by Amber Lin
Of course he was distant. They couldn’t look at each other for more than three seconds without a tabloid speculating they were going to pull a Fleetwood Mac. And Lock was in love. Not with Krist. He was in love with Hailey, and Krist couldn’t help but be happy for them. Even if it hurt. It hurt in a way that felt good. He’d lost something, something he’d never really had anyway, and his friend had gained so much. Something good had to come out of the pain. “Yeah. Let’s go make some dreams come true.”
Maybe they could find a little common ground here tonight. Close the gap that had been growing between them. He followed Moe into the party and scanned the room until he found Lock, eyes burning, sprawled on a chair with his fingers curled over the arms as if it were a throne. Surly didn’t cover it. He looked absolutely pissed, like a king without a crown.
“Fuck, Moe. You weren’t kidding. What the hell happened?”
“I think someone from the label pissed in his cornflakes while you were off playing teen idol,” Moe said.
That didn’t surprise Krist. The label tended to do that with disheartening regularity.
He barely had a chance to take two steps across the room before they were swarmed by a group of fans. High-dollar private event or not, fans were fans. Whether they paid fifty bucks for a nosebleed ticket or five grand for a VIP box, they all wanted a moment, an experience. They wanted to touch and be touched. Most of the time, the music did that for them. The guys played their fucking hearts out onstage, and the fans felt it in their bones. Private events, though? Without the music as a buffer, he had to hug his way across the room. To shake hands and ignore the sly grabs to his ass. Guys were supposed to like that, right?
Moe started a drum demo using soup spoons and caught the attention of a large group, enough that Krist could slip away to where Lock was sitting.
“Hey, bro. You might want to turn down the menace.”
“But it’s doing such a good job of keeping the crowd at bay.” Lock scrubbed his face with his hand. “Shit, it’s not menace anyway. It’s epic frustration. They want us to cancel twenty-four dates in Europe.”
“What the hell?”
“I guess it’s easier to stash us in the studio than deal with the sex tape that won’t go away. Why’d you two have to be so damn hot?”
“Don’t.” Krist winced. It wasn’t the two of them causing the stir. It was just him. Once the media lost interest in Hailey, they’d latched on to Krist’s sexuality like leeches. Every interview circled back on it again and again. Lock seemed immune to the questioning; so much of his identity as a performer was wrapped up in debauchery and excess. There was also the fact that he’d gone and married Hailey—and he hadn’t been the one on his knees.
“They want me and Hailey to go on a fucking reality show. Some newlywed challenge. I can’t do that to her, put her more in the spotlight. This push for press is getting ridiculous. I’m tired of it, Krist. Fuck them.”
“How can we just cancel dates?”
“The ones they’re talking about are still tentative. Tickets aren’t even on sale. I don’t know. Maybe that’s not the worst thing. Maybe it’s time for a break. Get back to basics.”
Panic unfurled in Krist’s chest. This was exactly the worst thing. They’d never taken a break. “What does that mean, a break? Breaking up the band?”
Lock sent him a look. “No. Just a cooling off period. Let the feeding frenzy die down. Then we can focus on the music.”
“Why can’t we focus on the music now? In the studio, where we don’t have to read the fucking headlines.”
“Things are too heated now. We need some time. Hell, I need some time away from all this shit.”
“For how long?” Krist said between clenched teeth.
Lock was silent a moment. “I don’t know. Until all this shit dies down.”
A shitstorm. A goddamn hurricane and Krist was the eye, pulling his best friends into the vortex with him. Sure, Lock and Moe could take a break. They could take shelter from the relentless, howling media, but Krist would take it with him wherever he went. Alone. Terrified. How long would it take? What would happen to the band if the storm never died down?
It was almost a relief when their shark of an agent showed up.
Ward wrapped her manicured fingers around Krist’s elbow, enveloping him in a cloud of expensive perfume. The first weapon in her arsenal.
“Excuse me, I’m so sorry. I need to steal Krist.” She directed him out of the private room and away from the crowd. “Walk with me. Two minutes.”
It wasn’t a question. More guru to rising stars—or fallen stars that needed a lift—than agent, Ward didn’t play the obsequious-supporter game. She didn’t have to, not with her results. She increased market share and ate her piece of the pie with abandon. All while tapping away at the tablet Krist thought might actually be surgically attached to her hand. Who brought a tablet to a meet and greet? Ward did.
And Krist knew not to ignore her command. Better to have her hand on his elbow than her teeth in his ass. “Only two. I’ve got plans.”
“Yes.” She nodded without looking up from the screen. “I’ve got three events set up for you and Madeline. We’ll leak it to the press first, of course. Give them heads-up.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“The morning show will be your first appearance together.”
Tap. Tap.
Krist wrested himself from her grip, aggravation bubbling in his gut. “A morning show? Together? You were the one who told me to lay low until the sex tape died down.”
“This is different. This is Madeline Fox.”
“Even before all this, before the tape, I never did morning shows. I hate that shit. I did the video for her. I’m not promoting it too. This wasn’t a collaboration.”
Ward kept walking as if his objections didn’t matter, certain he’d fall in line. “Then we have an event at an art gallery and a major club opening.”
