by James, Vicki
“Who had the camera?” she cut me off.
“No idea, but my guess was Benji… did you hear what he’s called? Well, yeah, my guess is Benji took a picture of me, you know…”
“What?”
“You… know.”
“Did you have your trousers around your ankles?” Julia scowled.
I frowned. “What? No. The fuck?”
“Was your penis out?”
“My penis?” I laughed roughly, despite that pain. “What are we? Seven? Don’t call my penis a penis. Call it a cock. A dick. An aubergine. A fucking baguette.”
She found the only spot on my chest that didn’t hurt, and her palm splayed against my skin as she stepped closer, no humour on her face despite me thinking baguette was a damn good word for a dick.
“Listen to me,” she whispered. “Your shit jokes and teenage boy dramas do not belong here in New Orleans tonight. You are Rhett Ryan,” she said softly, but that softness wasn’t soft at all. It felt hard, the quiet threats trapped within it unmissable. “Right now, you’ve forgotten who you are. You’ve forgotten your worth and what you mean to a lot of people. You’ve messed up. I can take care of damage control in the media, but I cannot sort out your body or face. You may not think those things matter, but they do. You matter, Rhett. So, I’m going to get the tour’s doctor here. You’re not going to be rude. You’re not going to make any lame jokes. If he wants to check your balls, you let him. If he wants to stick an iceberg lettuce on your face to get that bruising down, you let him, and you do not moan about it for one tiny second. You don’t take matters into your own hands. You don’t tell him to go away when he gets here. You’re not going to do anything unless I’ve told you to do it. Do you understand me?”
I flexed the muscles in my jaw as I stared down at her.
“Do. You. Understand me, Rhett?”
“Whatever,” I forced out, hating the taste of my pathetic agreement.
You’ve forgotten your worth and what you mean to a lot of people. Those were the only words I could hear.
I swallowed those weird emotions down painfully.
“I’ll take care of you,” she whispered up at me. “Okay?”
I nodded once, unable to speak.
Julia’s eyes searched mine, a flicker or something I wasn’t used to seeing from anyone flashing over her gaze. “I’ll be right back.”
It took her a second to step away from me, but when she did, I found myself alone in the room again. The silence deafened me like a sharp scraping of nails down a chalkboard from someone I couldn’t see. I turned in slow circles until I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror, and I stepped towards it.
Blue-grey eyes stared back at me through swollen lids. One cheek was pink, blushing with a bruised ego and the indents of another man’s fist. My chest was red and blotchy, despite the black tattoos, and my left rib had already started to bruise, the dark navy-purple colour poked out through white patches, blossoming to look like a weird planet on the solar system that was my skin.
For the first time since joining the band…
I looked worse than I felt.
Chapter Six
Rhett Ryan, lead singer of the band Youth Gone Wild, has today been spotted at LAX sporting yet another pair of dark sunglasses to cover the obvious injuries on his face, as well as his, now almost signature, baseball cap.
Neither Ryan himself nor the band’s publicist or management have made a statement to the press regarding what has happened, despite speculation mounting over his recent injuries and the band’s future. With rumours circulating that tension within the band is growing, and the injuries being linked to a fight between members, several Internet blogs are now waiting with bated breath for Instagram sensation Tessa Lisbon—AKA Presley West’s latest obsession—to make an informal reference to Rhett’s injuries on her page and lay the rumours to rest. But after almost seven days of waiting, the majority of us are thinking this could be something the band doesn't want to talk about.
The questions on everyone’s lips are: what the hell has Rhett Ryan done this time?
And can the band survive it?
“They do say there’s no such thing as bad publicity.” I dropped the article to the sofa and glanced up at Julia, who was standing over me, staring down at her phone. Her fingers and thumbs were tapping the screen at a million beats a minute.
We were locked up in yet another hotel suite, this time in sunny ol’ L-Fucking-A. It was just another magnolia prison, with plush couches and room service on tap. They were all bleeding into one now. A bit like the world we lived in where everyone looked the same, dressed the same, thought the same, and acted the same. Nothing was spectacular anymore. Nothing seemed unique. Not even life as a rock star.
“Bit harsh, though, if you ask me,” I said. “Why do they always assume the worst when it comes to me?”
“I don’t know,” Julia grunted, distracted.
“What the hell has Rhett Ryan done this time?” I mimicked.
“Mmhmm.”
“Every rock band needs an asshole, I guess.”
“Sure,” she said, but there was no attention to my words there. She was in another space. I scowled, waiting for her to look at me, but Jules was lost to her phone.
“Cool. Also, while I’ve got your attention, I think I might push my dick against the window over there and give the papers something real to print. They already think I’m out of control. May as well give them some decent material to work with. What do you think?”
“Sounds good.”
I raised a brow, watching as she scowled at her phone and began to chew the inside of her mouth.
