would that say about me as a journalist? Moral compass aside, publishing lies about two fragile musicians sets a precedent for my character. If I get my name out there on the back of what will eventually be uncovered as bullshit, then that’s who I’ll be known as: the bitch who can’t be trusted.
A sellout. An attention whore.
I need the truth. The absolute essence of what happened to these guys to get them to where they are now—money over everything, and further apart than family should be.
I take a long pull of my cooling Americano and tap the table before lifting my phone. The words aren’t a total write-off.
I just need to get creative with my threats.
NINE
Toby
“Daisy” – Goodbye June
“Evergreen trees seem such a waste of a good idea,” I state, flat on the grass. “The impermanence of foliage is what makes deciduous trees special.”
Cassie snorts. “Who are you, and what did you do with my brother?”
I roll my head to face her, squinting against the bright sun. “I’m allowed to like more than music, you know.”
“I know.” She smiles and then stares up at the branches overhead. “Trees look so barren and sad when they’re bare, though.”
“Maybe.” I face the sky and follow the line of a branch until I find the tip. “But it’s what you know comes next that makes it special.”
“I don’t follow,” Cassie says.
“The plain branches aren’t anything great to look at, right?”
“Mmm.”
“But you know that in spring, they’ll have buds, maybe flowers, and then what was once ugly and unbalanced is pretty and awe-inspiring again.”
Cassie rolls to her side, head propped on one hand. “What’s really on your mind?”
“That trees are beautiful with their changing colors,” I tease.
“Bullshit.” She plucks a daisy from the grass, inspecting the petals. “I know you, and you’re way too philosophical for this to be about leaves turning orange in the fall.”
I chuckle. “
And you’re far too observant.” I snatch the daisy from her hand and proceed to pluck the petals while I talk. “I sometimes wonder if Rey has seasons.”
Cassie snorts. “Seasons?”
“Yeah.” I meet her crisp gaze. “He has cycles; sure, we know that. But maybe instead of sending him off to learn how to avoid what he is, we need to understand him better so that he can accept what he is.”
She frowns. “What he is, Toby, is our brother.”
“And we treat him like he has a deformity.”
She hesitates, fingers pinched around a blade of grass while she frowns my way. “We have Rey in rehabilitation because we care.”
“Care about what?” I crunch, pulling myself into a seated position. “Making him mainstream? Normal?”
“Happy.”
My breath leaves in a rush. “Happiness comes when he stops fighting who he is. When he stops believing that the hard shit is wrong.”
“Something’s happened.” Cassie matches my stance. “This isn’t just about Rey.”
“Nothing’s happened.” She doesn’t need to know about the vultures of the press. We’ve kept our sister shielded from the worst of the fame for a reason: it’s not her burden to bear. She didn’t choose the spotlight—we did. So why lump the stress and frustration of the life on her?
Cassie glances at her smartwatch. “I need to get back to work.” A sigh escapes her lips. “Go stay with Mom and Dad for a while.”
As if. “Because the first fifteen years with that grumpy asshole wasn’t enough.”
She huffs a laugh. “Yeah, but Mom would enjoy having you around.”
“I saw them when I took Rey in.”
She nods. “Exactly. Circumstances were strained, then.” Cassie rises to her feet, dusting the parkland off her sand-colored slacks. “Spend time with them as you, not the two of you if you know what I mean.”
“I do.” I point out a dried fragment of leaf stuck on her sleeveless blouse. “You missed some.”
Everywhere we go, it’s Rey and me. The two of us as one package. We’re the brothers in the band, the guys who formed the idea, and the rock stars in our family. We have so much in common and nothing at all. When people think of us, they think of both of us; it’s impossible not to. Consequently, when I think of myself, I think of him. There isn’t often that I’m alone, with just my needs to take care of.
