We took a taxi to Times Square one evening. I remember the way the city felt from the second I stepped onto its pavement. It buzzed beneath my feet as if it were alive. Massive crowds zigzagged across the sidewalks and into the streets. The buildings flashed with neon lights and twinkled in ways I’d never seen. I’d stepped into the middle of a Christmas tree, with a view from the inside out. Every step I took, the soles of my pink sneakers were met with the city’s quivering soul. Pure magic.
But like all good things, my parents had to find a way to ruin it. Immediately the arguments began. Over the taxi fare, in which restaurant to eat, in what direction to walk. I glanced at their contorted, angry faces, the tightness in their eyes, the flat lines of their mouths, and realized this, too, would be like every other family event I ended up dreading. This time, though, I wasn’t going to have it. This city was too beautiful for them to destroy.
I grabbed Niloo’s tiny hand in mine and set off in the direction of the prettiest lights I could see, leaving the childish adults to their arguments. They weren’t going to take this from us. Not this time.
They didn’t even notice we were gone. Not until I heard them screaming Niloo’s name. We’d stepped into a coffee shop to get a glass of water. My sister was thirsty, so I pushed past my shyness and asked the lady at the counter for help. She smiled kindly at me, looked around behind us for what I presumed were our parents, then proceeded to fill a plastic cup with water as a worried expression settled in her eyes.
What was I supposed to say? My parents are too busy fighting outside to care about my sister and me? Or, the angry face my dad always wears makes my stomach hurt and I just wanted a break? Maybe I could explain how this city is so amazing and I really didn’t want them to mess it up for us.
Just as I turned to head out the door before the lady had a chance to start an inquisition, Maman came barreling in, wild-eyed and terrified, screaming our names. In her panic, she hugged my sister and grabbed my arm tightly, scolding me in Farsi for being so irresponsible. I wanted to scream at her, to yank my hand away and run as far as I could, from her and anything she had to say. But before I had a chance, Dad’s tank-like body blocked my way. Maman instantly forgot how angry she was with me as she created a blockade between Dad and me. It didn’t stop him from dragging me out onto the sidewalk, a hard grip on my wrist as he forced me into the nearest taxi he could find. Just like that, he tore me away from the prettiest place I’d ever seen. And I’d never forgiven him for it. In truth, I’ve never forgiven him for a lot of things.
I sigh as I shake the memories from my thoughts, trying to push them back into the crevices of my mind where I keep them locked away and out of sight. All of that is in the past. No use in letting it ruin today.
We get to the studio twenty minutes before the band is set to arrive. Emmanuel is immediately greeted by a female with a clipboard and they scurry away to deal with what I presume are last-minute details.
Mike heads over to the back where vanity chairs are set up before large mirrors with big bulb lights across the top. Just like the kind in old Hollywood films where stars get their makeup done.
“Seriously?”
“What?” Mike asks.
“I didn’t realize they actually still used these.” I run my fingers across the tabletop. “I thought they were just in the movies.”
“The show’s been around for a long time, so it has that old Hollywood feel back here.” He begins to spread his supplies across the surface. I’m unsure of why he does it, considering the band members were in “makeup” before we left the hotel.
I help anyway, needing something to do. “Why do we need all this? Didn’t you already get everyone pretty?”
“Yes, but they may need touching up. They can’t go out there,” he says, pointing to the stage, now setup with Ternura flashing in neon lights against the black curtain, “looking like shit.”
“Seems kind of pointless,” I mumble.
“Badakhlagh. Did you get up on the wrong side of the bed?”
“No.”
He reaches out and shakes my arm. “This is exciting. We’re on the set of Wake Up Live.”
“I guess.”
I look around at all the people bustling every which way, worker ants with a mission to get things ready. Feels just like any other stage we’ve stood on. It’s a bit anticlimactic. That is, until the host, Dean Williams, heads over to his seat.
He’s tall and statuesque, his marathon-runner physique on point and perfect. He’s in a teal sweater and dark gray slacks, his dirty-blond waves cropped close to his head and impeccable. Even from here, I can see the piercing green of his irises.
“So hot,” Mike says.
“Yes he is.”
Emmanuel barrels past us, now in a heated conversation with the clipboard girl. “This is unacceptable! My guys will be here any minute, and you want me to tell them this was the best you could do?”
Clipboard girl reddens beneath his accusatory glare. She looks around for help, but none comes, and I begin to wonder where she ranks on the totem pole. It appears as if she suddenly makes the decision to not allow Emmanuel to bully her, because she glares at him, stiff-backed.
“I understand your concern, but like I’ve already explained, we have a very big lineup on today’s show, and despite the fact that you don’t want to hear this, we have bigger stars than Ternura.” Before Emmanuel has a chance to come up with a rebuttal, clipboard girl presses her finger to her ear, then meets his gaze. “They’re here.”
“Great. This is going to be a fucking shitshow.” He stomps out toward the entrance with clipboard girl on his heels as Mike and I exchange questioning glances. What bomb is about to be set off, and why do I feel like I should hide?