“You think they’d like that? A shot of my cock might take the attention away from my face. It’d give you some fires to put out, too.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Awesome.” I sighed and pushed up to my feet, lifting the edge of my grey T-shirt and grappling for the belt on my jeans. I’d loosened it, making the buckle rattle, and was halfway through unzipping myself when Jules blinked, looked down at my fly, and then up at me again.
“Rhett, what the hell are you doing?”
“Getting my dick out.”
“What?”
“You said it was a good idea.”
“Don’t you d—”
“But, Jules, I just asked you if I should show the paps outside my dick to take the attention away from all these conspiracy theories going around, and you said sure, sounds good. Followed by uh-huh,” I teased, mimicking her voice.
Julia’s attention fell to my hands, which were still holding my zipper. She blinked hard, scrunching her face up before she shook her head and threw a hand to her forehead.
“Rhett, please. For one small minute, can we not bring every conversation back to you and your penis.”
“You mean my baguette.” Chuckling to myself, I quickly fastened my belt back in place and held up my hands as she shot me a death glare that should have sent me diving to the floor for cover. “Okay, okay, okay. Penis. You can call it a penis. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“That’s exactly what you want.”
“Maybe a little bit.” I winked.
“You’re an asshole.”
I fell back onto the sofa with a thud and pushed my hands through my hair. “I just like the way you blush.”
Julia rolled her eyes, but sure enough, the apples of her sharp cheekbones turned a lovely shade of pink. I wondered briefly what her arse cheeks would look like after being spanked. Did they flame after a second, the bright sting of impact bringing her ivory, flawless skin to life? Was Jules the kind of woman who even liked to be spanked?
Shit, did she even have sex with anyone while on tour with us, or did she go to bed in cute little jammies every night and slip her fingers between her thighs?
“What are you doing?”
Her voice made me blink back into reality, and I glanced up sharply, realising that my head had been tilted as I’d tri
ed to get a good look at her arse.
“Were you looking at my arse?” she asked.
“Uh… no.”
She raised a brow. “Seriously?”
“Fine. I may have been trying to take a peek.”
“Surely you can’t be running out of groupies already.”
“Maybe I just find you more fuckable than I ever realised.”
Her nose wrinkled, and she looked down at her phone again, the lines of stress looking more prominent than ever. “Don’t go there, Rhett.”
“Why not?”
She sucked in a breath, only to shake her head and release that breath a second later. That was her only comeback, and knowing Jules the way I did, it worried me. She had more banter to give than that.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yep. I’m great.”
I stood again, my chest expanding. When I was close enough to be looking down into her big, brown eyes, I stopped myself, and I searched those eyes and looked for something—something I’d never seen before.
“You look worried today. You’re never worried. Is it the band?”
“No.”
“Is it me?”
“No. Quit it.” Julia swallowed before she took a small step back and raised her chin in defiance. “I said I’m fine.”
“No, you said you were great. Now you’re saying you’re fine. Which is it?”
“What is with you today?”
“I’m just concerned for my friend.”
“Well, your friend is fine. Great, even. And we don’t have time for this,” she huffed.
“I do. I have time for you.”
“You have to be ready in ten minutes. We’ve got a journalist meeting the band in room—”
“Seven-one-one. Yeah, I know. Now tell me something I don’t know. Tell me what’s eating away at you.”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.” I took a step closer.
“Why do you keep doing that?”
“Doing what?”
She glanced down at my feet before she looked up into my eyes again. “That. Stepping closer.”
“Because it’s making you feel uncomfortable, and it’s the same thing you pull on me when you know I’m hiding something. You try to intimidate us with this caring bullshit. I’ve learnt from the best. I’m trying it on you. You like the taste of your own medicine, baby?”
Her eyes narrowed, and her face turned cold. It was… unfamiliar. “Not today, Rhett.”
“Why not today? What’s going on, Jules?”
Her phone beeped in her hand. She looked scared as she swiped the screen to unlock her phone and read the text she’d received.
When she finally looked up, the woman who was normally nothing but confident had tears in her eyes. I’d never seen her look so afraid.
“I said not today, Rhett. Okay?” she croaked before she turned and stormed out of the hotel room in a very un-Julia-like manner.
I stood there for a minute, scratching the back of my neck as I tried to figure out what the fuck had just happened.
* * *
Presley this.
Presley that.
Tessa this.
Tessa that.
Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
Even Presley was getting agitated with this interviewer. It went on and on until Presley glanced behind him.
Julia. He wanted Julia. He wanted her to end this dreadful interview and get us all the hell out of there. This wasn’t the kind of press we needed. This was Hollywood gossip, and we’d been sold a lie.
The five of us were sitting on a row of chairs, with an American morning TV show’s backdrop behind us. Julia wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
Dicky emerged from the shadows, and the bright lights above us highlighted his presence. He leaned into someone on the outskirts who had a piece in their ear and a radio attached to their waist. We didn’t have to hear what he was saying to know that Dicky was telling that person to get this interview in order.
We were about the music, goddammit. Not this teen drama, desperate housewives bullshit.
