11. Jonah
11
JONAH
When I walk into the bedroom, I’m surprised to see Claire messing around on my side of the partition.
With my towel around my waist, I round the privacy glass and watch her. She’s got a tripod with a ring light set up, and she’s laid a black silk sheet over my mattress. An image of fucking her on that silk sheet and recording it with that tripod pops into my mind so quickly that I flinch. I shake my head to clear it.
“What are you doing?”
Claire jumps and whirls on me, pressing a hand to her chest. “Christ, Hendrix. You scared me. You’re too big to be that quiet.”
I smirk and open my mouth to say something snarky, but I see one of my concert guitars and a portable amp next to the bed. My curiosity spikes.
“This isn’t a sex tape, is it?”
She rolls her eyes at my question and moves to the tripod.
“Get dressed. Something normal. Jeans and one of your band tees.” She looks up at me and purses her lips. Her attention drops to my collarbone and hands. “Put your necklace on and any rings you usually wear for concerts. Your watch, too.”
I nod and let go of my towel. Her eyes snap shut before it even hits the ground, and I chuckle as I pull jeans and a T-shirt out of my suitcase.
“You know, some people would consider your inability to keep your clothes on sexual harassment. ”
I freeze, suddenly grateful she can’t see me. I’d wanted to make her uncomfortable, but the idea of her feeling harassed doesn’t sit well with me. It makes me feel guilty, and I don’t need another fucking reason to feel guilty.
“Do you consider it sexual harassment?” I ask, trying my best to keep my tone disinterested. She huffs.
“No, I don’t. I think you’re an obnoxious, immature child who’s trying to run me off in any way possible.”
My muscles relax, and I blow out a slow, relieved exhale.
“I’m not intimidated by you, and you’re not going to get rid of me by taking your dick out every other hour, so you might as well give up.”
I smile to myself and do the button on my jeans, then pull the shirt over my head. I glance at her. Her eyes are still shut, and her hands are propped on her hips, but despite the frown on her pretty face, I don’t miss the blush coloring her cheeks and neck.
I cross the floor on light feet until I’m standing inches from her. When I lean down and put my lips to her ear, she sucks in a sharp gasp that I feel in my groin.
“I’ve put my dick away, Trouble.”
She exhales, her breath heating my neck. When she takes a step away from me, I almost want to pull her back.
“Thank God. Next order of business: curating your social media presence.”
“My what?”
“Your social media presence. It’s the first step in reversing the current public opinion of you, and we’re starting with your fans. We’ll use social media to show them a different side of you. A more positive one.”
“I don’t do social media.”
“I know, and I don’t blame you, but it’s one of the best ways to take back your image. Fortunately for me, starting from scratch will be easier than trying to revamp something that already exists. In this case, we very much want to reinvent the wheel rather than try to patch up a busted one.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I’m being honest. And it’s a good thing, anyway. We’re going to use social media to humanize you in the eyes of your fans. Show them what we want them to see instead of letting the tabloids decorate you in scandal.”
“But they’re already fans.”
“Sure, they like you, but they’re not particularly loyal. They eat up the drama and feed into it. We’re going to remedy that.”
I purse my lips. She makes a good point, and it’s not lost on me that she keeps saying we . Not just me but her too. A team effort.
I study the setup she’s constructed in the bedroom—dim lighting, silk sheets, camera tripod—and arch a brow. “But this isn’t a sex tape?”
She gives me a fake smile. “You wish.”
When I don’t deny it, she shakes her head and forges forward.
“I’ve created an account for you on a popular social media site. We’re leaning into the broody mystery that surrounds you, but we’re going to provide fans little glimpses of ‘the real’ Jonah Hendrix. Of course I’ll pick and choose what those glimpses will entail, but they’ll all be delivered in a way that feels personal, almost intimate, while still maintaining your privacy.”
“That sounds like you’re setting us up for parasocial relationships.”
