Staged

by Olivia Cunning

  “I suppose I should order some comfort food,” Steve said.

  “For me or for you?”

  “Both of us. Pizza?”

  Zach nodded and then walked over to the sliding door that led to the backyard, which had nothing remotely resembling grass. Round pebbles in various earth tones and grays peppered the entire area around cement paths, and some bushy vine that refused to die provided the suggestion of shade as it creeped up the pergola as if trying to break into the house. Steve watched Zach through the glass as he settled into one of the Adirondack chairs in the shade and stared down at his phone. When he took a deep breath and dialed, Steve turned away to give him privacy and to order that pizza. They both typically ate healthy—junk food just wasn’t worth the icky feeling and extra hours at the gym—but sometimes even a health-conscious man needed pizza and beer without guilt. He’d just order one with a veggie or two among the processed meat bits.

  With pizza promised within the hour, Steve couldn’t stop himself from replaying that Baroquen song where Roux sang most of the melody and had an amazing keyboard solo. The sound hit him in the gut every time, but now that he knew her better, now that he could picture her at his grandmother’s piano playing the music the woman had written but had never taken credit for, the song turned him inside out. How was he going to survive the next week without seeing Roux? They’d promised to keep their distance on tour, but at least he’d be able to see her. Not seeing her was hell.

  Impulsively he sent her a text message, unsure if she’d answer. Miss me yet?

  Her reply was almost immediate. God, yes.

  Forget the tour and run away with me. We can disappoint millions of fans together.

  Millions of fans in your case. Tens of fans in mine.

  He laughed out loud. But if you run away with me, you’ll have your biggest fan right beside you.

  You’re such a groupie. She punctuated her message with the eye roll emoji.

  Can I get a backstage pass? Pleeeeease. I’ll do anything you want.

  Tempting, but no. I have to go. Iona is going to think I passed out in the bathroom and hunt me down.

  So that was why she was free to text him. She was using the bathroom. He knew well what it was like to have such a busy schedule that even finding time to take a piss was an ordeal, so he cut her a little slack. He didn’t want to be the guy who made a nuisance of himself. He just wanted her to think about him at least half as much as he thought of her.

  Promise you’ll text me next time you take a dump.

  Steve!

  He laughed again. Promise.

  I promise.

  I already have you trained.

  You wish. I really am going now. She punctuated that with a kissing emoji, which he copied in his answer.

  Steve was buzzing with all sorts of excited, happy energy when he set his phone aside. The woman already ruled his world, and he knew it. He just hoped she didn’t send him crashing and burning the way Bianca had. Falling hard and fast was risky, but lord, it felt good. He glanced out toward the backyard and saw Zach sitting with his elbows on his knees, arms stretched out, and his phone gripped loosely far in front of him. His head was low, gaze on the ground between his feet. Steve’s heart sank for the guy. He wasn’t as good at being a sounding board as Zach was, but he slid the door open and sat in the chair next to him, waiting for Zach to say something if he wanted to. Steve wouldn’t pry, but he knew his friend well enough to know he liked to talk about his problems. A lot.

  “He doesn’t want to break up,” Zach said after a moment of uncomfortable silence.

  “So he’s coming out publicly?”

  Zach snorted and ran a hand through the long half of his hair, which was hanging loose today. “No. His publicist is doing damage control on the online rumor. Why do these rumors keep springing up about me? First with you, which was false, and now with Enrique, which isn’t.”

  “Maybe you should try hanging out with less famous dudes.” Steve elbowed him in the arm.

  “You’re not that famous.”

  “More famous than you are.”

  “Not after this, I’m sure.”

  “Maybe we should call Sam,” Steve said. “I’m sure he’d know how to use your sudden notoriety in your favor.”

  The only person who hated Sam more than Steve did was Zach, and he didn’t even flinch at the suggestion.

  “Great idea. Maybe he’ll rehire Twisted Element for the next leg of the tour. I just have to sell my soul to the publicity devil. It isn’t worth much anyway.”

