by Ella Frank
“True. How much you wanna bet they make us sweat it out before we get any kind of feedback?”
I tossed the extension cord over the amp and reached for my bottle of water. “Fucking pricks.”
“You know, you could try and temper your attitude around them. It might help.”
“It also might help if I offer to suck their dicks, but you don’t see me doing that.” I screwed the cap back on the water. “Plus, it’s your job to be all smiley-smiley and make nice. Not mine.”
“And how exactly was that worked out again? I can’t remember.”
“Natural selection. I’m an asshole, you’re less of one.”
Killian rubbed the back of his neck and nodded. “Right, right.”
“Hey?” Jagger called across the room, snagging our attention. “If Mommy and Daddy are done discussing their kids’ performances, do you think we could all go out and get something to eat? I don’t keep this toned physique all primed and ready for the ladies by sipping water and breathing air.”
“Yeah. I need some meat in me,” Slade said, making all eyes turn in his direction. “What?”
I strolled across the space, my eyes briefly flicking to Halo before landing on Slade. “Better be careful, man. You keep saying the shit you’ve been saying, and we’re all gonna start wondering if you’re switching sides.”
Thirty-Three
Halo
IMOGEN: COME ASAP!!
The text came through as I pulled out leftover pizza from the fridge early Monday evening, the urgency in her message causing me to drop the container on the counter and grab my cell in one hand and a pocket knife in the other. I flew down the two flights of stairs to her apartment, taking less than thirty seconds.
I burst through her unlocked door, scanning the room for the source of the urgent text, my whole body alert and prepared for fight.
“Halo? What’s wrong?” Imogen asked, eyes wide as she stared at me from where she sat on her couch with a laptop propped on her crossed legs.
As I looked around again, seeing nothing out of place, I frowned. “What’s wrong? You sent me a ‘come ASAP’ text. I thought someone was attacking you.”
“Oh my God.” Imogen threw her head back and laughed. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way, but it’s good to know you can be here in two seconds if I need you.”
“Uh, yeah. That’s why we live in the same building. But if you keep crying wolf, I may not believe you if some shit actually goes down.”
“Aw, don’t be mad. I’m sorry I scared you,” she said, not looking contrite at all. As a matter of fact, she looked…excited? Her eyes sparkled, and she practically bounced as she patted the cushion beside her. “Come here.”
As the rush of adrenaline subsided, I shook my head. “Since you’re not dying, I’m leaving.”
“No, wait! There’s something about you online.”
I paused with my hand on the door and looked over my shoulder. “What are you talking about?”
“Just come here. You’re gonna want to sit down for this.” She motioned again for me to come sit beside her, and only because my curiosity was piqued did I agree.
“All right,” I said, flopping on the couch. “What’s so important I ran out without any shoes?”
“Wait for it.” Imogen scooted closer, and after hitting a couple of keys on the laptop, she turned it in my direction. The video playing on the screen was shaky and focused on a floor, but in the background I could hear the opening notes of “Invitation” playing. The camera shifted suddenly then, zooming in on a piano and—
Me.
My feet fell to the floor as I jerked upright, stealing the laptop from Imogen. There I was, sitting behind the piano at Killian’s rehearsal room the day we’d performed for Brian and that MGA rep. Hold up… They’d been filming us? I thought Brian had been texting on his stupid phone the whole time, but he’d actually recorded us? Was that even legal?
A few seconds later, the rest of the band joined in, the sound a rich and heavy throb, but for some reason, the camera didn’t turn its focus away from me. Instead, it zoomed in, my face filling the screen as I sang.
I could only sit there stunned as I watched, so many thoughts running through my head, namely how Imogen had gotten the video. But the longer I watched, the more those thoughts disappeared and, always a perfectionist, I began to critique my performance. My voice was strong, though I noticed a few nerves right at the beginning, and I sang staring straight ahead in Viper’s direction, ignoring Brian completely. The camera never veered away to show the rest of the guys, which I found curious, because if Brian was taping this, surely it was for MGA, and wouldn’t they want to see the whole band?