“You’re a celebrity, so we can’t completely avoid that, but we’ve set boundaries. Your comments are off. Your direct messages are off. You won’t be engaging with them, and you’ll only follow your bandmates and close friends. You’re not putting your whole personal life on display for strangers. You’ll just be…giving them a peek behind the black, angry veil you’ve shrouded yourself in for ten years.”
She taps something out on her phone, then hands it to me. I snort when I see the social media handle. “HeartlessHendrix? Really?”
She gives me an arrogant, one-shouldered shrug. No apology. No explanation. A smile forms on my lips before I can fight it off, so I look back at the phone.
“How do I already have this many followers? I haven’t posted anything yet. I don’t even have a bio or a profile picture.”
“I followed Sav, Mabel, and Torren, and they’ve followed you back. They haven’t shared anything, but fans have noticed. Everyone is hoping it’s you.”
I don’t want to admit it, but I’m already impressed. It’s such a simple fucking move, but it’s brilliant. She must take my silence to mean I’m not convinced, though, because she starts pitching the idea again .
“Look. You’ve been playing defense for years. The whole band has, honestly. You’ve been reactive instead of proactive, and it’s never truly helped anything. We’re changing that today, and we’re starting by conquering your fan base. We’re going on offense, and when we succeed in this—and we will succeed, Jonah—you’ll have millions of people across the globe on your side in this endeavor. Think of them as an international army fighting for your honor.”
The more she talks, the more impressed I become. I bet she’s a force in a boardroom. I said a lot of shit last night, but now I know how she got a job at my father’s company—her own merit. It makes me feel like an asshole for suggesting otherwise, even if I’d only said it to piss her off. I’m not a misogynist. I don’t think women sleep their way to the top . I lied and stooped to that level just to be a dick, and now I’m feeling like one.
I should apologize. I almost do. But then I don’t. We’re in a silent battle, and I still intend to win.
I change the subject. “So, this is PR chess?”
“This is chess, and our next move is a banger. En passant capture. No one will expect it.”
I glance up and lock my gaze with hers. “This is a good idea, Claire. Thanks.”
Her eyes widen and her mouth falls open before she folds her lips between her teeth to hide a smile. She shakes her head and looks away as another blush covers her cheeks.
“It’s honestly a rudimentary tactic. Anyone would have started with it.”
The way my simple compliment shocks her is almost sad. The confidence and attitude she exuded seconds earlier are gone, and now she’s just an uncertain, insecure girl. Yearning for acceptance, but so unaccustomed to praise that she collapses in the face of it.
I ignore the shitty way it makes me feel and instead file the realization away in my memory. More intel. More evidence. More Claire Davis.
I snatch up my guitar, then sit on the edge of the bed with it. Having the guitar in my hands calms my nerves. It soothes the buzzing tension that’s always running through my bloodstream .
“What now? You want me to smile for a picture? Post Heartless lyrics for the caption?”
She grins like I’m an idiot she finds amusing.
“I said we were showing glimpses of the real you , Hendrix. Sure, the profile will be heavily curated, but we want to be realistic, and something tells me you’re not a smile for the camera kind of guy.”
I nod in confirmation, and she continues.
“We’re going to take the things the fans already like about you and infuse a little more personality. A little more you .”
I nod again, and she gestures to the bed.
“Okay, sit on the edge of the mattress—you need to be able to play the guitar—and get comfortable.”
I do as she says, and she attaches her phone to the tripod. She adjusts the height and shifts it around until she likes the positioning, and then she flips on the ring light.
“Fuck.” I throw my hand up to shield my eyes. “That’s bright.”
“Sorry,” she says, and she means it. “I just have to...” She adjusts the brightness of the light, then points it down a little so it’s not burning my retinas. “How’s that?”
“Much better.”
She goes back to messing with the phone, and a thought pops into my head. I let myself say it without overthinking it.
“I’m the king in this analogy, right? If this is chess, then I’m the king.”
“Not yet, you’re not.”
