by Joe Shine
“Nah, I’ll be up in a minute,” I replied. “Thanks, though.”
Okay, okay, okay, calm down. Yes, we’ve skipped ahead a bit. No, you really didn’t miss that much. Trust me, I was there. Yeah, there were a few hiccups at the beginning, like my inability to stop staring at Ryo, which we covered, but that was about it. We began recording our album within hours of me landing at LAX, and our first single, “Love Weekend,” was on the air the next Tuesday.
“It’s a love weekend,
So our love won’t get weakened . . .”
Oh, it was cheesy, but it was number one for eight weeks, so there you go. On week two we began rehearsal for our summer tour. Heck, I’m pretty sure they had T-shirts and posters for sale before we even knew the name of the band, which was . . . drumroll, please . . . International. Yeah, ugh is right.
But, and I hate to admit it, I’ll give credit where credit is due. These people knew what they were doing and they were frighteningly good at it. Like, as good as I am with a submachine gun. International was, like the name suggests, an international boy band built solely to steal money from young girls’ wallets, or, more accurately, their parents’ wallets. Every part had been researched and audience tested to ensure success. I’m the bad boy American; Seamus is the Irish practical joker or class clown; Karim is the super good-looking Moroccan heartthrob; Amit is the cute, innocent Indian baby face; and Ryo, who rounded out the group, is Japanese. The fact that he’s Japanese helps to bring in the massive Asian market, but mainly the guy’s the real talent. Like Freddie Mercury and Mariah Carey had a kid and then that kid had a kid with Whitney Houston and Andrea Bocelli’s kid. Dude can sing, for real.
Every moment of the next twenty years was planned for us. They were not idiots. There would be a “fight” and a “breakup” in three years. We’d each launch solo careers, then combine for a few duets, and then two years after that regroup and dominate again. And that was just us. We quickly found out we weren’t the only play they were making. The label, realizing how well a Biggie-Tupac-esque rivalry would help sell records, went all in and created a rival boy band called Universal. We were the “just like you” boys who’d won the lottery in the worldwide casting call, while Universal were the “silver spoon” boys plucked from only the best Disney and Nickelodeon shows.
Hate was to be fabricated. Words would be exchanged between International and Universal, and these words would get heated and eventually get “physical.” Fences would be made, and a double tour would take place. But “issues” would arise and the tour would be canceled one year in after a backstage “brawl” (fully caught on camera and choreographed by only the best movie-fight folks in the biz).
And to hedge their bets even more, they also created three all-female acts. There was the girl band Forever, the rock band Steam Runners, and the singer-songwriter country-pop girl Ecko Kelley. They made up the Solar One Tour, which quickly became the hottest show on Earth. Still is, but we’re catching up.
The members of the Solar One Tour and both boy bands were encouraged to date and live off the constant rumors of love triangles and in-fighting.
I’m telling you, it was all laid out to the day. There was nothing left up to chance. They simply paid chance off.
So here we are, a little over a year and a half down the road, with seven number one hits, two double-diamond albums, a Christmas collection under our belts, and we’ve been on tour nonstop. Oh, and we did a movie, too. And I thought my FATE training had been exhausting.
See, I told you it wasn’t much, and now to catch you right up to the present, after our London show, we stayed the night in King’s Cross, and then loaded into our buses to head to Brussels, where we’ve got the European Kids’ Choice Awards. We’re expected to win a bunch of stuff for our second album, It’s Always You for Me.
And those are all the holes I feel like filling in right now. You want to know more? Our all-inclusive, behind-the-scenes memoirs will be out next year. US $29.99.
I rolled out of my bunk and made my way to the front of the moving mansion that was our tour bus. Technically we had two, but for short rides like this we all crammed into one and hung out together. The label liked to call it “band unity.” It didn’t hurt that we still liked hanging out with each other.
“’Mericaaaaaa,” they all called out when I entered the room. Seamus had come up with the greeting way back when and it had stuck.
“Fellas,” I greeted them tiredly with a weak wave. “How much longer?” I asked the group.
