by Selena
One look at his earnest face, and my lip started to quiver. “No, you’re right,” I said. “Go finish your day. I’ll walk around and cool off.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, finish your session. I’ll be home when you get there.”
He hesitated, then sighed. “Bring Dan.”
I nodded, fighting to hold back tears. Everyone was staring at me like I’d lost my damn mind. Maybe I had. I turned and walked out quickly, without looking back. Dan, my bodyguard, didn’t stick too close, which I appreciated. We took a cab to Hyde Park, and I walked around, aware of Dan walking a dozen yards behind me. I didn’t think I needed him when I went out without Brody, but of course Brody insisted.
After a while, I found a bench and sat by the river. Watching Brody sitting in there repeating his line over and over, looking miserable and trapped like an animal at the zoo, made me feel awful about what I was doing. I knew he didn’t like what he’d signed on for, either. All I wanted was to go home, to have a place of our own, like we did now but in Kentucky. To have a little stable with our own horses, just a couple for riding, and a few rose bushes out front. Like a starter version of what my parents had.
I sat up straighter and sucked in a breath. Here I was, thinking about having a home with Brody. Thinking about having a family with him, a real relationship. When had I stopped playing?
I reminded myself of my revenge plan, but it no longer held much appeal. Still, never one to give up, I tried to convince myself I would still do it. When he asked me to marry him, I would say no.
During the next few weeks, I lost sight of the end goal more and more often. There were press junkets, photo shoots, interviews. When I went places with Brody, he was inevitably recognized, even when he wore shades and a hat, which he always did. More often than not, I found myself with time to explore the city, eat at local landmarks, and go to museums while Brody worked. It was freeing to be able to go out anonymously, though Brody insisted my bodyguard trail after me as unobtrusively as possible. If anyone noticed a hulking mountain of muscle trailing fifteen feet behind me, no one alerted me.
I went to see Piper over the last weekend in September, and when she asked about Brody, I found myself talking about him and our apartment as if it were all real. As if he were my boyfriend, and we had a future. I could go days without reminding myself that I still meant to break his heart. When I returned to Chicago, I realized I didn’t. Our apartment was home now.
I liked cooking with Brody, even cooking for him. I’d always been too focused on getting somewhere to enjoy being exactly where I was. But now, with time on my hands, I found I enjoyed trying out recipes I found on Pinterest, making our apartment a home, buying throw pillows for the couch and frames for photos of the two of us together in Chicago. I didn’t clutter the place, knowing it was temporary, but a few nice, expensive pieces that I could take with me when I left gave it an elegant charm.
I’d been ready to marry Paul, but I’d never realized how much fun being domestic and playing house could be. Even buying groceries or cleaning supplies suddenly made me happy. And then, of course, there was the steady supply of orgasms Brody provided. That didn’t hurt, either.
October
twenty-two
Brody
One night, when we were lying in bed after satisfying each other, I rolled over and ran my fingers down Laney’s belly. “We’re done with the album,” I said. “The tour starts in a week. We’re going to have to move out of here.”
“Where to?” she asked.
“To the tour bus,” I said. “I know it’s not this. It’s shit, really. But we’ll be in nice hotels, too, whenever you want. You are coming with me, right?” Even now, I couldn’t read her all the time. A part of me still expected her to pull out at any moment. This wasn’t a life most people would choose. Even I got tired of it, and I was the famous one.
For her, it was worse—not being able to do things most couples did, like walk in the park or go shopping together, having to leave restaurants because people wouldn’t stop interrupting our meal to ask for autographs. I was used to it, but she wasn’t.
“Damn straight I’m coming with you,” she said, grasping my hip bone. “You think I’m going to throw you to the wolves again? Fuck that. If one of your fangirls tries to get with you, they’re going to have to come through me first.”
I grinned and leaned in to kiss her. “I kind of like your jealous side.”
“I’ll remind you of that when I’m turning away the naked contortionist Swedish model twins inviting you to have a threesome.”
