by Robinne Lee
I watched him follow his bandmates around the bend until I could not see him anymore and he was sucked into the reverberating walls and the chants of fifty thousand girls. And only then did I open the box. Inside was a pair of noise-reducing headphones and a note:
I told you there’d be a next time.
And so it was that I was just one of the many females in Buenos Aires that night crying over Hayes Campbell.
* * *
I fought my jet lag to make it to the hotel gym the next morning, and on the way back up to the room, I found myself alone in an elevator with Oliver. Even before the doors closed, I could feel the tension.
“How was your workout?” he asked. Like Hayes, his voice was gruff after a show.
“Fine, thank you.”
“Good.” He stood directly across from me on the opposite side of the lift. Long arms folded across his chest, eyes piercing. “You look good.”
“Really?” I laughed. “All wet and sweaty?”
“All wet and sweaty.” He smiled. “Is that how he likes you?”
I stiffened. And then I remembered we were in an elevator and there were cameras and he would not touch me. Here.
“I thought you weren’t supposed to be talking to me,” I said.
“I think the ban was lifted.”
“Did you lift it yourself?”
He shrugged.
“Why do you insist on fucking with me, Oliver?”
“Because I can.” He smiled, sly. “Because you let me. Guys will try to get away with as much as they think they can get away with. Even if it means screwing their friends. Ask your boyfriend. He wrote the book.”
And in that moment I knew. He knew about Hayes and Penelope. He was just biding his time.
The doors were opening on the seventh floor. One of the band’s security was standing watch. Omnipresent.
“I do find it sweet that you’re rather loyal. You get points for that,” Oliver said, stepping out. And then, just before the doors closed, he turned back to me. “Because most of the others … weren’t.”
* * *
I did not bring it up with Hayes immediately. Partly because I was being selfish and I wanted us to enjoy each other’s company without anything dark or subversive hanging over us. And partly because I did not want him to hurt. They were living in such close quarters, performing together every night. The very nature of their success made it imperative that they get along. But at the same time, I did not want Hayes to be blindsided. And I remembered what he’d said in Anguilla. That, given the chance, he thought Oliver would hurt him. And knowing that, I could not put it off for long.
* * *
On Wednesday, we flew private to Uruguay. Hayes and I sat toward the back of the jet, along with Simon and Liam, and when he excused himself to go to the loo, I took the opportunity to scold them.
“Are we in trouble?” Simon smirked when I said I wanted to bring up something serious.
“You could be.” I lowered my voice, leaning forward over the table. “Remember the girl at the SLS Hotel the night of the Grammys? The one you left out in the hallway? I don’t know what happened. I don’t know that I want to know what happened. I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just telling you that she was sixteen years old and in California that’s illegal and you need to be aware of that.”
Simon sobered. “She was eighteen. She said she was eighteen.”
“She lied.”
“Which girl?” Liam looked confused.
“The girl in the red dress,” Simon said.
“The UCLA girl?”
“She said she went to UCLA.”
“She lied,” I repeated.
“She had that UCLA thing. Like a school ID…”
“And a key chain,” Liam added.
I stared at them both. “She. Lied.”
“Fuck.” Simon’s hands were pulling at his hair.
For a long time I didn’t say anything, watching the two of them squirm.
Eventually Simon spoke: “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like a disappointed mum.”
“Because I am a disappointed mum. I trusted you with my daughter—”
“I didn’t touch your daughter—”
“I know you didn’t. But you need to be more careful. You realize if her parents find out or she tells the wrong person, it’s over, right? This, all of this, will be over and you’ll end up in jail. You realize that?”
Simon nodded, glum. Liam did not respond. He sat there, chewing on his plump lips, nervously twisting his hair. He looked to me like a little boy. And yet …
“Liam? Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t let it happen again.”
* * *
“I need to tell you something. And it’s going to upset you a bit, but I think you need to hear it.”
It was late afternoon and the band had returned to our hotel in Montevideo after having taped a talk show in town. The fans outside were so loud, I could hear them singing from our suite on the fourth floor. “Undressed,” from the Petty Desires album. The lyrics twisted, titillating.
“Are you ending it?” Hayes asked. He was lying on the bed, resting. His head was throbbing, he’d said.
They were at that point nine dates into the tour. There were sixty-six remaining.
“If I were, do you think I would start it that way?”
He smiled faintly, his hand reaching for mine. “I’m not sure. Sometimes I can’t read you. What is it?” he asked. “What is it you want to say?”
“Oliver…”
“Fucking Oliver … What did he do now?”
“He’s fucking with me, Hayes. He’s fucking with you, for a reason. I think he knows.”
“He knows what?”
“I think he knows about you and his sister.”
He propped himself up on his elbows then, his eyes searching mine. “Did you bloody say something?”
“No.”
“Did you say something, Solène?”
“No. I would never do that to you. But something is up with him and I’m not going to be his pawn, Hayes. I’m not going to let him play me against you. That’s your issue.”
“Fuck.”
“I’m sorry. I just thought you should know.”