“Hour or so,” Karim answered, his eyes still glued on the game like the others.
Oh, how convenient. Everyone speaks English? I hear ya, but yeah, they do. We’re the only country that’s so lazy we look at learning a second language as some ridiculous chore to get through high school. And shockingly, everyone assumed I was the dumb one. I know, right? Wherever could they get that idea from? But when people think you’re dumb, they’ll underestimate you, so I never denied it. I played it up actually. So out of pity English was chosen as our default language. They “took a vote” to make it seem like they weren’t doing it out of charity, but come on. There were two native English speakers in the group, so the vote was rigged from the beginning.
I helped myself to a Dr Pepper from the fridge and took a seat in one of the marshmallowy soft chairs. I was almost nineteen now, so I was legally allowed to drink in Europe, but being who we were, there were strict rules about booze. And by rules, there was only one: can’t have any. Even tucked away in our hotel rooms, drinking was forbidden. “Would ruin the image,” they told us, which was believable. Of course, the label had it all planned out for the first time one of us was seen with a beer. It would be the beginning of a fake rift among us boys. The guilty party would go to rehab and be welcomed back with open arms. Total PR fluff that the entertainment world would eat up. Seamus, playing to all the terrible Irish clichés you could imagine, would be the “drunk.” But that was still a year out from now on the schedule.
The bus slid to a stop outside our hotel, the Warwick Brussels, in Brussels, Belgium. As usual, a legion of adoring fans had been tipped off to where we were staying and the masses were out in force. Posters, hats, shirts, what have you were waving about, ready to be ruined by some markers and the chicken scratch that counted as our signatures. So much glitter, was and still is my instant reaction to our merch. For our name they’d used a type of diamond-like ink that acted like glitter and it was plastered across everything in all caps. This stuff could catch light and sparkle in total darkness. I was half impressed by the science and half disgusted by the flashy stuff. They’d even given us Sharpies that had the same glittery effect when used. What was wrong with classic black? Or, if you’re feeling frisky, blue?
Okay, so confession time. You know all that crap I talked earlier about boy bands and how embarrassing it all is? Well, it’s still totally true and I don’t take any of it back, but, okay, it’s sorta fun sometimes. A lot of fun. Tons of it. Still totally lame, of course, but lame in a good way? There’s the parties, the hotel suites, the money (which I don’t see much of), seeing the world, getting to hang out with my best friends all the time . . . I could go on, but you get it. And believe me, having tons of money and being famous is all it’s cracked up to be, trust me. It’s awesome and anyone who tells you otherwise has forgotten what it’s like to be poor and normal. And you’re probably sitting there thinking, Man, that sounds like a pretty cool life.
I WILL NEVER ADMIT THAT IT IS. Ever. I can’t. I won’t. Please don’t make me admit I like it. Please . . .
Chapter 16
The Intruder
Getting through the crowd hadn’t been that bad really. As usual, the European fans had been polite and waited calmly for their turn without bull-rushing us. They use “please” and “thank you,” and mean it when they talk to you, and they never try for a selfie without asking. They respect boundaries. They
don’t feel entitled to anything from you. Americans, take note. We were able to work our way through them in under thirty minutes. I kept close to Ryo, ready to snap bones if anyone tried anything, but no one did. They never did. With the autograph and selfie-happy crowd behind us, we could finally retreat to our rooms. As usual, each of us had our own suite on the top floor, so we crammed into the elevator together.
Now, when you spend as much time riding up and down elevators as we do, you learn to have a little fun with it. We had a rule: if we were all in an elevator together, and the doors happened to open up, we had to sing something to whoever came in. “Elevator music,” we called it. (I know, it’s so clever!) It always scared, surprised, and confused the unlucky. It was fun at first, but like most great traditions it got old pretty quick. Karim was still way into it though, so for his sake we played along. He really bought into this whole “brotherhood” thing and it didn’t take too much effort on our part to play along.
We made it up without stopping, thank God. I didn’t think I had an a cappella version of “Hold Tight” (our current elevator music song) in me that night.