Chapter Twenty-Four
Anthony
Our car pulls up to the studio, and I can see the crowd of fans lining the pathway to the entrance. They’re excited and jumping up and down even before they’ve seen us. Carlos steps out of the SUV first. The cheers turn to screams, exactly the way he likes it. A few fans up at the front of the line start crying, and I sit back wondering what in the world causes that reaction. They don’t even know him; they just have some fantasy about who he might be.
Hugo and Mateo get out next, and a new wave of screams and catcalls welcome them. They eat it up as expected. People reach over the rails grabbing at their clothes, and they stop every few feet to take a selfie or sign a poster. They’re what the industry has dubbed as “los gemelos,” which is funny as hell because they look nothing alike. But being the same age and together all the time has given them their name. They’re connected at the hip. You can’t find a photograph of one of them without the other close behind.
I step out last. As advised by our PR crew, I’m to wait until they’ve made it halfway down the walkway so I’m the last to be seen. It’s part of the rock star persona—my lead singer status makes me the most desirable. Total bullshit, if you ask me.
I watch a teenage girl burst into tears as she squeezes my fingers. People hold up signs that say Anthony, I love you and wear shirts with my picture printed on them. Rather than be flattered, it stresses me out. I’m struggling with the mountain of responsibilities I already have, but knowing the whole world is watching my every move is suffocating.
Once inside, I see Darya standing beside Mike at the glam table. We lock eyes, and my anxiety rachets down a notch. I nod and give her a little smile, hoping no one notices. The rumor mill will take anything and blow it out of proportion. I have no idea who’s watching.
Emmanuel appears in front of me, brows twisted with irritation. His lips are set in a hard line and I know something isn’t going as planned. A young assistant stands beside him, holding her clipboard flat against her chest. Her fingers are gripping the edges tightly, making her knuckles white.
“Mr. Castillo, I’m Emily.” She introduces hers
elf, letting go of one side of her clipboard to shake my hand. “I’ll be your stage assistant today. Would it be okay if I show you around?” Emmanuel’s posture tightens but he says nothing.
“Sure.”
Emily points out the stage entrance and exit, Dean William’s dressing room, and the craft services. Then she leads us down a hallway lined with a few more doors. She stops in front of one of them and faces me.
“This is where the band will be waiting to go on.” She swings the door open and reveals a very small room. It has a green couch against one of its walls and a small round table with two chairs across from it. There’s less than two feet of space between them. A television screen is mounted on a third wall where we can watch the show.
It’ll be almost impossible to fit the entire band in there, let alone whatever equipment Darya brought with her for Carlos.
“I had requested a larger room.” I can hear the tightness in my voice. Carlos will refuse to allow Darya to monitor him if we can’t keep his stuff hidden.
Emily frowns. “Like I explained to your manager, this is the best we can do with today’s roll call.”
“Could I speak to the stage manager, please?” We don’t have much time to get this figured out before they have us going up onstage.
Emily squares her shoulders and I think she may put up a fight. But she sighs heavily and says, “Let me see what I can do, Mr. Castillo. But I’m not sure if anything can be changed.” I give her a tight nod as she heads back down the hall. I hear her mumble, “Celebrities are so annoying,” as she goes.
At any other time, that would have made me laugh. Not today, though. Not after my mind spent the morning torturing me with the thought that at any moment something horrible could happen to Carlos. Another bout of fainting and slamming his head against an edge so sharp, we have more than a cut to stitch up. Or worse.
My frustration boils over. “They have us in a damn storage closet,” I say to Emmanuel.
“I tried to get it sorted out.”
“I know. But this is bullshit. How are we going to get Carlos’s equipment in here?”
“I don’t know,” he admits.
I shake my head and almost run my hand through my perfectly styled hair, but catch myself before I ruin all of Mike’s hard work. He’d definitely have words if I fuck it all up, especially this close to call time. “The network is going to think I’m some pansy-ass, spoiled little shit. I’ll probably make it on one of those ridiculous Star Lighter lists of most demanding stars.” I scowl at the room again. “Not that I care. If it means Carlos gets what he needs, then whatever.”
“Don’t worry about that. PR will handle it if they have to.” He pats me on the shoulder.
Travis heads toward us. “What’s the holdup, boss?”
“Dealing with room issues.” I nod toward the open door.
He pops his head in. “We’re not all going to be able to stand in there, let alone sit,” he says. “That’s got to be against fire code.”
Just then, Emily shows up. “Mr. Castillo, I’m really sorry, but the stage manager isn’t available and unfortunately we can’t change the rooms.”
I exhale, trying to keep my frustration under control as I start moving furniture around in my mind to at least get the machines and Carlos into the tight space. I’ll stand outside in the hallway if I have to.
“But I can designate an area in the common room for your crew,” she continues. “I realize you have more people than we anticipated, and that’s our fault.” She gives Emmanuel an apologetic look. “I see that your manager had given us an accurate head count. I’m not sure how this happened. I can have some seating set up in the far-left corner of the common area for the crew members. It’s not totally private, but it’s the best I can do.” She looks at Travis who gives her a nod.
“Thank you,” I answer.