I sighed… a little too loudly, forcing everyone to turn and look at me.
“What?” I asked as I slumped down in my seat, bored as shit.
The interviewer’s eyes narrowed, and her shoulders went back as her spine straightened. She was a gorgeous woman with bright white teeth, and eyes that lit up the room more than these hot fucking lights did, but she was a journo, and I was honest to God sick of the fucking lot of them and their thirst for scandal. Even if I did think she’d look great beneath me, all sweaty and breathless.
Such a shame that people like her had the ability to make or break bands like us.
Music, man. We were famous for the music.
“Rhett, you’ve been quiet so far,” she said to me, cutting the rest of the guys out as she clenched her clipboard tight, pressing the edge of it into her stomach while it rested on her knees.
“You’ve not asked anything interesting yet,” I told her. “I’m fucking bored.”
The band laughed, and I saw Dicky groan.
“How’s the tour treating you?” the interviewer asked.
“Great. Amazing. The best.” It took all my strength not to roll my eyes.
“Do you miss home life at all? America is a long way from England.”
“Nope. Don’t miss anything.”
“What about anyone?” She beamed, thinking she was clever.
“Maybe my addiction counsellor.”
Her face fell for a split second before her eyes lit up. She opened her mouth to speak, but my laughter cut her off.
“Joking, sweetheart. It’s a joke. There’s nothing happening I can tell you about that’s gonna put you on the front page of every newspaper on the planet. If you’re looking for gossip, I’m the wrong person to talk to.” I leaned forward, clasping my hands together and dropping my elbows to my knees. “But if you want to talk to me about music, I’m happy to give you anything you need. You want to hear about my influences? Shall we discuss the greats? I can always fill your time by talking about how I’d give up a small toe to sing with Corey Taylor, if that helps?”
The interviewer glanced to the side, taking a quick peek at her team before she zoned back in on me.
“It’s nice to see your face is healing, Rhett.”
“Don’t.” I smirked, shaking my head in warning.
“Do you finally want to tell us what happened?”
I sighed. Hard.
I was really trying to help this chick out, but just like the rest of them, she wanted to sell some kind of lie rather than listen to any truths.
“You want to know what happened?” I stared at her.
“I’d love to be able to tell the fans you’re okay.”
“The fans? Yeah? Come on. Be honest. You want to know how I got this messed up, sweetheart? You want all the graphic details. How about I press my lips to yours and whisper them so you’re the first to taste my admission?”
“Rhett,” Coops whispered beside me. I ignored him, now focused on this woman in front of me.
The interviewer exhaled, almost romantically, and I didn’t miss the way her chest expanded, and her nostrils flared when she pulled in a steadying breath. “Tell us, Rhett. Tell America who hurt you.”
“Well. See. It all started with this big breasted woman called Candy. She—”
A door slammed to the left of us, the noise making everyone in the room flinch and look in that direction. The sound of sharp, snappy heels took over along with hushed voices and people looking from left to right.
Julia stepped out of the shadows and marched towards us. She didn’t even look at the woman interviewing us before she stopped in front of Hawk, focused on him, and pointed to the door behind her.
“All of you. Out there. Now.”
The guys and I glanced at one another, wondering what the fuck was going on.
Julia never caused a scene. Ever.
“Hawk, move.�
�� Her jaw was set tight as she glared at him.
“What’s going on, Jules?” Hawk asked.
I studied her face. She was hard that night, her features stony, and it took me back to earlier when she walked out on me without any explanation.
Her eyes were red. Had she been… crying?
“I said get out, boys,” she pushed through gritted teeth.
Presley looked at me, the two of us trying to communicate silently before he began to stand.
What’s going on?
Who is she?
We can’t end the interview.
We’ve promised tomorrow’s breakfast audience an exclusive.
That was all the shit the interviewer and her team were shouting as the boys and I began to rise, following Julia’s instruction to get out of the room immediately. No looking back.
Dicky was arguing with someone.
The interview lady had risen from her seat and was protesting, her voice growing louder.
But never once did Julia look at any of them. When Hawk walked away, she just kept her eyes trained on his seat, focused. Like a machine.
“Julia—”
“Go, Rhett,” she growled.
“Okay,” I said softly, too worried to do anything else that might get me in even more fucking trouble. Shit. Was that respect I had for her?
Her eyes snapped to mine, and I saw the bloodshot red in them. She had been crying.
“Got it,” I whispered, not needing her to say another word. “I’ll sort the guys.”
Her jaw twitched, and she rubbed her lips together, offering me a nod of thanks.
I’d barely made it out of the door when I heard her speak again, her words drifting out behind me.
“Happy? I fucking warned you not to press Rhett on that issue. You crossed a line. I was very clear about what you could and could not discuss. Do not mess with me. Do not mess with my band. I do not make empty threats when it comes to my men. Pat yourself on the back when you see them speaking to Good Morning with Gloria now instead of being on your show, you bunch of idiots. Consider this interview terminated.”