“Maybe we should go up and down again? For fun?” Karim asked hopefully.
Ryo gave me a pained look. Seamus and Amit did the same.
“I’m pretty beat,” I offered.
“Oh, all right,” Karim said, accepting it, but his eyes brightened. “We should have dinner as a family tonight. To celebrate our awards.”
“That would be bad form,” Seamus argued. “You never celebrate the victory before you have it in hand.”
“Excellent point,” Amit agreed.
Okay, so aside from Karim, we were all in agreement that dinner as a group was not something we wanted to do. We were a good, close group, but we were around each other enough already for everything else. Not to mention being in a bus for hours wears you out. Little tics get bigger, and then there’s the overall smell of BO, burps, and farts that come from five teenage boys on a bus together that makes you need some time away to reset, charge the old batteries, and generally unfunkify yourself.
“Tomorrow night, for sure,” I offered.
“I will make the reservation!” Karim said excitedly. “And arrange for the cars, of course.”
Once I got to my room, my eyes found the overly huge and ridiculous welcome basket from the local tour promoter sitting on a table. Another iPad, countless gift cards, and local snacks. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d roll my eyes at an iPad, yet here I was. I’d kept the first few, but then started anonymously donating them to sick kids in local hospitals. Still your beating heart, ladies, I wanted to hock them on the street for some extra folding cash, but Ryo insisted we all do the sick-kid thing.
Eyes on the basket, I caught the golden corner of what could only be a pack of Haribo gummy bears peeking out and made a beeline for it. It was well known that they were my favorite candy, so they were always included in my baskets. The band dentist was not a big fan. This bag would be toast before bed, but first . . .
I flipped open my laptop and powered on my gear. Over the years I’d hidden near-invisible cameras and microphones in all of Ryo’s luggage: his backpack, Dopp kit, wallet, and half of his shoes. I’d also hacked his phone, laptop, and tablet and could hijack them for their mics and cameras at will. This way, I could always know what he was up to and if he was okay since rooming together would have been weird. It wasn’t a perfect system, but it was the best I could do since we were never in the same place for more than a couple nights. Ideally I’d have his room fitted with a gazillion cameras and mics, leaving no corner hidden or silent, but you have to play the hand you’re dealt. Besides, the band had pretty good security guards. One of them was former SAS, like a British Navy SEAL, so I knew if the s ever really did hit the fan, I could count on him. The others? I mean, they were big, and I would hope they’d do right, but once bullets start flying, butts start running.
Ryo was talking with his parents. Yes, I speak Japanese, okay, sorta. I’d listened to enough of his conversations with his folks and watched enough anime and old samurai movies “as research” to be able to get the gist of what he was saying most of the time. If he was talking to his Oya (told you I spoke some Nihongo), it meant we’d been in our rooms for five minutes. The boy was consistent as a clock. The moment we got to a new hotel, he checked the room for intruders (adorable), put his bags neatly in his closet, washed his hands, and then called them at the five-minute mark. His life was so regimented that I felt bad for him sometimes. The others joked behind his back about whether he has to call home before going to the bathroom. The sad thing is we’re not a hundred percent sure he doesn’t.
Next, as always, Ryo hopped in the shower. So the good thing about my Ryo Creepster Gear is I can always hear what he’s up to, but unless one of my random hidden cameras is set up just right, I’m usually blind to most of the room. That’s where Ryo’s regimented life was a godsend. Once he was in the shower, I grabbed a camera from my gear and shoved it into my pocket.
Out on my balcony the bitter Brussels winter almost knocked the wind out of me. Man, Europe was cold in the winter. I tip my hat to you, World War I and World War II soldiers. Being in a foxhole in this must have sucked. After making sure no one was watching, I climbed up on the banister and rock-wall-climbed my way over to Ryo’s balcony. Picking the lock was easy enough and within seconds, I had my camera placed in the top corner of the room. I’d have a perfect view of the room from there.