I’m pissed but getting angry at this poor girl isn’t going to solve anything. Carlos is the priority. He’s going to lose his shit if he has to be in a room without the other guys just so Darya can monitor him. The irritation has my nerves on edge, and I need to get out before I snap at someone without meaning to.
“I need some air.”
Emmanuel’s eyes silently apologize because he knows me so well he can hear my thoughts. I pat him on the shoulder as I pass, my throat too tight to speak. I make my way out the back door and am relieved to find that the parking lot is empty. I couldn’t deal with any fans right now.
I sit on the steps, put my head in my hands, and take deep breaths, trying to calm down, when I hear the door swing open. Great. I’m expecting Carlos or Mateo, the two fixers when I’m on the verge of losing my shit. Or worse, Travis coming to lecture me about going anywhere without a security detail. I’m surprised when I hear her voice instead.
“Are you okay?”
I look up at those caring eyes I’m starting to need. “No,” I answer honestly.
I scoot over and she sits down beside me on the step. When she takes my hand, the warmth of her touch spreads across my skin.
“What was that all about? Are you really angry because your dressing room isn’t big enough?”
She’s trying to keep me from hearing how ridiculous she thinks I’m being, and my instinct is to defend myself. I’m not being unreasonable, I’m concerned only about Carlos. The fact that she doesn’t realize that, burns with disappointment in my lungs.
“I could care less how big the room is. I’m not some spoiled star.” I face her so she can see I’m telling the truth. I don’t know why, but the idea of Darya thinking badly of me makes my stomach clench. I’m not certain she believes me, and it feels like a punch to the gut. I look at the asphalt. “How much equipment do you have with you today?”
She’s silent for a few moments. If it wasn’t for her thumb tracing patterns on the back of my hand, I’d have thought she’d left. “Is that what you’re worked up about?” I don’t answer. “Are you worried I won’t be able to monitor Carlos because there isn’t enough room for our stuff?”
I nod.
She squeezes my fingers. “Don’t be. The big machines are staying in the vans. It’s not like a full concert where his adrenaline is going the entire time. I don’t need them. I really brought them only to be safe. But you guys are performing two songs then we’re jumping back on the plane. I was planning on having him wear just the monitor and taking some vitals in between.”
I exhale, long and slow, the air rushing through my lips with relief.
“Next time,” she demands, turning my chin so I’m looking at her, “ask me first. There’s no point in getting yourself worried for nothing.”
“You know how he is, though. He’s so concerned with his image that he’d rather have a heart attack and die than let anyone know something is actually wrong.”
“I do know how Carlos is, and I completely understand why you’re concerned.” She scoots closer and puts her head on my shoulder. For all her soft, proper curves, I’m full of sharp, rough edges. “But he’s not going to have a heart attack. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”
“Worrying about him is fucking killing me,” I confess. “The next time he faints or hits his head, I’m pretty sure they’ll have to take me to the hospital, too. I’m constantly stressing out about this kid.”
“You don’t need to.”
“How are you so sure?”
“Because you have me.”
Her confidence is stamped on every word and, when she sits up and smiles, I feel the knots of responsibility that I’ve always carried alone begin to unravel.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Darya
“Take a deep breath and blow it out slowly.” I press the stethoscope to Carlos’s rib cage, trying to hear the pattern of his heartbeat. Halfway through Ternura’s second set, my phone started alerting me to his heart rhythm. When I not
iced the pallor of his skin and the excessive perspiration, I pulled him offstage. Could be that I’m paranoid or could be the mics messing with my reading. It could also be that we have a problem. I’d rather err on the side of caution. Needless to say, I’m not his favorite person right now.
“I’m fine, Doc. I promise,” he replies, trying to wiggle free from my clutches.
I lean back on my heels, eyeing him like a mother would a child. “I’m sure you’re fine. But my job is to be certain. So, could you please cooperate? This will go so much faster if you do.”
I know he’s fine. The likelihood that my reading is off from interference is the most realistic explanation, but I’ve become paranoid since missing Maman’s diagnosis. I’ll be damned if I do it again. Carlos will just have to indulge my fear so I can stop freaking out. I can’t harbor any more guilt.
“But this is our last set in Dallas and it needs to be epic. I have to get out there.”
I glance over my shoulder then roll my eyes. “They’re doing just fine. It’s one song, Carlos.” When he continues to squirm, I add, “It’ll be like you’re making another grand entrance halfway through the show. It’ll give your fans some time to miss you.”
At this, I get a cocky grin. “Okay!” He flings his hands up in the air giving me free access to his chest cavity, but as he watches Hugo play the guitar in his absence, his impatience comes off in waves.
It’s pretty impressive how musical they all are, flipping back and forth between instruments. Makes me wish I’d listened when Maman tried to cram piano lessons down my throat as a child.
Once I get an accurate reading, I force him to indulge me again by letting me listen to his heartbeat one more time. He takes a few more deep breaths on my command, until I’m convinced he’s okay. I make him drink some water, then watch as he bounces back onstage, the roar of the crowd through the amphitheater following his return.
Set to Music Page 12