I laughed and tweaked her nipple. “These are the only twins I’m interested in.”
“Then you’d better show them some appreciation,” she said with a pout. “I think they’re feeling insecure.”
“Now that’s an invitation I can’t turn down,” I said, scooting down and closing my mouth over her nipple.
* * *
Laney
I had no idea what to wear to a Brody Villines show. Sure, I’d gone to a few when he’d first joined Just 5 Guys, but that had been a long time ago. He hadn’t been a mega-famous star then, with fans about to rip out each other’s hearts for a front row seat.
I settled for a classic Chanel little black dress—simple, elegant, a little sexy. It irritated me that Nash had already asked what I’d be wearing, and that I found herself questioning whether he would approve, would find it suitable for grown-up Brody’s new girlfriend. Not that I’d be up on stage, but he’d insisted we arrive together and that I be with him backstage, where he’d deal with the media. And, of course, a photographer was going to take pictures of me at the front of the VIP section, his devoted new girlfriend.
Or, more accurately, old girlfriend. The magazines were all loving the story, how he’d gone home to visit his ailing grandfather and reunited with his high school sweetheart in the process. Since I’d been in a couple photos with Brody back when Just 5 Guys first hit it big a few years ago, they were digging up old stories for any mention of me. No one mobbed me when I was alone, but when I was with Brody, they seemed to think I was a minor celebrity, too.
Even Nash had started to begrudgingly approve of me. After a teen music magazine had asked me to be on the cover with Brody, he’d even agreed to change the lyrics to the song I hated if I’d let him use the background tracks I’d recorded. Which was nice of him, really, because he could have just used them. I’d signed them over before he let me in the studio to record them. And the new lyrics weren’t much better—I know you like it/when I treat you like this.
Nash was at least trying to be civil, though.
“Are you okay?” I asked Brody as we waited in the dressing room for his opening act—a teenage popstar trying too hard to be Miley Cyrus—to finish.
“No,” Brody said, sinking onto the arm of a leather settee. “What if they hate it, like you said? What if the moms won’t buy it and the girls hate me?”
“I thought you only cared about one girl liking you?” I said, winding my arms around his neck.
Brody looked up at me, his eyes close to panic. “It’s just, when I had the others, the focus wasn’t just on me. I could fuck up a little. I wasn’t the only one out there.”
“Sweetie,” I said, sinking onto his knee. “You have eight backup dancers and two backup singers. You’re not alone out there. And I’m right back here.”
“I need you on that stage with me,” he said, putting his hands on my shoulders. “You’re the only thing that grounds me. The only thing that feels real in this crazy mess.”
“Then maybe it’s good that I’m not going to be out there,” I said. “Then I’d become a part of it. This way, I can stay separate, and keep you sane.”
“How on God’s green earth did I get so lucky?” he said, leaning in to kiss me gently. “I love you, Laney Tucker.”
For a second, his eyes got so intense with emotion I thought he was going to drop onto one knee and propose right there. In
stead of feeling some smug satisfaction, my heart started hammering and I thought I might faint. And I knew right then that if he asked, when he asked, I wasn’t going to say no.
November
twenty-three
Brody
The fans did not hate my new act. The moms did not stop buying, and the fangirls did not stop screaming. I still winced when I saw the creepy baby-doll masks at my shows, but there weren’t as many. I had a different sound now, one where dressing in costume wasn’t half the fun of getting tickets to a show. One where girls were more likely to wear almost nothing than cover themselves in masks. But I had hired Steve back on, and he was in charge of turning away anyone who tried to come backstage in a baby-doll costume. Laney vetoed almost everyone else who wanted to come back, and no one was allowed in my tour bus or dressing room except members of my team.
The backstage area was a little more lax, but groupies rarely made it back, unless they had paid some ungodly amount to meet me in person. Instead of dozens of predatory, eager fangirls trying to drag me out to my tour bus, I ended up meeting pregnant ladies, little old ladies, and kids with their moms—the few kids who still came to my shows. It was a different atmosphere now, but I didn’t mind. I didn’t miss the groupies, and I no longer loathed myself in the morning.
