by Anne Eliot
She responded so quietly over her shoulder he almost couldn’t hear, “This plan is about you. About me making things right. Just follow along. And for once in your life, please stay quiet. Behave. You don’t believe in me, but I do know what’s best.”
“Isn’t it a little late for you to run for Mother of the Year?” he muttered.
“Yes. Yes it is.” She froze and looked back, catching and holding his gaze.
Shit. She’s visibly shaking.
Shaking a lot!
Shouldn’t I be the one shaking right now?
“Have a good trip. Please try to stick with the plan. No matter how hard it seems.” Her voice broke. “Please.”
He raised his eyebrows as she stalked away.
WTF? Had his mom just agreed with him?
Had she been crying?
Before he could process more, part of Hunter’s entourage—his publicist, manager and three hulking bodyguards he didn’t recognize—emerged from another waiting limo and moved in around him.
“Hunter!” His agent’s voice shot up from a crowd ahead while his mom’s back was swallowed in the crowd. “Hunter! This way!”
Martin, along with his band-mates, Royce and Adam, had been trapped against the windows by a throng of reporters near the entrance. They were wedged in, but safely surrounded by their own bodyguards.
Martin jumped up and down, waving his arms. “Hunter Kennedy. We’re over here!”
Hunter recoiled slightly before he caught himself.
His pulse increased as the crowd’s excited energy, plus the eyes and cameras of the greedy press mob, pushed toward him. His closed limo door blocked any retreat.
It took only seconds for Hunter to be engulfed in flashes and the pressing mass of paparazzi. Some he recognized behind their giant lenses and some he didn’t.
He froze and squared his shoulders, hiding another flare of panic. Martin knew Hunter hated to be mobbed, yet it never stopped the guy from flagging the press onto him.
Hunter forced his expression into one of practiced, cool nonchalance.
Follow along and behave.
And of course, remember to breathe.
“Hunter! Hunter Kennedy! Hunter! This way. Turn this way,” a man shouted. “Hunter!”
Another voice, this time a woman’s, called out from the clicking, shoving press-mob. “When did you return from Paris? How long were you there?”
Hunter smiled his biggest grin. At least these bastards still didn’t seem to have a clue as to where he’d really been.
A plus.
He busied himself with his silver pack as though he hadn’t heard any one question.
“Is that outfit one of the new HK Originals?”
Hunter knew that was safe to answer. “Yeah. Check the new shoes.”
The photographers immediately aimed their cameras down and took shots of the matching freak-shows as though they were rare art objects.
“Hunter, Hunter, turn around. Just one shot, this way. Here! Here! Hunter!” Hunter turned, posed, smiled and turned back.
“Guys!” Martin shouted again. His louder-than-life, New York accent carried over the crowd. “Let him pass through to the rest of the band so we can get inside. We’ll give you all a chance at some good shots and maybe a meet-and-greet before we go through security.”
The photographers parted, and Hunter headed toward Martin, Royce and Adam. They both sported similar, ridiculous, white outfits with silver accessories.
They looked tense, tired. And as sparkly-stupid as he did. As they made their way inside, Hunter tried to loosen them up. “Nice wardrobe, snowflakes. Do your boxers itch as much as mine?”
Royce glowered, apparently not amused, but Adam shot him a wry, almost apologetic smile.
Before either could respond further, a number of new onlookers saw the chaos and crowded around as well, halting their progress.
The new people were mostly curious airport staff and tired looking executives. Business CEOs with private jets and early commuters were not their target market.
At this hour of the morning, their core fans—high-school and college kids—would be fast asleep, and not at the Van Nuys Regional Airport, located just outside Los Angeles.
This meant they were not going to be suffocated by a mass of random, screaming, crying girls either.
A second plus.
After all his time alone inside the quiet rooms of Falconer, Hunter was not ready to face any screaming. And, even on a good day, crying girls simply terrified him.
Martin looked more than pleased with the press coverage.