* * *
Friday evening found us in Brazil. Hayes and I were in our suite at the Hotel Fasano in São Paulo, getting ready for dinner, when Isabelle FaceTimed me.
“Are you having so much fun? Is it amazing?”
“It’s a little crazy,” I said. “There are fans everywhere. They really, really, really love them here.”
“More than they love them in the States?”
“I don’t know. I have nothing to compare it to. Hayes,” I called to him in the bathroom, “do they love you here more than they do in America?”
“Maybe,” he called. “I think they’re more enthusiastic here. But then again I can’t really understand what they’re saying. Who are you talking to?”
“Isabelle.”
“Hiiii, Isabelle.” He stepped out of the bathroom in black Calvin boxer briefs. And nothing else.
I shook my head, shooing him back inside. “FaceTime,” I mouthed.
“Byyyye, Isabelle.”
“I miss you, peanut. I miss you a ton.”
“I miss you, too,” she said.
“How’s Daddy?”
“He’s good. He’s here. Do you want to talk to him?”
“No. Does he want to talk to me?”
“Probably not.”
“Okay,” I laughed. “I love you. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay.”
“Love you, too. I hope you’re having fun. Bisous.”
It was the way she said it. I could not help but feel guilty. “Bisous.”
I returned to the bathroom to watch Hayes dry his hair and brush his teeth and do all the little Hayes things that I’d come to know so w
ell.
“What?” he asked after several moments had passed. “Why do you look like that?”
“What am I doing here?”
He wiped his face and placed his towel on the edge of the sink before turning toward me. “You’re keeping me company. Come here.”
I made my way into his arms.
“You’re missing your daughter?”
“I’m missing my life.”
He didn’t say anything then. He buried his face in the top of my head and kissed me. But he didn’t say anything.
* * *
That night, we had a late dinner in one of the hotel’s restaurants, along with Rory, Simon, Raj, and Andrew, the group’s new tour manager, a tall, striking thirty-something Brit with smooth, dark skin and piercing cheekbones.
“God, where do you find these people?” I’d said to Hayes upon first meeting him.
Hayes had laughed. “Beverly, our wardrobe person, calls him Idris.”
“To his face?”
“No, not to his face. But it’s caught on, and now all the women on tour refer to him as Idris.”
Afterwards, when we were all at minimum two caipirinhas in, the guys decided they wanted to check out a club in the Itaim Bibi neighborhood. With a population of eleven million, São Paulo was massive and the only city I could recall visiting where the skyline seemed to stretch the entire length of the horizon. I did not pretend to know where we were or where we were going. I resisted at first, because I took it to be a fishing expedition for Rory and Simon, who’d been talking about Brazilian models for at least two countries now. But when Petra, the group’s hair and makeup artist, arranged to come with us, I acquiesced.
And once again it was the coordinating of security and scheduling of a caravan and I suddenly understood what it must be like every time Obama decided to go for a burger.
* * *
Fuchsia lights, house music, and beautiful wealthy people reigned at the club Provocateur, where the crowd parted like the Red Sea and they escorted us to a sectioned-off area and the alcohol flowed like water. Raj immediately ordered three bottles of Cristal, and the servers delivered them with sparklers, as if we needed more attention. It took no time for a bevy of pretty young things to flock to our area and Rory and Simon were in their element and I was old and someone’s mother and six thousand miles from home.
“What are you thinking?” Hayes said. We were seated in our booth, his hand between my knees.
“Nothing.”
“You’re lying to me. I know you far too well. Let’s dance for a bit, and then, if you want, we can go.”
“We just got here.”
“I want you to be happy,” he said.
“I am.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
And so we danced. And we drank. And we did not leave until close to three. Rory and Simon with two girls apiece. And I was not sure if they were wing women or what, but they certainly seemed committed. There were some high-level machinations as we slipped out through the back entrance to pile into our ride, and the girls left separately and took a cab to the hotel, where Trevor met them in the lobby, and it all felt so sordid and rehearsed, I wondered who they thought they were fooling.
* * *
“I’m sorry I’m keeping you from having two girls tonight.”
Hayes laughed. “Is that what you’re doing?”
We were back in our suite, on the sixteenth floor. Hayes was seated on the Knoll-style leather sofa, and I was standing above him, my hands on either side of his shoulders, my knee between his legs.
“You should be out there having fun.”
“Do you think I’m not having fun?”
“You’re twenty-one.”
“I know how old I am.” His hands were moving over the skirt of my dress, slipping beneath the hem, traveling up the backs of my thighs. He was drunk. We both were.
I kissed him. He tasted of rum and lime and sugar and happiness. And I wanted to lock it away and remember it forever.
His hands moved to my shoulders, and with little effort he peeled off my spaghetti straps and unhooked the back of my dress, freeing my breasts.
“What would I do with four boobs anyway if I only have one mouth?”
I laughed. His tongue was already at my nipple. “I think you’d figure something out.”
“Probably. But it wouldn’t be as fun without you.”
