Chapter 28
“In the End” - Linkin Park
Rhett
I climb the steps to the stage more shakily than I ever have before. Even before my first show of the tour—in fucking New York City—my hands weren’t trembling like this. I can barely hold on to my guitar pick. I have no idea how I’m going to pull this off.
Swinging my guitar behind my back, I walk up to the microphone.
The crowd goes wild as the lights come on and they see me for the first time.
I grin out at them, and some of the tremors in my hands ease.
I can’t for the life of me remember which city we’re in, so I glance down at the ink scrawled across my palm.
“Hello, Houston!” I yell.
The returning roar is deafening, and it works wonders at dispelling the image of Saylor pinned against the building, that creep’s hands—
“How are y’all doing tonight?” I do my best to put on a Texan accent, but it muddles with my Wesbournian one into a ridiculous mashup that sounds more like a cartoon character than John Wayne. Fortunately, my fans find it amusing. “Are you ready for some music?”
As they shout their enthusiasm, I toss a look over my shoulder at the band, even though the guys are familiar with the routine by now. We break into the intro of “Chasing Shadows,” and the crowd goes even wilder, if that’s possible.
I can play the set in my sleep, and sometimes I do. Being onstage loses some of its luster when you play thirty shows back-to-back, but I don’t think the high from playing for a crowd this size will ever get old.
Finding my girlfriend being attacked, on the other hand . . . That’s the kind of shit that will haunt me all night long.
I can’t think about what might have happened if I hadn’t gone outside when I did, if I hadn’t demanded to see her before the show, if we’d given up on finding her after searching the entire building with no luck.
If I can’t keep those thoughts away, this show will end up a disaster, and my contract and reputation will land in the gutter.
Get your head in the game, Rhett.
Leo has promised to never leave her side, even if she needs to use the restroom.
An agreement I thought we’d already made, but apparently I was the only one who thought so.
I nearly ripped his head from his shoulders when I discovered he wasn’t keeping an eye on her.
And that was before we found her. He’ll be lucky to have a job after this.
The ending notes of the song bleed into the next one, “Take a Chance on Me,” which is currently sitting at number three on the charts, and which no one but Saylor knows is about my stint in rehab.
I wrote it after four weeks of sitting in that place, when not a single one of my friends had come to see me, with the exception of Slate.
I guess you could psychoanalyze the lyrics and probably find something that points back to my relationship with my dad, blah blah blah.
But none of that shit matters, because my fans love it.
It can apply to anyone in any situation, and that’s what makes a hit song.
Write something people can relate to, put a good beat to it, and watch it soar to the top of the charts.
The crowd seems wilder tonight, thanks to the media attention after that bloody kiss. I’m almost beginning to regret it. Not the kiss—it was sexy as hell—but doing it in front of that many people, especially if it means my girl will never be safe again.
I’m also pretty sure Saylor hasn’t forgiven me for it yet, although I don’t see what the big deal is. I have no intention of letting her go once this tour is over, so who cares if the world knows she’s my girlfriend? She’ll need to get used to the spotlight at some point if she wants to be with me.
But maybe that’s the problem. Maybe she doesn’t want to be with me. I fumble over the chord progression and fight back a wince. Head in the fucking game.
Of course she wants to be with me. I’ve seen the way she looks at me, the way her breath catches in her throat when I touch her. The way she lights up when I wink at her. The way she absolutely saturates herself within seconds of being in my arms.
I miss the next few notes and mutter a mental curse. This is worse than after I dragged Saylor onstage last night. I didn’t think I’d be able to play after that, but god, at least I wasn’t missing actual notes in a song I fucking wrote.
Turning my attention to the fans singing along, I push all thoughts of Saylor from my mind. She’s more distraction than muse these days.
Some of the groupies in the pit are wearing tees that say “I’ll be your sailor tonight” and “Kiss me, Rhett!” A few of them raise their shirts and flash me when they catch me looking. I grin and shake my head. Nice racks, all of them. Uninterested, all of me.