Normally, Hunter tried to avoid all photographers and gossip parasites, but he didn’t want to screw this up. GuardeRobe probably needed to get some catch-up shots to compensate for his absence.
Hunter wanted to make it all right—make the guys and Martin understand he was fully on board. If they had some sort of a plan in motion, messing up in front of cameras would mean sudden death. So, he worked to play his part.
Along with the guys, he smiled, took off his sunglasses, signed a few autographs, flirted with the cameras and avoided the odd questions about Paris.
Royce and Adam handled those. Blabbing about how they loved seeing the Eiffel Tower. Royce also answered that Hunter had missed going out much in Paris because of a stomach flu?
Nice cover.
It made perfect sense they would create press halfway across the world to divert the attention from Hunter’s true, lame location.
His vision glazed to a thick fog. Barry had told him over and over that he was well enough to move on, but Hunter didn’t feel well enough at the moment. Not even close. He wanted to run back to Falconer and crawl back into the small, silent hospital room he thought he hated.
Shit.
Faces in the crowd pulsed in front of Hunter. He swallowed, yanked down on the knit cap and checked the sleeve cuffs on his hoodie. When the inevitable ‘what are you working on next’ question shot out, Hunter managed another fake grin and pointed to Martin who’d finally joined them.
“GuardeRobe is heading back into the studio,” Martin answered, using his smooth-talker voice. “You won’t be seeing much of the band until late spring. They’re about to hop a charter to New York and get to work. We have an album to deliver.”
Hunter vaguely wondered if the guys were really going to be in New York? If so, he figured suffering through his mom’s orchestrated time-out in the boonies seemed a bit less terrible. Martin was a slave-driving ass when they had to pay for studio time. Plus working in a studio required huge concentration and energy. Hunter admitted he might not have either of those on board. Not this week, anyhow. His gaze fogged out more. He broke out into a cold sweat as his thoughts sunk in.
But...wait. If GuardeRobe has studio time lined up in New York, who is going to write their lyrics? I write those.
Has anyone considered that?
Trying not to openly freak, he looked around for his mom.
All signs of her possible crying-moment were long gone. She stood far in the background, arms crossed, watching him. A ball of fury swelled in his chest. Why had she kept all these details silent?
He should have insisted. Begged harder.
But he’d been too hung up on pretending he didn’t care. Besides, he’d never had to ask anything before.
People—his mom above all—had always told him everything he needed to know. Told him what to wear, where to go, how to stand, what to eat, when to sing, what to say, and most importantly what the hell was going on!
Hunter wiped his hand along his pounding left temple. He was bound and determined to play along. He could afford no more mistakes. He had to prove to his mom, hell, to all of them, that he was sorry.
This could be his last chance to get these people to believe that. Hunter continuously checked his hat to make sure it stayed low, hiding the damn dyed hair, hoping his mom noticed his efforts.
Within minutes, Martin had deftly pushed the entire group, minus the re
porters and the business travelers, through security and into the Ages Airlines Diamond Club.
Once sequestered in the back, Martin directed Hunter to get a bite to eat.
Feeling completely hollow and empty, he watched Martin usher his mother and the guys to the far corner of the large room. It was apparent they did not want him in their conversation.
Should I try to eavesdrop?
Hunter hadn’t come up with any excuse to follow them that didn’t involve screaming, yelling and throwing things. That behavior would not help his cause. He’d tried it once at Falconer and ended up with hours of additional therapy couch-time with Barry.
He walked over to grab a plate from a sideboard. Not an easy feat, since his hands were shaking and he could still hardly see straight.
This upside down situation will right itself if I can hold my ground. It has to.
I’m Hunter Kennedy for God’s sake.
Without me, none of them can pay their bills, right?
Right?
Hunter swallowed, pulling in as much air as he could hold.
Time and patience is all this will take.
He turned toward the small buffet, forcing his eyes to focus on the food. He filled a plate with hummus, pita bread, Greek olives, Feta, grapes, and he grabbed a bottle of water.