  “We both know you wouldn’t do that. What are you going to do about Enrique?”

  “Give him another chance.”

  Steve cut off the sigh that tried to escape him. He knew better than to try to fix someone else’s relationship. It was hard enough navigating his own.

  “I hope it works out.” And he meant it if Enrique made Zach happy. But if the bastard made his friend miserable, Steve hoped the fucker got hit by a train.

  Zach smiled slightly. “Me too. Is the pizza here yet? I’m starved.”

  “You aren’t running back to him tonight?”

  “I’ll crash here with you, if you don’t mind. He thinks I should stay away for a few days. Wouldn’t want to get caught with me on his property while the paparazzi are so thick outside his house.”

  Steve bit his tongue, but only for a second. “And you’re going to put up with that bullshit?”

  “It’s just for a few days.” His gaze turned to the pebbles that covered the ground. “Or weeks. Or however long it takes for suspicions to die.”

  And when they did, Steve hoped Zach didn’t plan to jump when Enrique beckoned.

  “I’m taking you to Europe with me. You don’t have to be my personal assistant. You’ll be my guest.”

  “I can’t go. I need to be here—”

  “When Enrique decides you’re worth his time? Fuck that. You’re going.”

  “But—”

  “If he wants you, he’ll come find you.”

  Hope flickered behind Zach’s gaze, but it was quickly squelched as he started thinking too hard about it. “He won’t do that.”

  “Then he isn’t worth your time. Move on.”

  “Easy for you to say! You just met the woman of your dreams.”

  “She wouldn’t hold that status for long if she pulled the crap that Enrique pulls.”

  “Whatever. I’ll just crash at your place while you’re gone.”

  “You’re going to Europe.”

  A knock at the front door drew Steve to his feet.

  “You’re going,” he added as he stepped into the house through the sliding door.

  He opened the front door to a smiling delivery man. Almost immediately the smile dropped off the guy’s face, and his eyes widened in shock. The pizza box tipped precariously and would have landed on the floor if Steve hadn’t made a grab for it.

  “Y-you’re Steve Aimes.”

  Steve smiled. Not that famous, my ass, he thought smugly. “Last time I checked.”

  “You’re Steve Aimes.”

  “I thought we already covered that.” He tried passing a fifty to the dumbfounded delivery guy, but the fluttering bill was completely ignored.

  “Oh my God, you’re Steve Aimes!”

  “I hope that’s the pizza,” Zach said, peering over Steve’s shoulder. “I’m about to die over here.”

  The delivery guy’s gaze shifted from Steve to Zach. “Y-you’re Zach Mercier.”

  Zach beamed. “You know Twisted Element.”

  The man’s head shake was almost imperceptive. “Steve Aimes’s best friend.”

  “I do need to hang out with less famous people,” Zach muttered under his breath.

  “Can I get a picture with you?” Delivery Guy asked.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Chris.”

  “Yes, Chris, you can get a picture with me, but only if you get one with Zach too. He’s a little bummed. Needs to feel
important.”

  Zach slugged him, almost unseating the pizza box from Steve’s palm.

  “Yeah, yeah, of course.” Chris fumbled with the pocket of his baggy cargo shorts, pulled out a phone, dropped it, picked it up, dropped it again. He took a deep breath and retrieved his phone from the doorstep once more. “Sorry. I’m kind of nervous. Holy fuck, Steve Aimes!”

  Steve backed into the house and set the pizza on the tiny dining table that could seat two uncomfortably.

  “Come on in,” he said, beckoning Chris with one hand. Steve flipped open the box, and Zach descended upon the pie as if he hadn’t eaten in the past century. “Got time for a slice and a beer?” he asked Chris. As far as Steve was concerned, all fans were friends and welcome—one at a time—in his house. He didn’t have room for a crowd. That was what the beach a block over was for.