We play the rest of the set, and at the end of two hours, I’m drenched in sweat.
They weren’t joking about this Texas heat.
Thank god it’s late autumn and not the middle of the fucking summer.
I wave my goodbyes, knowing I’ll be back in just a second for an encore, but playing my role perfectly regardless.
Before I can head backstage, the chanting starts.
I sense the rest of the band tensing up behind me, unsure what we’re supposed to do.
I toss a glance at Jamal, because fuck if I know.
The roar from the crowd only increases. If they were demanding another song, fine.
We’d give it to them. The audience gets what the audience wants.
But that’s not what they’re demanding. They want Saylor.
“Saylor, Saylor, Saylor.” I already know I’m going to hear that chant in my head over and over tonight as I try to fall asleep. What the fuck have I pulled her into?
I look at Jamal once more, but he just shrugs both his shoulders and his brows. He would probably throw her to the wolves if she was his, the fucking bastard.
I walk back to the mic and wrap my hands around it. Press my smile against it, search for the right words. “I don’t think Saylor feels up to appearing tonight.”
There’s a chorus of boos, but I’m not about to make the same mistake again. Anything that puts Saylor in danger isn’t worth it, no matter how much my fans may want it.
“Instead of Saylor, we’ll play an extra two songs for you guys,” I say, hoping this compromise doesn’t send the label execs into a fucking tizzy. My girlfriend is off the table, and if they want to fight me on that, they can go fuck themselves.
We play the extra songs. I can tell it’s a lackluster trade for the crowd, but screw them. Saylor is more important than their need for a show.
I wave good night for the last time and make my way backstage. My phone rings before I’ve even reached the last step. Eddie. He must have been watching the show live, even though it’s three in the fucking morning back home.
“We have a problem,” he says when I answer, because the guy doesn’t believe in preambles.
My gut tightens instinctively. He wouldn’t be calling me right now if it wasn’t really bad.
I brace myself for whatever is coming next.
They’re pissed I didn’t bring Saylor on, there’s been more bad press, they’re dropping my contract.
At this point, I’m even ready for the news that they’re stealing all of my money, too.
“Have you been online?” Eddie says, his voice clipped.
I grab the towel Noah tosses my way and use it to dry the sweat on my neck.
“Gee, Eddie. I forgot to pull my phone out between songs and check my socials.” I throw the towel back to Noah with more force than necessary, and he gives me a look.
“No, I’ve been playing a fucking show for the past two and a half hours. ”
I don’t see Saylor or Leo backstage. After what happened, I hope he took her to the hotel. We had barely five minutes together before I had to get onstage. I would’ve blown off the entire show, but Leo assured me he’d take care of her this time and Saylor insisted I not skip it.
“You’re going to want to take a look,” Eddie says. “I’ll wait.”
I roll my eyes but don’t ask what the hell I’m supposed to look for. Instead, I slide down against the wall, letting my muscles relax for the first time since discovering Saylor was missing. My hands are still shaking as I lower my phone, both from fear and the adrenaline from the show.
I type my own name into the search bar. Before I even spell it out entirely, “Saylor Seegmiller” pops up alongside it as a suggested query.
The knife in my gut twists even further at the reminder that she was once his, that stupid fucking wanker who doesn’t deserve her.
I want to chop off her last name and any other reminders of him that she has.
She’ll be pissed they’ve already figured out her last name, but those TikTok sleuths mean business. You can’t hide that kind of information for long. It’ll be fine. She’ll see. She can legally change her name back to Jones and put this whole thing behind her.
The first article promises to uncover the identity of Rhett Cole’s “secret” girlfriend.
Is this what has Eddie’s panties shoved up his ass?
That my girlfriend is getting press? I skim the page, but they’re just announcing Saylor’s real name to the world, as if that part wasn’t already obvious, given the suggestion in the search bar.
The time stamp catches my eye as I’m hitting the back button.