Instead, I got to go back to whatever ridiculously posh hotel I’d been put up at, trade massages with the woman I loved, take a bubble bath with her, and then make her cum. There was no contest between Laney and anyone else. I had chosen, and I was happy with my choice. All the girls in the world offering themselves up for a meaningless fuck could not compare to the dazed, blissful, freshly fucked look on Laney’s face before she fell asleep each night.
After a show at Red Rocks in Colorado, Nash came barreling into my dressing room and grabbed me in a bear hug. He was unexpectedly strong for such a little guy.
“They fucking love you!” Nash screamed. “We’re getting you twelve more shows on top of these twelve, and then we’re going international, baby! The Germans are already coming all the way here to see you!”
“Dude, are you serious?” I asked from the steel bars of Nash’s arms.
“Would I fuck with you, my golden goose?” Nash asked, releasing me. “I gotta go, my phone’s blowing up. Seattle in three days. I’m catching a flight there first thing. You and Laney stay, enjoy Colorado. I used to love this place, when I had the fucking time to see it. I’ll catch you on Wednesday evening when you get in. Rest up Thursday for the show that night. Doctor’s orders.”
I saluted, and Nash dashed off.
“Congratulations,” Laney said, slipping her arm around me. “I guess I’m going to get to see the world this year after all.”
“Oh, babe, I’m sorry,” I said, pulling her into my arms. I took her face between my hands and kissed her softly. “I know you wanted to travel, and you’re doing this instead. This is no good…” I trailed off and kissed her again, then broke into a grin. “But yeah, baby! We’re going to Europe. I’ll make sure I get some time there to hang out, not just work.”
“It’s fine,” she said. “You’re the one working. I’m just along for the ride. And anyway, it’s kind of cool to see how things work from this side of the stage. Although less glamorous than I expected.”
“I told you it wasn’t all hookers and blow,” I said, though I felt a little guilty for making it sound like backstage had always been full of rich old ladies and kids with their moms. Just 5 Guys had been different, though. We’d been teenagers. There had been some jostling for position in the beginning, then a competitive edge when it came to showing our sexual prowess. It wasn’t just about quantity, but quality, consecutive scores, what you could get the groupies to do. Which, it had turned out, was pretty much anything. Out of resentment, I’d gotten pretty creative at times, not even finding it especially exciting.
I shook the thoughts away and pulled Laney to me, letting her anchoring effect settle me. I didn’t need any of the twisted shit I’d done with groupies. She was enough.
“Hey,” I said. “Thank you. For coming with us, for putting up with all of this. I wish it was just us, at home, without all this shit.”
“It will be,” she promised.
“I could walk away from it all right now,” I said. “I’m set for life, Laney. If you wanted to, I’d go home and marry you tomorrow.”
She laughed nervously. “I’d need more than a day to plan a wedding.”
“Fuck everyone else,” I said. “The wedding is for their sake. I just want to be with you forever. I don’t care about that.”
She pulled away slightly. “But I do.”
“Then I’m going to make it happen,” I said. “I’m going to give you the best fucking wedding anyone has ever had. There won’t be a single thing that you didn’t plan and choose and want in the whole wedding. Not one single thing.” I kissed her nose and then released her when Stacy called that I had some photographers waiting.
“Let’s just finish your tour, and then we’ll talk about that,” Laney said. “I don’t want to ruin your focus.”
“Too late for that,” I said, slapping her ass. “You’re all I think about, babe.”
“Aww, but you’ve got a whole career in front of you. I can’t let you go the way of O-Town,” she teased.
