by Roxy Reid
One by one they all introduce themselves. The guy with spiked hair is Owen, the bassist. The woman with the garment bags is Karmine, who handles wardrobe. The mildly terrifying woman in black is Bridget, Finn’s manager. The bald guy is Terry, who handles lights and projections. The guy who can’t get a word in doesn’t actually manage to get his name in either, but I do find out he does the audio stuff.
They’re so open and teasing and welcoming, I feel a little twinge of guilt. It’s one thing to fuck up Finn’s career. But what about the ripple effect it will have on everyone else’s jobs?
Not your problem, I tell myself. If Finn’s doing something that puts everyones’ jobs at risk, that’s his fault, not yours.
I extract myself from the welcome wagon and go sit in an overly plush chair by floor to ceiling windows overlooking the runway. I’m not going to get Finn to confess anything while he’s surrounded by employees, and I”m not going to get any of them to badmouth their boss when he’s standing right there. I might as well get a moment of peace to pull myself together.
I pull my smallest camera out, the one I use most often for city photography. I stare at the screen on the back and start clicking through the photos I took in the taxi on the way over, wondering if I got anything good.
“Whatcha doing?” Finn asks by my head, and I jump. Finn’s leaning his forearms on the back of the chair next to me, smiling down at me. Like he’s trying to be friendly.
As if we could ever be friends.
“Enjoying a view without you in it,” I bite off.
He staggers back, a hand over his heart like he’s been shot, “I’m wounded, wounded I say.”
“As if anything I do could ever hurt you,” I say.
The mirth leaves his green eyes, and he looks away, out the window. His profile is moody, beautiful, complicated, and the urge to capture him in my camera surprises me.
It’s an old urge, and I almost press it down, but then I remember this is what I’m here to do. For both my real job and my cover. So I silently lift my camera, focus on Finn and click.
He scowls at the camera, and I click again, just to be a brat.
“What was that for?”
“Just doing my job,” I say sweetly.
“About that. Why did you take this job?” he asks with repressed casualness.
I don’t know why the question takes me by surprise. Finn’s not stupid, and he knows me. He was going to ask it at some point.
I start packing up the camera, futzing with the lens cap as an excuse to avoid looking at him, “There’s this thing called money, and you’re paying me a lot of it …”
“So it’s just the money?”
Finally I look up at him, keeping my expression guileless, “Oh, that’s cute. Did you think I took this job for you?”
He narrows his eyes, all traces of friendliness slowly vanishing.
Just then someone comes over to tell Finn that his jet is ready for us to board. Finn nods, like this is normal information to hear.
He signals everyone else, “The jet’s ready.”
There’s a general shuffle as everyone collects suitcases and garment bags and musical instruments.
Finn catches me shaking my head as I grab my own bags.
“What?” he asks, scowling.
“Do you even hear yourself? The jet’s ready,” I mimic. “You used to hate rich crap like this. Said it was killing the planet.”
“It’s efficient,” he says, stiffly.
“Is that what comforts you when you’re lying awake late at night?”
“Oh honey,” Finn’s smile is sultry. “That’s not what keeps me up at night.”
Heat hits me as I remember all the ways he used to keep me up at night. He wasn’t great at oral but there were other things he was very, very good at.
I think he’s remembering too, because his smile vanishes and his green eyes go dark.
I used to find it exhilarating, how quickly Finn’s moods could change. A small part of me, a very small part of me, still does.
“Right,” Bridget claps her hands together, startling us both, and it’s only when I break eye contact with Finn that I realize everyone is staring at me with expressions ranging from curiosity to horror.
When I’m settled on the jet next to Mariana, I lean over and ask quietly, “Did I do something wrong? Back in the airport?”
She shakes her head, signaling the flight attendant for two mimosas, “No. It’s just no one talks to Finn like that.”
My investigation ears perk up, “Why? Is he mean?”
“Not mean, just … cutting. You know at dog parks, when there’s a dog that’s faster than all the other dogs, so after a while the other dogs won’t play chase with him, because he’s too fast for it to be fun for them?”
“… Yes?”
“Finn’s the fast dog. No one wants to trade barbs with him, because he’ll skewer you alive, and it’s just not fun for us anymore.” Mariana accepts the mimosas from the flight attendant and passes one to me, “But it looks like he just found a bitch fast enough to play with.”
Mariana raises her mimosa, “To keeping men on their toes.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I say and toss back my mimosa.
But as the jet takes off, I wonder, what have I gotten myself into?
4
Charlie
The crowd is screaming. Chanting and cheering for Finn Ryan.
I’m standing backstage at the New Orleans concert, my pulse pounding. I think it’s the first time I’ve been in a venue this big, and it’s definitely the first time I’ve shot anything in a venue this big. While Finn and the tech team spent yesterday running the show in a new location, I spent hours testing the space and trying to figure out the best lens and camera settings to use. I don’t want to get in the way of the actual concert, so until I get a better idea of how the show flows, I’ll be shooting from the wings and the side of the stage.
I tried to get a few candids yesterday too, to supplement the concert stuff, but mostly I just ended up with Finn ruining perfectly good shots by crossing his eyes and making faces at the camera.