But the song…damn. Viper and I had knocked that one out of the park, and even though I could hear a few things I wanted to tweak during our next practice, the overall effect was simply staggering. That song was a fucking hit.
“Look at you,” Imogen whispered, fixated on the screen. “You’re a star.”
I opened my mouth to lob a self-deprecating remark, but right then, the me on screen launched into the ending high note I’d ad-libbed, and I could only stare. The video cut off then, and Imogen took the laptop away.
“I told you that you needed to sit down,” she said.
Shaking my head, I forced words to come out. “How did you get that?”
“The Warden posted it on his Instagram last night, and now everyone’s freaking out trying to figure out who you are.”
“What?” My head began to buzz, the blood rushing to my ears, and I leaned over with my elbows on my knees and rubbed circles over my temples. “The Warden? Like the rapper? I don’t understand.”
“Crazy, right? He’s got, like, one hundred and fifteen million followers. My baby brother is about to be super famous.” She lifted the back of her hand to her head and leaned back dramatically, her long red hair spilling over her shoulder. “And here I thought it would be me. Le sigh.”
“How did the Warden get that video? And why would he post it? Holy shit.”
Imogen sat up, her hand resting between my shoulder blades in a comforting move. “Halo, this is a good thing. Breathe.”
“It didn’t even show the rest of the guys. I’m the one everyone booed in Savannah, so if this video’s out… Oh fuck.” There was no telling what kind of hate was being spewed my way if people saw this. Suddenly, I was unbelievably glad I didn’t have any social media accounts.
“Whoa, you’ve got it all wrong. No one’s booing you now, trust me.” Imogen clicked the video off and typed in the Warden’s Instagram. In his status, he’d written, Need this record, stat. #onrepeat. Then Imogen opened up the comments, and I moved away.
“No, I don’t wanna see that,” I said.
“Yes, you do, come back.” She grabbed my arm, and when I shook her off, she rolled her eyes and started reading off the comments instead.
To my utter surprise, the responses to the video ranged from “Wow! Who is that and where can I buy the song?” to “Genius track. Voice that’s half angel, half rock god. Dude’s gonna be huge,” and the more she read, the more I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Now, whether she skipped over the shit ones was anyone’s guess, and I was grateful if she had, but the sheer amount of comments and likes were mind-blowing. Over five million in less than twenty-four hours. Fuckin’ hell. Over five million? As in five million people had heard our song, had watched that video?
“Can you believe it? Mom and Dad are gonna freak,” Imogen said, shutting the laptop, a huge grin on her lips as she faced me. “Aren’t you excited? You don’t look excited.”
“Yeah…”
“You don’t sound excited either.”
I snorted. “It’s called shock. I mean, I didn’t even know I was being recorded, and now millions of people have seen it?”
“You didn’t know? Do you know who taped you, then?”
“It had to be TBD’s manager, Brian. But I don’t know how the Warden would’ve gotte
n a hold of it, unless Brian sent it to him, which is random as hell. I don’t get it, Im.”
Was this some kind of marketing ploy to fight back against the bad press we’d gotten after the show? Were the guys in on it too? Or, shit, did they even know?
“That is weird,” she agreed. “But also freakin’ awesome. This is it, Halo. Your big break.”
I wanted to laugh in her face, tell her she was crazy, but a strange sensation settled in my stomach, and I wasn’t too sure she was wrong. And if she wasn’t wrong, then that meant everything was about to change.
Thirty-Four
Viper
FUCKING HELL, IT’S cold tonight, I thought, as I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket and trudged through the ankle-deep snow blanketing the sidewalk. Even with the beanie I’d pulled down over my head and the scarf I’d practically strangled myself with to ward off the frigid night air, the wind that whipped up every few minutes or so made the icy precipitation feel like tiny pinpricks stinging my face.