  Chris looked back at his car parked at the curb and the pizza delivery sign affixed to the roof. “I am going to be so fired,” he said, but he stepped into the house and closed the door.

  Chris stayed only for one slice of pizza—refusing the beer because he couldn’t afford to get fired from another job—and half a dozen pictures of him and Steve, and him and Zach, and Steve and Zach, and the Neil Peart autographed drumhead on the wall that was “too cool.”

  “I’m a drummer too, you know,” Zach muttered.

  “I guess I need an autographed drumhead from you to add to my collection,” Steve said, smirking at Zach, who wasn’t usually the type to feel sorry for himself. It was Sam’s fault that Zach’s ego had taken such a hit. The ass had called Zach’s band mediocre. That was as bad as being told flat out that he sucked. It was their bassist who sucked. Steve gave Logan a hard time about how replaceable he was, saying that he was only a bassist, but without a good bassist, the music was hollow. Zach’s bandmates were too loyal to send Gavin packing. Steve had stopped pressing the issue a long time ago, but maybe now that they’d been fired as an opening band, they’d be more open to suggestion. Not in front of Chris, though.

  “For the pizza,” Steve said, slapping a fifty into Chris’s hand as he gave it a hard squeeze in farewell. “Keep the change.”

  “Thanks! You rock so hard!”

  In that case . . . Steve pulled out a hundred. “This is for any pizza that got cold while you were in here bullshitting with us. And you can keep the change on that one too. Now, I have one rule for new friends. Don’t stop by without calling first.”

  Chris’s wide smile faded slightly. “But I don’t have your number.”

  “Exactly. Hope to see you around sometime. At a bar. At the beach. Not here, though, unless I order a pizza.” He hoped Chris got the message as he closed the door behind him.

  “You’re just asking for trouble,” Zach said, picking up Steve’s discarded pizza crust and nibbling on it.

  “Haven’t had any yet.” Which was mostly true. He’d had to get stern with a few fans who’d found out where he lived and loitered in front of his house for days. But he just had to make them feel entirely uncool for doing it, and they left him alone. Fans didn’t want the rock stars they idolized to think they weren’t cool.

  “Didn’t Dare have some naked chick in his pool one time?” Zach bit off another bite of crust.

  “I’m sure he’s had lots of naked chicks in his pool,” Steve said. “But yeah, he had a stalker who invited herself for a skinny-dip without his permission.” Dare had called the cops. Steve most likely would have banged her first. Good thing his yard was too small for a pool.

  Zach was in fairly good spirits for the rest of the evening. They sat in the backyard sipping beers and talking most of the night. Often Steve’s thoughts drifted toward the East Coast and one redheaded babe who lived there, but he didn’t mention Roux. He was certain Enrique was on Zach’s mind, and he didn’t want to rip open recent wounds by talking about their love lives. Sometimes it was nice to forget the outside world existed and just chill with a trusted friend.

  “So what’s your band meeting about tomorrow?” Zach asked.

  Steve wondered how long he’d been chewing on that question.

  “Some audit our accountant did on the record label.”

  ”So they have been ripping you off. That tiny royalty check of Max’s wasn’t a fluke.”

  Zach had that right, but Steve shrugged. He’d been warned about the nondisclosure agreement that was in their contract. They were not allowed to tell anyone that royalties were improperly handled, even if the record label was at fault. But if they had to sue the company, it would all come out. If the label agreed to pay without a fight, no one would ever know but the parties involved, and that meant they wouldn’t be able to warn other artists about Sam Baily and his crooked corporation. He hoped they could take the case to court. He went so far as to cross his fingers for added luck. He’d love to see Sam destroyed due to his own greed.

  “You wouldn’t be having a band meeting about it if everything was in the clear, would you?” Zach pressed.

  “I can’t say.”

  “I’m not an idiot, Steve.”

  “I literally cannot say. There’s a nondisclosure agreement in the contract to protect the corporation’s reputation.” Steve scratched at his beard stubble. He often let his facial hair grow on tour breaks, and it was currently at that annoyingly itchy length.