It was published this morning, so why the hell is Eddie calling me about this now?
I scan the rest of the search results, and a video grabs my attention. The headline says, “The truth about Rhett and Saylor.” I click on it and watch as some girl with a high ponytail and too much makeup promises to uncover the truth about America’s favorite pop star and his girlfriend.
The video already has thousands of comments and even more likes. I skip past her endless barrage of lead-up—I have better things to do with my time than listen to her nasally voice—and finally arrive at what she’s been driving at this whole time.
“Not only is Saylor Seegmiller still married to her husband, Nathan Seegmiller, but she hasn’t filed for divorce or even separated from him,” the girl says.
I scoff and roll my eyes. Eddie got worked up over nothing.
“On top of that, her husband is active military. He’s currently deployed, although his location is not disclosed—obviously. So while he’s been out serving his country, his wife has been traveling the United States with a rock star.”
Even though she can’t see me, I flip the girl off through the screen anyway.
With her stupid ponytail and her over enunciation of the words “military” and “rock star,” I want to tell her what she can do with her bogus information.
It doesn’t even matter that it’s not true.
Thousands of people have already watched it, and they will all believe it.
That Saylor’s cheating on her soldier husband with me.
The whole thing is a crock of shit. I tell Eddie so.
He doesn’t say anything.
“You still there?” I ask, thinking maybe the call disconnected while I was watching the video.
“I’m here.”
“She’s not married anymore, okay?” I get to my feet again. Noah’s looking antsy, probably because I should’ve been at the meet and greet ten minutes ago. “She just hasn’t changed her name back to Jones yet.”
Eddie clears his throat. “As much as I wish that were the case, buddy, unfortunately it’s not.”
“What are you talking about?” The hair on the back of my neck stood up the second he called me “buddy,” and it’s not lying down any time soon.
“The label’s been looking into it,” he says. “Took us most of the day, but we finally confirmed it.”
“Confirmed what?” I wish he would just get right to the point and spit it out. Better yet, I wish he’d get off the phone so I can get to my girl and make sure she’s okay. God forbid she went online and saw any of this.
“There were no divorce papers filed, Rhett.”
My heart stops in my chest. Where there should have been two beats, three even, there’s just silence. “What?”
“There’s also an interview with the husband already circulating.”
I sink back to the floor without even realizing what I’m doing. “Tell me you’re shitting me.” It comes out as a strained whisper.
“I wish I was, trust me. You can watch the interview yourself if you want. But I’m warning you, it’s not pretty.”
I shove my hand into my hair and stare at the concrete floor. A million thoughts are swirling through my head right now, and not a single one of them makes any sense.
“Your contract was explicit about no scandals of any sort,” he continues.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying this constitutes a scandal.”
I drop my hand from my face. “You’ve got to be fucking with me.”
“It’s all spelled out in the contract. Have your agent send you a copy if you don’t believe me.”
“So you’re canceling me?”
“We haven’t made a final decision yet. But the possibility is something you should prepare for.
In the meantime, we need to stay out in front of this, so we’ll be arranging several interviews where you’ll have a chance to give your side of the story.
” He clears his throat again. “Your responses will be prewritten by our team here, of course.”
Of course. Because Rhett Cole is too much of a bumbling idiot to be able to speak for himself.
He’s too much of an idiot to realize that the woman he thought was his girlfriend is actually someone’s wife.
Someone who had no idea she was traveling with and fucking a famous pop star.
No wonder she didn’t want her name or photos leaked.
I end the call with Eddie and tell Noah to cancel the meet and greet.
Screw the record label, screw my contract.
I don’t care if I never play another show again.
There’s no way I’m going anywhere until I get to the bottom of this.
After pulling up the search engine once more, I type “Nathan Seegmiller” into the bar.
The same video pops up multiple times, shared by various commentators putting their own spin on this “crazy turn of events.”
If there was any doubt in my mind before, it’s obliterated the second I click on the first video. I would recognize that boring-ass crewcut anywhere.