His mother’s favorite low calorie, high-protein food—even for breakfast.
Feeling a bit more in control, Hunter pulled off the evil-medieval-sword necklace before sitting. He shot a glance at a tall, familiar looking, blond guy, eating apart from the bodyguards and the rest of his entourage. Each and every person in the room seemed to be avoiding Hunter’s gaze except for this kid.
The kid actually seemed to have no problem meeting his gaze or staring like a wide-eyed fanboy.
Hunter shook his head, trying to place him.
I’ve seen him before. Maybe someone’s son? Nephew?
Could be a new intern. One who had not received today’s IGNORE-HUNTER MEMO?
The kid had his elbows propped on the mahogany conference table. He was demolishing a large plate of food that contained only red grapes and crackers.
The dude motioned to Hunter’s plate. “What is all that junk? I’m scared to eat it, so I only took what I recognized.” He grinned. A large piece of grape skin had stuck to his front tooth making, him look like whacked hillbilly.
Hunter bit back his own smile and tilted his head—still trying to place the guy. “It’s Greek food. Hummus, goat cheese?” He pointed to the kid’s tooth. “Dude—you’ve got something stuck right there...”
The kid flushed slightly, and wiped his tooth with a napkin. “Oh. Thanks. You’re Hunter Kennedy.”
“Yes. Yes, I am.” Hunter squelched a grimace. It wasn’t this kid’s fault he was meeting him on the worst day of his life.
“Nice to finally meet you.”
“Thanks.” Hunter sighed, hoping the kid didn’t want him to chat longer, or worse, sign autographs. Before he could make a polite escape, the kid reached across the table and picked up Hunter’s necklace.
He let the chain dangle down between them, and spun the sword until it became a whirling blur. “This is nice.”
Hunter snorted. “And sharp. Be careful.”
“I guess we’re supposed to swap outfits soon. I’m going to catch the plane to New York with GuardeRobe, but you have to hand over the matching outfit first.” His toothy smile almost blinded Hunter. “New York! I can’t wait. I’ve heard it’s so awesome. What size shoe are you?” The guy shoved three crackers into his mouth and continued, “I hope eleven, because those new sneaks are sweet. I’m psyched to have them.”
Hunter coughed. An olive had lodged in the back of his throat. He forced it down and stared at the guy, trying to process what he’d just heard.
“If that’s okay with you, I mean. You don’t need them back. right?”
The dude’s grin was now so big Hunter wondered if it would fall off his face.
The kid blabbed on, “Can I keep that hat, too?” He studied Hunter’s head and his grin faltered when Hunter still didn’t respond. “If you don’t care. It’s as cool as this necklace!” He dropped the chain over his neck.
Hunter blinked, unable to respond, or breathe, or think.
“They let me keep the other outfits so...I just figured...”
Hunter gripped the sides of his chair for balance as his mind spun out of control.
Hell. No way.
NO WAY.
They’ve replaced me!
Hunter couldn’t believe his life had morphed into this.
Well aware the room had just gone completely silent, Hunter unclenched his hands and grabbed a handful of grapes.
Methodically putting them into his mouth one at a time, he stapled his expression into extreme press mode. He concentrated on chewing, swallowing and willing the buzzing fury in his head to dissipate.
He shot another hooded glance at the huddle in the corner and noted everyone had turned to watch him, except his mom. She was obviously pretending not to notice the exchange.
Typical.
His entire life was spiraling out of control because of her stupid need to punish him, and the woman didn’t even have the courage to watch anymore.
I have to think. Shit. I have to breathe.
He let air in through his nose and popped in another grape, biting through the skin. It tasted like dirt.
The effort to swallow almost did him in, but he knew he was winning when he managed to throw in another, chew it, swallow again and add in more breathing.
Hunter surveyed the guy top to bottom. The kid looked almost exactly like him.
How I used to look six weeks ago with shorter, blond hair. Minus the dorky, shit-eating-grin, of course.