  “You can tell me. I won’t tell a soul. How much money are you guys out?”

  Steve pressed his lips tightly together and shook his head. He wasn’t going to tell him anything. He refused to mess up this golden opportunity to finally fuck Sam Baily as hard as he’d fucked dozens of musicians in the industry.

  “I bet it’s millions. Have you seen that guy’s shoes? Genuine fucking alligator. Probably made from the newborn babies of some endangered reptilian species. One pair costs more than I made all of last year.”

  “There are things more important than money.”

  “Like not being a greedy, cruel son of a bitch?”

  Steve bumped his knuckles against the back of Zach’s hand, which was resting on Zach’s chair arm. Lazy bro tap, they called it. He was glad that Zach was always on the same page as he was when it came to Sam Baily. Perhaps tomorrow Steve would finally get Max and Dare to admit that they’d been wrong about him for the last ten years.

  Steve snorted at the thought.

  Twenty-One

  The next morning, Steve found Zach sitting at the breakfast table staring into a bowl of soggy wheat flakes. Steve didn’t recall having cereal or milk on hand, so Zach must have done some middle-of-the-night shopping.

  “You’re up early,” Steve said, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

  Zach glanced up. His drooping eyes were surrounded by dark circles. “Late,” he corrected. “I never went to sleep.”

  Steve had slept well after a short midnight call from Roux. She hadn’t even been taking a dump to hide her flouting of the no-contact-with-each-other plan, but she had gone outside on the fire escape so she wouldn’t wake Iona.

  Steve was sorry Zach wasn’t having a better time.

  “After this dumb band meeting”—which Steve was so looking forward to—“we’ll grab Logan and go surfing. How does that sound?”

  “Enrique loves to surf.”

  Ugh.

  “He’s not invited.”

  “I thought he’d call or text or . . .” Zach’s gaze returned to the gloopy bowl of cereal. “. . . show up here in the middle of the night and demand I come home with him.”

  Steve moved to stand beside Zach and squeezed his shoulder. He didn’t know what to say. It was too soon for the “he’s not worth your time, you’re better off without him” speech, though both were true. Zach turned his face against Steve’s belly, his body quaking. Steve pressed a hand to the back of Zach’s head and let him cry it out. He’d have to change his shirt before he left—he wasn’t prepared to explain a tear-soaked belly to his bandmates—but he knew this emotional letting go would let Zach sleep, and he’d be thi
nking much more clearly after he caught some shut-eye.

  Suddenly Zach pushed away, rubbing the tears off his face with both palms and then lifting the hem of his shirt to do a more thorough job. “I’m sorry. Fuck, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I won’t tell the press that you cry like a baby.” Steve shoved him none too gently.

  Zach released a breathless huff. “Well, I will tell them that you snore. Dear God, I thought a lumberjack was clearing a forest in your bedroom last night.”

  Steve grabbed Zach by the head and hugged his face tight against his belly. “It will be all right,” he said quietly. “I know it doesn’t feel that way now, but you’ll get through this even though you’d rather not.”

  “If you make me cry again, I’ll kick your ass.”

  Steve shoved him away, almost toppling Zach’s chair over backwards in the process. “I’d like to see you try.”

  “I’m going to sleep in your bed while you’re gone,” Zach threatened.

  “You’d better not.” Though he hoped he would. There were blackout shades on the windows in his bedroom, and it would be a lot easier for Zach to sleep there in the middle of the day. “Are you going to finish that cereal?”

  Zach spooned up a glob of slimy-looking disintegrated wheat flakes and let them plop back into the bowl. “I made breakfast for you,” he said, grinning.

  “I think I’ll pass.” He peeled off his shirt and tossed it into Zach’s face. “You should wash that for me since you got it all wet.”

  Steve expected him to fire off some witty quip, but he lowered his head and pressed the shirt against his chest.