Ryo sang in the shower, by the way. And not our songs or Top 40 stuff but bluegrass like Doc Watson, Hackensaw Boys, Foghorn Stringband, and Old Crow Medicine Show. Not even he knows why or how he ever found it, but that’s his jam. That alone would have made us friends. He was belting out “Fall on My Knees” right now. A classic.
Back in my room, I patted my own back at the placement of the hidden camera. You know, if this whole Shadow thing doesn’t work out, I’m going to Hollywood to be a camera guy. I kicked off my shoes, put my feet up on the desk, grabbed the edge of the treat basket, and slid it over.
As I was sifting through the swag, my hidden mics picked up the click from Ryo’s front door lock.
Someone had entered Ryo’s room.
I lunged for my roller bag, ripped open the hidden compartment in the bottom, and took out my Glock .45—preloaded with a clip of armor-piercing bullets. Holding my breath, I eyed the screen on Ryo’s room, cursing that I didn’t have a clear view of the door.
The door closed, and a girl crept silently into view. No hello. No noise. Nothing. She knew what she was doing. I immediately went to my door and began to mirror her every step with one eye on the monitor. I kept the pistol raised. Yes, it would be a shot through a wall, but I aimed dead-on at her head. One move I didn’t like and I’d drop her.
She sat down on the couch and pulled out her phone. She looked relaxed. She didn’t have any weapons I could see, but that meant nothing. I didn’t need a weapon to kill, either. She wasn’t much older than Ryo or me—Asian, thin, and not very tall. Her hair hung in two loose pigtails, the tips frosted pink. She had on a pair of black jeans, a black V-neck shirt, and what looked like black, full-leather Chuck Taylors . . . All right, I’m gonna come right out and say it. She was hot. It would be a shame if I had to kill her. Maybe she was just a Ryo fangirl. There were millions.
Her head snapped up, seemingly without warning. She looked right at the hidden camera. We were suddenly staring at each other. How the . . . ? No way she could know that; no way. Her eyes seemed to hold mine for a few seconds before she smiled and went back to her phone. Must have just been coincidence. Maybe she randomly spaced out while she was thinking of something . . .
The water in the shower turned off. Moments later the bathroom door opened.
I took aim again as Ryo came out in a robe.
The girl didn’t move.
The moment Ryo rounded
the corner, she said in Japanese, “You should get better security here.”
Ryo screamed. A lifetime-of-embarrassment kind if your buddies heard you. He stumbled and tripped, then scrambled backward into a closet, terrified. I was a nanosecond away from pulling the trigger, but the girl still hadn’t moved. It was the only reason she was still alive.
“And you wonder why we never dated,” she added, pocketing the phone and standing up.
This got my attention. Ryo’s, too. He crept out from his hiding spot and peeked into the room.
“Akiko?” he gasped.
“Surprise!” she shouted, bursting out with a wide smile, her arms extended for a hug.
“What are you . . .” He struggled to stand.
“I was in Rotterdam for a gig and thought I’d surprise you. Surprise!” she repeated.
I kept my gun trained on her as she ran over to hug him, only relaxing when he hugged back.
“You frightened me,” Ryo said in a shaky voice.
“No, really?” Akiko mocked.
“I am a bit ashamed of my reaction.”
She stepped away from him. “I won’t tell anyone.”
I lowered my gun and sighed.
They sat down on the couch and began catching up. Nothing that interesting. She asked about the tour. He asked about her work. It was pretty boring stuff, so I took the moment to eat some snacks and take a shower of my own. I took my gun and Creepster Gear with me, of course.
A little while later, as I was getting out of the shower, there was a knock on my door.
“Bobby, it is Ryo,” he called out in English. He had no idea how well I understood Japanese. As far as he knew, I was still a novice and spoke a few phrases in broken Japanese.
“Yeah, gimme a sec,” I called out, sweeping the room to make sure I’d stowed my gun and Creepster Gear.
There was another knock.
“Bobby?”
“Yeah!” I yelled out as I walked to the door and opened. Yeah, I was still in just my towel.