It would serve him right if I gave one of those to False Prophet.
My phone buzzes. I’ve got a text message from Shaun Coleman. Anything good yet?
Just that no one’s heard any of the songs for the new album yet. But I’m still getting them to trust me, I text back and shove my phone into my pants pocket.
Someone claps me on the shoulder, and I jump.
“Easy there,” Finn says in my ear. “Why are you nervous? I’m the one going out there.”
“I’m not nervous,” I say.
“Kai got most of his best photos from over there,” Finn says, indicating a spot farther downstage.
“Well, I’m not Kai,” I say.
He gives me an irritated look that would normally have me scrambling to appease a client. But it’s Finn. He’s not a normal client. So I raise my chin and hold my ground.
And I’m gonna be honest. It feels good to just flat out tell a client they’re wrong. Maybe I’d like my photography business better if I stood up for myself more.
Of course, then I’d like my bank account less. For all his faults, Finn doesn’t seem to fire any of his people for pushing back.
The crowd’s shouting crescendos, and Finn rolls his eyes.
“They love me. They really, really love me,” he says sarcastically, and it almost surprises a laugh out of me.
I’d forgotten that as often as he turns that sharp tongue of his on the rest of the world, it’s sharpest of all when he’s mocking himself.
He rolls his shoulders back and strides on stage with Mariana and Owen following.
I raise my camera in time to catch the three of them silhouetted against the stage lights, and then we’re off and running.
The concert is a blur of sound and light and the snap of my camera shutter, while Finn’s voice soars over everything, wrapping around me. He’s electr
ic on stage. It’s like he’s singing with his whole body, with his whole soul. It’s easy to see how someone who just met him would get swept away and only see his power, talent, and charisma.
But through the lens of the camera and long-ago years spent studying his every expression, I can see the work he’s putting in. The way the corner of his mouth tenses a little bit before a difficult harmony. The way his seemingly natural, unplanned movements around the stage mean he can always signal his band mates before a shift in a song.
Finn has worked hard at this. I’ve been telling myself that he lucked into his success. That it’s just another case of the arts industry rewarding charming assholes.
And of course there has been some luck to it. There are plenty of talented, hardworking musicians who don’t make it, especially if they don’t fit neatly into our cultural assumptions of what a rockstar should look or sound like.
But Finn hasn’t wasted an inch of his luck.
“Drink this,” a woman says, and I look up from the camera to see Karmine from Wardrobe shoving a bottle of water at me. It breaks my concentration just enough to realize my arms are exhausted, and I’m crazy thirsty.
I accept the water gratefully. “So how long have you been with Finn and the band?” I ask.
“Since their first Coachella performance,” Karmine says proudly.
“So you must like working with Finn,” I say, finishing my water.
“Oh yes,” Karmine says. Then she laughs, “Well mostly. When he transforms into a bitchy perfectionist during the final month leading up to a tour, I kind of hate him. But then we hit the road, and I’m as proud as I’ve been of anything in my professional life. Plus, there’s the security factor.”
“The what?”
“The music business can be … well. When you’re starting out, you’re scared to ruffle feathers. So if there’s someone you’re working with who’s doing something that’s not ok, and they have higher standing than you …” Karmine shrugs.
I feel a little sick. Please God, let that not be the scandal False Prophet heard rumors about. If stuff that bad is happening on Finn’s tour, then I really don’t know him at all.
I lift my camera so I don’t have to look her in the eye, “You’re saying you need the job, even if the workplace is unsafe.”
“No! The opposite.”
I look up from my camera, surprised.
“I keep coming back because I don’t have to worry about that kind of crap. Finn fires people in a heartbeat if they’re doing something that puts other people at risk. Whether that’s getting handsy, or showing up high to operate heavy equipment, or just blaming their crappy work on someone else instead of owning up to their mistakes. He even fired Zane Wright, his producer, and that man’s pretty much a legend.” She glances at the stage. “Finn makes you work hard, but he works hard too, and he never turns a blind eye to what’s going on during his tour.”
I feel a swell of pride. Completely misplaced, obviously. Finn is not mine to be proud of.
“Out of the way, out of the way, they’re coming off stage now,” Karmine switches focus and shoves me out of the way as Finn’s voice soars and Mariana brings the drums to a crashing finale.
They take their bows and stride off stage. Karmine passes everyone water bottles and towels. She takes Owen’s sweat soaked jacket and replaces it with an identical one.
Karmine tosses Finn a t-shirt.
“I said I’m not doing a costume change.”
“Pit stains are not sexy. Change your t-shirt before the encore,” Karmine says.
Finn strips off his shirt in one smooth motion, and my mouth goes dry. I know he’s gorgeous, but … um … wow. A ninety year old lesbian would acknowledge that shirtless Finn Ryan is beautiful.
And me? Well, I’m not a 90-year-old lesbian. And I’m not exactly impartial.
Finn catches me looking and raises an eyebrow, masculine and cocky as all hell, and my knees go a little weak.
I can’t pretend I’m not looking, so I raise my camera and start snapping.