I can’t see the features of her face, thanks to the ring light, but her tone is playful. I sit up straighter, my lips fighting the urge to turn up at the corners.
“So I’m a pawn,” I say, my tone matching hers.
“For now. Until we make it across the board.”
“I thought a pawn couldn’t be promoted to a king?”
She waves her hand in the air. “It’s not a perfect analogy, Hendrix, but you get the point. You let me get you across the board, and then you can take over the game. I hand you the crown.”
I bite my cheek to keep from letting my smile free and look right at her face. I can’t tell if she looks back, but I think she does. “Are you saying you’re my queen, then? ”
“Your words. Not mine.”
“The queen’s the most important piece on the board, Davis. Sounds to me like that’s you.”
There’s a charged pause that stretches between us. I can feel her eyes on me, and I keep mine pointed in her direction. When her voice breaks through the silence, it’s a challenge.
“Think you can handle that?”
I can’t fight it anymore. I smile. “For now.”
She hums. There’s another moment of tension, and then after a few breaths, it disappears. Business again. Full speed ahead.
“Okay, so only your torso is in frame,” she tells me. “Shoulders to knees. The camera is focused on the guitar. On your hands.”
I nod. “Cool. Now what?”
“When I say go, you play.”
“Play what?”
“Whatever. Something you like, but not The Hometown Heartless. Something Jonah Hendrix .”
I think about it while I flip on my amp and tune the guitar. Then when Claire says go, I start to play. I’ve barely begun when she interrupts.
“Wait,” Claire says, her voice cracking slightly. “Stop.”
I stop. “What?”
“Is that... Are you playing Fleetwood Mac?”
“Yeah. ‘Landslide.’ Why?” I furrow my brow at her tone. It’s confusing. It almost sounds sad. I wish I could see her face.
“Nothing. I just...” She forces a laugh. “I thought you’d play something more, I don’t know, rock and roll, I guess.”
I raise my eyebrows. “There are few things more rock and roll than Stevie Nicks, Davis.”
“Right.” Another awkward, breathy laugh, followed by a sniffle. “Of course. No, this is perfect, actually. Your fans will love it. Um, it’s a, it’s a nice surprise.”
She almost sounds like she’s crying, but then she clears her throat, and her next words are steady. Like I imagined the emotion seconds earlier.
“Sorry for interrupting. You can start whenever you’re ready.”
I don’t question her. I just start over, and she doesn’t interrupt me again. When I finish the song and the final notes fade out, Claire clicks something on the phone, then takes it off the tripod. She doesn’t turn off the ring light. I know it’s because she doesn’t want me to see her.
“Great,” she chirps. “I’ll cut this down and post it. I’ll...I’ll be right back, though. I have to make a phone call.”
She turns on her heel and leaves the bedroom. Seconds later, I hear the doors to the balcony open and shut, but I don’t move. I just sit there, my eyes fixed on the floor behind the tripod where she was standing. I’m rarely stumped by people, but Claire Davis...
The woman has given me nothing but questions.
I don’t like it.
She doesn’t speak to me for the rest of the afternoon. We ride to the stadium separately, and she doesn’t watch the show from the VIP tent. She’s not in the dressing room after the concert, either. But when I pull up my new social media account later, I’m met with thousands of notifications.
Claire posted the video of me playing “Landslide.”
It’s not the whole video—just a clip of the first verse and chorus—but it’s gotten almost a million likes in twenty minutes. With the moody lighting and the black silk bedsheets serving as a backdrop, it feels intimate, just like she said it would. And while you can’t see my face, just my hands playing the guitar, she was right. It feels like me . More me than any music video or album photoshoot has.
I find myself smiling at the phone, but then I read the caption.
Can the child within my heart rise above?
My smile fades, my brow furrows, and I frown.
Exposed. I feel exposed.
And for the rest of the night, even after swallowing down my nightly cocktail of smuggled pills, I can think about one thing. Only one thing.
Trouble .