I was quiet then, listening to my own breath, smelling his hair. He had one hand on my breast and the other had returned to beneath my skirt, ascending, expertly tugging off my thong.
His eyes met mine. “See, right now I would just be learning their names and trying to keep them straight. I already know your name. We can skip all the formalities.”
I smiled, untangling myself from him, kneeling down and undoing his belt. He watched me, his eyes glazed, a half smile playing over his lips. I unfastened his pants and undid the zipper, and his penis was so unfathomably hard it seemed to me even larger than it was when we’d had sex earlier. And it was large then. There was something so appealing about the head cresting out of his underwear. Like a gift.
“Fuck, I love you,” I said, reaching into his pants.
“And see, that would be weird coming from the two girls I did not know,” he snickered.
“I love this dick.”
“I know you do.”
“I’m going to miss this dick.”
“It’s not going anywhere.”
“It’s going to Australia when I go to New York.”
“But then we’ll wait for you in Japan. I promise. Are you crying? Fuck, don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying,” I said. But I was.
“You’re not allowed to cry with my dick in your mouth … Solène.” His hand was in my hair. “That’s not cool. That’s really going to kill it for me.”
I laughed, wiping my eyes. “I’m sorry. Okay. Let’s do this.”
* * *
He came quickly. And I found myself appreciating the pineapple-and-mint juice he’d had at lunch.
“I fucking love you,” he said, after. His hands at the sides of my face, his mouth on mine. “You’re going to come to Japan, right? You promise?”
“I promise.”
“You’re not going to change your mind.”
“I’m not going to change my mind. I promise.”
Hayes wrestled out of his pants and hiked up my skirt, pulling me onto his lap. His thickness sliding into me. No recovery time necessary. And as inebriated as I was, I was glad I had the wherewithal to retain all that happened that night. Because I knew, in my heart, that we would not last. And because every moment of it was extraordinary.
* * *
I did not hear how the fight started.
Sunday evening, we were backstage at the Estádio do Morumbi, a stadium that held no fewer than sixty-five thousand attendees. It was the guys’ second night playing to a sold-out crowd in São Paulo. They’d already been through hair and makeup, and a meet-and-greet. Following their vocal warm-up, they were hanging in one of the dressing rooms, waiting to go on. Liam was doing push-ups, and Rory was strumming his guitar and sucking on a lollipop, and Simon and Hayes were chatting about something or another, their voices alternating between low whispers and loud guffaws. Oliver was standing not far from them. He’d been reading up until that point and had just put down his book. How he went from zero to sixty with fifteen minutes to showtime was beyond me. And as always there was the hum: the stomping and shrieking of the fans, the bass of the opening local band, the vibrations in the walls.
I had managed to tune it all out while composing work emails from my spot in the corner. It had come to be my ritual: attempting to run a business from backstage. And then I heard it, the shift in tone.
“Yes, Hayes is very good at keeping secrets. Aren’t you, Hayes?” Oliver had said.
“What does that mean?”
“I think you know what it means.”
“Do you have something you want to say to me? Then say it,” Hayes spat.
There was a measured pause, and then: “I knew, you bastard. I knew.”
My hairs bristled. They were doing this. Now.
“It was a long fucking time ago.”
“That’s not what I heard,” Oliver said. “I heard it was as recently as last year…”
The room fell quiet. Rory stopped strumming; Liam ceased to move. And I realized two things: none of the others knew what was going on, and I knew less than I thought I did.
“Who told you that?” Hayes said, slow, sharp.
“Don’t worry about it, mate. Just know that I know.”
“Who fucking told you that?”
Oliver turned to face him then, direct. “She did.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“She did. She said, and I quote, ‘Yeah, I shagged him, it was no big deal.’”
There was a second where I saw my boyfriend flinch. The slightest twinge in the corner of his left eye. I couldn’t be certain as to whether the others saw it, but to me, it said everything.
“She didn’t say that.”
“Really? You want to ring her? Ask?”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck me? You sleep with my sister and you have the nerve to say fuck me? Fuck you, Hayes. Fuck you and your always getting your fucking way.”
“All right, enough.” Simon stood, wedging himself between them. Arms outstretched, making the most of his rower wingspan. “We’re onstage in fifteen minutes. Everyone just fucking calm down.”
But I could see Hayes still smarting, and I knew that was not going to happen.
“Really?” he said, taunting. “Was it me getting my way? Or your sister getting hers?”
Oliver’s eyes narrowed. And then, unexpectedly, he began to laugh. “Hayes Campbell. Doesn’t play well with others.”
He was turning away, a smug smile on his aristocratic face, when Hayes spoke. His voice low, but clear enough for us all to hear:
“At least not in the way you’d like me to.”
There was a moment of quiet while we were all registering what Hayes had said, and then it happened in a flash. And I think none of us was more surprised than Oliver, the elegant. He spun around, his arm whipping back and then flying over Simon’s shoulder, catching Hayes in the center of his perfect face. It wasn’t skilled or pretty, but it had the desired effect. There was a popping sound and then blood … everywhere.