I’ve never seen a man scramble to put on a shirt so fast.
Before they go back on stage, Finn jabs a finger at me, “Don’t do that again.”
“Do what? I’m just capturing the real Finn Ryan,” I coo.
Finn gives me a look like he’s considering strangling me, but instead he goes out on stage to the cheers of thousands and plays one hell of an encore.
I capture every moment of it.
5
Finn
I’m so rattled I almost fuck up the bridge of a song I’ve been playing for ten years.
I don’t want to ask Charlie for help—and admit I haven’t written anything—while she still hates me. That’s too much ammunition to give one woman scorned.
But I’m running out of time to call Zane, if I’m going to.
Complicating all of that is the fact that Charlie is really fucking hot. The sweet flare of her hips, those little black t-shirts of hers, the scent of the jasmine oil she still rubs into her wrists. And there’s an edge to her I don’t remember.
I can’t get her out of my mind, but I don’t seem to affect her at all. There are times I think she’s checking me out, but then she raises her camera, and I remember I’m just a paycheck.
She’s been standing there, all cool and calm the whole concert, just watching me. Watching me through that camera of hers. The thing that lets her stare as much as she wants, while also keeping the world at bay.
I don’t know why it’s getting to me. She’s taking pictures of me, which is literally what she was hired to do. But I can feel her eyes, and it’s reducing me to a horny, self-conscious teenager.
Meanwhile, she’s over there professional and cool as all get out.
I put every inch of frustration into the song I’m playing, which is, ironically, an energetic, uptempo song about begging a girl to see me.
Fun fact: the woman the song is about is currently snapping photos of me, as dispassionately as a scientist dissecting a corpse.
Well, fuck that. She started this, submitting that photo of my parents’ bar. She’s going to goddamn see me.
I’m singing melodramatic lyrics about racing across San Francisco at night, when I get an idea. To get Charlie to forgive me, and help me, I need to spend time with her, just us, the way we used to. And if I know her at all, wandering a cool city at night is my best chance at getting her to thaw.
If it doesn’t work, I’ll call Zane in the morning.
But I think this will work. I finish the song in a mood to match the triumphant final chord.
By the time I’ve given a final shout-out to Mariana and Owen, thanked everyone for coming, and finally gotten off stage, Charlie’s already packing up her camera equipment. I head over, slouching against the wall behind her. Trying to play it cool.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
Charlie whirls, then scowls when she sees it’s me.
She sure is jumpy tonight. Maybe she’s not as unaffected as I thought. I ignore that thought to focus on Project Friendship.
“I’m packing up my shit,” Charlie says. “Because this show is finally over, and there is a bathtub at the hotel calling my name.”
I’m momentarily distracted by the image of Charlie relaxing in the bath. Is this a regular thing she does after a rough day? Does she sit there for hours losing herself in those science fiction novels she used to like? Or does she just close her eyes and let herself soften?
Does she wish she had company?
Christ. Fuck. She’s turning me into a fucking teenager.
Focus. Project Friendship.
“Unfortunately,” I say. “You’re not done yet.”
Charlie groans, “What more could your vanity possibly demand I shoot?”
“Me. Experiencing the city.”
“Sure, let’s do it tomorrow.”
“I think it should really be at night. You know, it’s New Orleans. 24 Hour Beignets. Live music on eve
ry corner. Strolling the streets, wine in hand.”
“I hate you,” Charlie says, and there’s so much venom in her voice, I’m worried I’ll fail. But instead I make myself laugh.
“Come on Charlie,” I say, letting my voice go deep in that way that always used to work with her. “You use to love the city at night.”
“That was a different city.”
“This one’s pretty good too.”
Charlie narrows her eyes at me, “This isn’t just a way to spend time with me?”
I hold up my hands, “Bridget’s idea, I swear. Something about promoting the next album.”
Charlie’s stance softens. She never could tell when I was lying.
If she could, we might still be together. I shove the thought away.
“Fine,” Charlie says, “But we’re stopping by the hotel first. I need a change of clothes and a different camera.”
I take the opportunity to change too, but I still beat Charlie down to the lobby by fifteen minutes. I’m starting to think I’ve been stood up, when the elevator doors open, and Charlie walks through them.
Here’s the thing with Charlie: whenever she enters a room, my eyes go to her. It doesn’t matter that it’s been ten years since we were together, or that she acts like she hates me. As soon as she’s there, I have to work not to look at her.
She’s wearing a scooped-necked sweater that keeps sliding off her shoulder, black leggings that make me want to cup her ass, and chunky black ankle boots. She’s got a camera bag hanging off her shoulder, but it’s small and light.
“Want me to carry that for you?” I ask out of some long buried reflex, and then wish I could bite my tongue off. It’s the sort of thing a boyfriend asks. Not a friend. Definitely not a boss.
She gives me an odd look and shakes her head.
“So,” Charlie says after an awkward beat. “Where to?”
I grin and hold up a map I snagged from the concierge, “Where do you want to go?”
“Admit it, that was fun,” Charlie says behind me. I look over my shoulder to glare at her. She laughs and snaps another photo.