Tap.
“When they catch sight of her ring, news of the proposal will go viral.”
Ring? Proposal? Krist’s head spun. Individually the words made sense, but strung together it seemed like a foreign language. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are you on drugs? I’m not proposing to Madeline Fox at a club opening.”
“You’d rather do it somewhere else? Oh, how about a nice indie record store? We can find one with vinyl and old-school listening stations. That would be perfect. I can see the pictures now. The paparazzi will go wherever I tell them.”
Following the conversation was like trying to breathe underwater. Clearly he’d missed an important memo. “What are you talking about?”
“Your image problem. This is the new PR campaign, sweetie. We’re going to fake your engagement to Madeline Fox. Like Romeo and Juliet, only with more eyeliner and less dying. It’s perfect.”
“Not for me, it isn’t. There’s no fucking way. I’m an artist and she’s a…a…pretty little windup toy for the record label.” So what if she could sing? A lot of people could sing. She represented everything he loathed about the industry. Packaged, pampered, pandering to the lowest common denominator. Everything he hated about himself. He wasn’t going to date her.
Or fake date her.
He hated feeling this way, like a petulant child. He raked his fingers through his hair and huffed. Was this how Lock had felt when they’d tried to get him to do a reality show? When they threatened to replace him or cut half the tour dates? Image problem. It was such bullshit.
His image wasn’t the problem. His sexuality was.
Ward looked up from her tablet then and studied him with her shark eyes. His skin prickled under her gaze. She saw everything a person didn’t want her to see. “Not for much longer if she doesn’t turn her image around. That stunt she pulled for you in DC was almost the last straw with the label.”
He snorted. “I’ve never seen a woman more in control than Madeline Fox.”
And the sad truth was he wanted her to be in control of hi
s body in the worst possibly way. Which was also the best way, come to think of it. If the label was pissed at Madeline, and Alex too, he suspected it had more to do with her being out of their control. Their sexed-up puppet had cut her strings, but that wasn’t his problem to fix.
“Then send her to rehab.”
Ward sent him a sharp look. “Why, does she need it?”
“No, but this is all about image, right? Who gives a shit if it’s true. Or set up some sick-kid visits. Have her do a beach cleanup. She’s not the first starlet to go off the rails. Put a damn leash on her.”
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do. I know she set up that flash mob for you. They’ll drop her, Krist. You of all people should know they will. If you won’t do it for yourself, or the band, do it for her. You owe her.”
He’d seen what the label had done to Lock over the years. How they’d threatened him every time he’d screwed up. It was one more reason he’d reached out to Madeline for the damn favor in the first place, to throw the press a juicy new bone to gnaw and keep the powers that be from having an aneurysm. To keep them from replacing their lead singer, his best friend, with someone more easily controlled. He’d used Madeline, because her spoiled starlet antics had been all over the news, never once thinking that it might damage her career.
Now they were all getting fucked over, and Lock thought walking away might be a good idea, preferable to the shit they were asking him to do. This couldn’t be the answer, though. “There has to be another way.”
“Let me do the thinking, sweetie. My plan will work. I’ll text you the details.” Ward pushed open the door, and a wash of daylight flooded the dark hallway, blinding him. He couldn’t let Madeline take the fall for a favor she’d done for him—or really, for Lock. Because it was always about Lock, he thought darkly. But he wasn’t going to be her pet rock star. He’d find another way to help her. To help the band.
He clenched his fists. “No.”
Ward paused in the doorway and stared him down over her shoulder. “Bowie told the world he was bi and they didn’t let him be anything else for decades.”
“That was then. This will blow over eventually.” It had to. He had to believe that things could go back to normal, that he’d start getting calls from Rolling Stone again instead of the glossy gossip rags that lined grocery store checkouts.
“We need to give them something to talk about. Unless you enjoy spending all your time answering questions about your sexuality. I didn’t know you wanted to be an activist.”
Did he? No. He wanted to be a musician. Who he fucked didn’t—shouldn’t—define him. It shouldn’t even be news. He shook his head.
Ward slipped on her designer sunglasses. “Good. Bowie said it was biggest mistake of his career.”
Shit. What could Krist say to that? There was no point arguing now; his two minutes were up. The word “bisexual” was forever attached to his name now. Not bassist Krist Mellas. Bisexual Krist Mellas. Wasn’t he the one with the sex tape? Always said with a smirk.
Chapter Two
Smoke machines, strobe lights, screaming fans—the swirling madness of a sold out show at Madison Square Garden ripped through him like an electric current. For the first time in days everything felt right. Plugged in. Turned on. Ready to fucking rock. Nailing one song after the other, they’d found their sweet spot tonight. That perfect groove where they didn’t play the music, the music played them.
Lock, slick with sweat, vibrating intensity, lifted his guitar over his head like a conquering hero and roared. “New York City, we’re gonna lead you down.”
Exactly where they wanted to go.
Krist planted his feet, anchoring himself against the deafening response, and dug into the familiar bass line of “Beast.” Tension built in his jaw, but he forced himself to relax, forced himself to let the song take him where it needed to go. Moe pounded out an unrelenting rhythm behind them. Maybe this time would be different. Maybe the magic of this show would finally repair the chasm that still gaped between them onstage.