It was Monday night, and as always when I was in New York, I was making the commute from Manhattan to Dyker Heights, to check in on the one person in the world I loved above all others—my mother.
It was always such a trip coming back here, back where it all began, and as I passed by Killian’s old house, I saw the flickering lights of a television playing inside the living room. His mother and father were sitting down to watch the nightly news, as was their routine even now, over a decade after we’d all grown up and moved away. It was strange, and comforting to know that some things would never change, even if everything else around you did.
Like the boy who’d lived in the house next door to Killian. The boy I now wished would go to hell. The boy who’d left us… Yeah, it was always a trip to be back here, all right.
The streetlights overhead lit up the narrow strip of snow-covered concrete as I made my way past their tidy little house and the rest of the block, where home after home stood side by side until I reached the one-family semi-detached brick home where I grew up.
Swirls of smoke drifted up into the night sky, and the porch light was on, as it always was when my mom was expecting me. The peaked entrance and roof were covered in the fresh white powder that was now coating my boots, and once I was up the three steps and on the small porch, I shook as much snow off as I could.
Before I could pull out my key for the front door, it was pulled open and my mom pushed through the wrought-iron security door with a smile on her face, wearing her usual pink robe with white flowers on it.
“David.” The warm greeting made the chill in my bones instantly vanish, and so did the swift whack upside my shoulder that accompanied it. “Are you insane coming out here tonight? Walking around here in this kind of weather. Do you want to catch your death?”
“Damn, woman.” I rubbed at my arm. “No. I always come home on Mondays. Plus, I didn’t walk here.”
“Really?” She planted her hands on her hip, her robe and matching slippers not detracting in the slightest from the fierce look in her dark eyes. “Then why are your jeans wet? Right up to mid-calf. God knows how much of that stuff got in your boots.”
Okay, my feet are fucking freezing. “I walked from the station. Not from the city. And how about you yell at me about it in there? Where I can take my boots off.”
“Don’t you get smart with me,” she said, pointing a finger my way.
“I’m not.”
“Uh huh. That viper tongue of yours came from me, remember?”
I smirked and wrapped an arm around her dainty shoulders, tugging her into my side. “How could I ever forget?” I kissed her on the side of the head where her dark hair was tucked behind her ears. “But seriously, I’m freezing my ass off. You gonna let me in or what?”
She tsked me, but then pulled open the door. “Come on, then. In with you.”
We headed inside, and as she left me to go into the kitchen, I unwound my scarf and toed off my boots, the inviting smell of homemade chicken parmigiana—my favorite—hitting my nostrils.
Mhmm, exactly. So much for thinking I wasn’t going to show. She knew better.
After I hung up my coat, I walked across the parquet-floor dining room to the newly renovated, but small, kitchen, and when I stepped inside, my mom was right there holding out a glass of whiskey.
“Get that in you. It’ll warm you up.”
I grinned at her and threw back the smooth amber liquid that did exactly as she predicted, then gestured to the two plates on the counter with a tilt of my head. “Insane coming out here tonight, huh? Then who you cooking for?”
“Not you, if you keep giving me lip.”
I chuckled and leaned back against the counter, placing the glass down beside me as she pulled open the third drawer and grabbed a pair of bright yellow oven mitts that had seen better days.
“You know the only way I won’t be here on a Monday is if I’m—”
“Out of the state, country, or if the city has been shut down due to a natural disaster.” She rolled her eyes. “I know. But some might classify this amount of snow as a natural disaster.”
“Eh.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Then they didn’t grow up in New York, did they?”
“Yeah, okay.” She laughed. “You’re real tough until you catch a cold. Then you act as though you’re dying and who has to deal with it? Me, because Killian is—”
“An asshole?”
“David.” She smacked me in the chest with her oven mitt. “That’s not what I was going to say. I was going to say that he’s far too smart to put up with you when you’re being miserable and whiny. Plus, Killian’s a doll. Always has been.”