Kid has so many damn teeth.
“Dude. Hunter? We cool?” he asked, frowning.
Hunter felt his legs start to shake, but managed to flip on a smile and a nod. “Just starving,” he muttered. “You know how it is.”
“Oh, yeah. Me, too. We have so much in common!” The guy shot him another overlarge grin. “I’m always hungry too!”
Hunter shot Martin a desperate glance.
Martin nodded, but made no move to come talk about this.
Hunter decided he was not going to do what they probably expected him to do.
No way was he going to blow up. Not even a little.
Though he had every right.
He took in another big breath and looked back at the goofy guy in front of him and cracked his own smile.
A fake, dumbass smile that matched the other kid’s smile. One that hurt so bad he felt like the insides of his cheeks were cracking all the way to his soul.
“Dude. You can keep the whole outfit. Forever. My shoes are an eleven. Are they paying you a lot?”
“Tons! It’s the best deal ever. Thanks for—uh—the job—and the trip to Paris too.”
“You actually went to Paris?” Hunter’s heart dropped. He was mostly amazed that he could still be surprised at this moment.
“Yeah. Me and the guys. When you were...sick? Didn’t they tell you?” The blond kid nodded toward Royce and Adam.
Hunter shook his head. “No. They didn’t.”
“I had to keep mostly to the hotel, but the hotel was sweet. So deluxe. And they got me anything I wanted—room service, video games, movies, French pastries—anything, even wine. No drinking age over there!”
“Right. Lucky you.” Hunter wondered how long it had been since he’d found unlimited room service or the accessibility to alcohol exciting.
He studied the kid close up.
Shit. My twin. Eye color, not as blue. Everything else—dead on. Except for the part where he’s got way, too many teeth.
“This gig will more than pay for my college or anything I want to do next year. It’s cake acting too. No lines to learn. All I have to do is keep my face down, wear sweet clothes, and not talk.”
“Well, at least one of us has
a solid future,” Hunter said, hating that he’d been unable to hide the utterly desolate tone in his voice.
The dude noticed, and at least had the grace to dim his smile to a sincere frown. “Oh. Right. Well, I’m sorry about you know—that you’re sick? But they told me it wasn’t like—fatal—or too major? Is it?”
“Apparently it’s more serious than we all originally thought,” Hunter managed.
“Oh. I’m really sorry.” He leaned farther across the table and continued, “I totally love GuardeRobe. It’s an honor to help you out. Really. I hope you don’t have to go through anything painful like surgeries? Or—well—I’m hoping there’s some sort of bright side for you.”
“Are you always this chatty?” Hunter unclenched his fists.
“Yeah! I am. My name’s—”
“No! Don’t.” Hunter stood abruptly, picking up his plate.
The guy sat back, startled.
“I don’t want to know your name. Too weird. I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“Oh. Okay. Sure.”
The guy had stopped smiling at least.
“Shall we—get this over with?” Hunter motioned to the rest room signs behind them, as a wave of extreme exhaustion hit him low and heavy across his chest.
His body felt as though it weighed thousands of pounds. He had no idea how he made it to the other side of the room.
And then it was done.
They’d traded out everything but their boxers.
Truthfully, Hunter couldn’t have been happier to ditch the white and silver hell-suit for the other guy’s plain Levis, white under shirt and his wrinkled, long sleeved, light blue button down. It all fit him like a glove. The freakish skate cap had been replaced with a faded, black and purple, Sacramento Kings ball cap. The offensive white sneakers had been upgraded to surfer flip-flops with dark red canvas tops.
Hunter pulled nervously at the shirt cuffs. The sleeves were long enough to do the trick.
After they’d changed, they made their way back to the table where Hunter’s band-mates were now sitting and eating.
Unlike before, everyone was now openly staring, but they all seemed jumpy.
YA THINK?!! TRAITORS!
I’M A LITTLE JUMPY TOO!