Krist and Lock always finished “Beast” back to back, working together toward a wild finish, an almost sexual release. The fans expected it—deserved it—but the band couldn’t deliver it anymore.
The sex tape had done this to them. They were too aware of perception and public opinion. It robbed them of their spontaneity. Stripped them of their joy. But Krist still leaned into the chorus, ready and waiting. Hopeful. All Lock had to do was let go and allow sense memory to take over.
The music pulsed in their earpieces, beneath their fingertips, and under their skin. It should have been effortless for Lock to tilt his shoulders toward Krist—his bandmate, his brother—and play the song they’d played forever, exactly the way they’d always played it. It should have been dead fucking simple, but it wasn’t.
Lock gave him a look, barely a shadow of the invitation to ruin he’d accepted so many times, and all Krist could do was squeeze his eyes shut and keep playing.
They’d exchanged their easy glances for unanswerable questions. So many questions. From reporters, their agent, the label, and even from each other. All of them whispering in the back of Krist’s mind until he couldn’t keep up anymore. Until he lost the thread of the song he knew better than his own name. Fuck. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he shook his head to clear his vision.
Lay low.
How could he lay low when they were larger than life onstage every other night? When every move they made invited inquiry? Laying low hadn’t worked when they were kids trapped in their parents’ tabloid frenzy; why did they think it would work now?
Maybe it’s time for a break.
A break would only make this worse, splitting them further and further apart until even the music couldn’t bridge the divide. The divide he’d wedged between them, just by fucking existing.
“Let me lead you down, down, down.” They both sang, but Krist’s heart wasn’t in it. Lock’s wasn’t either. The words cut too close.
He didn’t want Lock, but everywhere he turned, someone reminded him that he’d dropped to his knees in an elevator. They put more value on that moment than it deserved, made it bigger and bigger until it eclipsed everything else the band did.
Confetti cannons blasted from both ends of the stage, releasing a multicolored torrent that signaled the end of the set. They’d get a few minutes of not quite peace to grab a drink or change out an instrument before the crowd stomped their way to an encore.
The crowd would tear the place apart if they didn’t get it. That’s what their fans did now, grew fangs and claws and ripped the world to shreds.
He watched the band slipping away from him right before his eyes—Lock storming offstage right; Moe melting into the darkness behind his drum kit—and he felt like a caged animal, alone in the darkness with bits of paper sticking to his skin.
Colt shoved a bottle of water into his hand and inspected his bass. “Stay hydrated, man. You’re up here sweating buckets. Strings good?”
He nodded and chugged the whole bottle in three greedy gulps. A sharp pain pierced him between the eyes as the ice water sloshed in his belly. Fuck, the cold water wrecked his voice, but he didn’t care. Their show was almost over anyway. He crushed the bottle. “Room temperature next time.”
Colt’s face crumpled in horror, and he scrambled to take the trash away. “Shit, sorry. I forgot. It won’t happen again.”
Lock returned to center stage, and the fans in the front row who could make him out in the darkness by the light of their phone screens screamed their approval. The stomping built and built.
“What do you say? We already played ‘Beast.’ What’s our encore tonight?”
Krist’s head spun, still pounding from the brain freeze. Lock never asked; he just played and they kept up. “I dunno. ‘Voodoo Doll’?”
“Let’s play ‘Broken’.”
Krist’s heart pounded at the suggestion. They hadn’t played any of his songs in ages, and he hadn’t
written anything new since that one. Primarily because it had bombed. The taste of failure lay like ashes on his tongue, silencing his muse. “Are you drinking again? They’ll boo us offstage.”
Lock played the first few notes, and Krist’s already tight vocal cords constricted further. “What are you doing? I can’t.”
He hated the way he sounded, scared and desperate.
“Fine, we’ll play fucking ‘Voodoo Doll’ if that’s what you want.”
“It’s not about what I want. It’s the fans.” But Lock wasn’t listening. He’d already started the opening strains of “Voodoo Doll.” A wash of red light swept over the stage, and the crowd’s stomp and roar shattered with applause.
“Fuck ’em all,” Lock screamed.
Krist wasn’t sure if that was for his benefit or the crowd’s. Maybe both. The chaos matched the wildness battering inside his rib cage.
Krist had told Lock he’d never forgive him for destroying the band, but that wasn’t true. Krist would never forgive himself. This particular scandal, the one knotted around their necks and hiding under their beds, might not be Krist’s sole responsibility, but the media had still made him the favorite target. Lock might be Half-Life’s front man, but he couldn’t fix this nightmare. Not with a stint on a reality show, or a long stretch in the studio.
The media had a taste for Krist’s blood now. All he could do was open a vein and hope they got their fill before he bled out.
*
Maddy was accustomed to being watched. The wrong pose or an ugly expression would be broadcast halfway around the world before she tucked into bed. She was used to hiding what she really thought. But when she saw the tension on the stage and heard the disharmony in the song she’d listened to a hundred times, she couldn’t help but wince.
Backstage, no one could see her. Except her assistant.