I thought about my conversation with Killian on Friday, the one where he’d questioned me about Halo and frowned. “Yeah, he’s a real peach.”
Mom narrowed her eyes, but before she could say anything, a timer buzzed and she turned off the oven. As she pulled open the oven door, the delicious aroma of breaded chicken cutlets wafted out into the kitchen, and she took out a baking dish covered in aluminum foil.
“Okay, what did you two argue about this time?”
“Huh?”
Mom uncovered the baking dish, grabbed the pot with her sauce in it, and spooned some of it on top of the chicken. “You and Killian. You seem…irritated.”
“Nope. This is my standard mood.”
“No, it’s not. Not when you’re here. Pass me the cheese, would you?”
I picked up the small bowl of grated cheese and handed it to her, and once she’d sprinkled it over the top and placed the baking dish under the broiler, she rounded on me and gestured for my empty glass.
After she refilled it, she asked again, “What’d you two argue about?”
“Nothing.” When it was clear she wasn’t about to let that be the end of that, I elaborated in the vaguest way possible. “We just had a disagreement about the new guy.”
“Oh.” She drained the pasta in the sink and then looked over her shoulder at me. “Angel, right?”
As Halo’s stunning face came to mind, and the sexy way he’d moaned into my mouth every time it’d been under mine recently, I smiled against the glass. I was starting to think that nickname was all wrong for him, because the more confident he became, the more his “angelic” side was falling away.
“Yeah, but his name’s Halo.” When Mom frowned, I said, “I just call him Angel.”
“Ah. And why do you call him Angel?”
“Stop being nosy, woman. You’ll understand when you see him.”
“Mhmm…”
“Anyway. Yeah, Kill and I had a disagreement about him.” Like whether I was allowed to put my dick in him.
“Nothing major, I hope?”
I knew she was trying to be subtle, but it was obvious she was asking if it was something we’d be able to get past or something like…Trent. I thought back to the way Killian and I had left things and shook my head.
“Nothing major. We’re cool,
promise.”
“Don’t you lie to me.”
I held three fingers up. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a Scout. They would’ve kicked your butt out the first week in.”
“Hey. What are you tryin’ to say?”
“Just that you’re stubborn and don’t like to follow rules.” Mom opened up the broiler and pulled the chicken out. “You like doing things your own way, not as a group. Unless it’s to help someone, then maybe you’d go along with it.”
She was right. I hated following anyone’s lead, which was her own fault, I was quick to point out. There was no one more independent and strong-willed than my mom. Something I was extremely proud and grateful for. But like me, she could be stubborn as a bull.
Case in point: she still lived in the same little house I’d grown up in, even though I’d offered to buy her a bigger, newer place anywhere in the world her heart desired. But she insisted that her heart was right here. In this quiet little street where she knew her friends and neighbors.
And who the hell was I to tell her she was wrong?
“Would you take these plates over to the table?” she said, grabbing a knife and fork from the drawer. “And turn on the television. I don’t want to miss Entertainment Daily.”
After putting the plates on the table, I snatched up the remote. Why my mom watched these shows was beyond me. I’d told her time and time again that ninety-nine percent of what they reported was gossip or trash, but she insisted. Always reminding me that it was called Entertainment Daily, not Truth Daily.
We took a seat, and as the overly manscaped host gushed all over the latest fashions at a movie premiere that took place this weekend, I tuned out and got stuck into the meal in front of me.
God, I loved my mom’s cooking. I’d eaten my fair share of amazing meals over the past ten years, in the best restaurants, served by the top chefs. But nothing—and I mean nothing—would ever compare to a home-cooked meal made by my mom.
I twirled my fork through the pasta on my plate, and just as I was raising it to my mouth, the image behind the host changed to the next story and caught my eye. My hand froze where it was as my mouth fell open. It was a still shot of a man with blond hair seated behind a piano, and under that image were the words: WHO IS THIS GUY?