I laughed and kissed her again. I’d voiced that fear to her once, but now, I didn’t think I’d care much. Those guys were probably happily married by now, with families, and the only photographers waiting for them were at the Sears Portrait Studio. Suddenly, that sounded much more appealing than the hungry reporters wanting the scoop, always digging for dirt, trying to stir up drama between us—why did you and Ms. Tucker break up? Was that a baby bump I saw when you were together at Starbucks? Was she still engaged when you got back together?
But the hungry reporters waited, and my job was to appease their bloodlust.
* * *
Laney
After the two days in Colorado, still snowless but chilly, we rode to Seattle in the tour bus. From there, we would go on to Salt Lake City, then to L.A., where Brody had a house I had never seen but could imagine was ridiculously ritzy. I was ready to stay a few days and relax, though. Already, I was tiring of the hours of monotony on the road. We spent time in the bedroom, played our guitars and sang together, which at first made me feel terribly self-conscious and corny. When we were in high school, we’d played together all the time—for our families, at church, even at a couple of fall festivals in town. But I had barely touched my guitar since Brody left.
“How do you stay in practice?” I asked one day when we finished playing. “You’re so much better than me.”
“You’re just a little rusty,” Brody said. “I play all the time. It’s the only thing that relaxed me when you weren’t around.”
As much as I liked being with him, the bus was boring. I wanted to be out on a horse in the chill of autumn, pushing Pegasus across the field, not in a bus sitting in construction zone traffic for hours at a time. In here, things felt too enclosed, too claustrophobic. I’d thought the city was bad, but now I longed for Chicago’s busy streets.
Finally, we made it to Seattle. Brody tried to convince me to go out with Nash and him for dinner, but I just wanted to be alone in the hotel room and take a long bubble bath. I didn’t much care for Nash, even after he’d given our relationship his okay. The fact that he thought we needed that irritated me. After weeks on the road, everything irritated me.
The break from everyone recharged me, though, and by the next night, I was ready for the show. By now, I had the routine down. Calm Brody’s nerves before the show, then sit in the front of the VIP section, keep the groupies away while his manager and publicity department kept the bloggers, fans, photographers, and reporters busy. He always needed a little space to undress and de-stress after dancing his ass off for an hour and a half, usually in three different costumes, one of which was leather. I didn’t know how he didn’t pass out from heat.
After his half hour of winding down, he talked to VIPs, other celebrities, and on rare occasions media.
The Seattle show went off without a hitch, despite some thunder outside almost loud enough to drown out the performance. I was looking forward to riding back to the hotel in a cab, which he promised we could do if we used the Hummer as a decoy, sending someone else off in his usual vehicle. I didn’t mind going along on his tour, doing things his way most of the time. But when I had the chance to be a tourist, I was doing it right. It was so classic to ride in a cab in the rain in Seattle.
Brody was still in his dressing room changing when my walkie-talkie crackled. I’d taken to stationing myself at the entrance to the backstage area, like the world’s most unlikely security guard, to catch any groupies that charmed their way past Steve. Despite his weakness for curvy, exotic women, I couldn’t help but love the guy. He’d fully admitted this weakness, with some shuffling and maybe even blushing, when he’d given me the walkie.
“Got one headed back,” he said into the walkie.
I stood from my stool and peered down the little hallway, but I didn’t see any skanks yet. “Roger that,” I said, feeling all official.
“She might be a little unhinged,” Steve said. “That was probably a mistake. She can’t hear me, can she?”
“No,” I said with a grin, returning my walkie to the table beside me. I turned down the volume just as a hand fell on my shoulder, making me jump a mile.
“Oh my gosh, you scared me,” I said, swatting at Brody.
“Just checking on you,” he said, leaning in to kiss my temple. “I’ve got to go take selfies. You know the drill.”
Brody’s face was probably the most selfie-captured face in the world. It was kind of his calling card, like Taylor Swift with her cats. He had made himself an accessible celebrity by taking selfies with fans and posting them all over social media. He even had someone check through Twitter, Instagram, and Snapchat to repost all the selfies fans posted with him. It had become someone’s full-time job at this point.