Chapter 10
Ryleigh
The tension on the bus is so thick you could cut it with a knife. The guys in the band aren’t talking.
At all.
Angus is up on the top bunk, headphones on, ignoring everyone.
Jonny is either sleeping or pretending to.
Sam and Kirsten are watching a movie on someone’s laptop.
Mick is fiddling on his phone.
And Tate is reading.
I don’t know what I was expecting but complete silence isn’t it.
I was so relieved that I had a reason to stay on the tour, I didn’t put a lot of thought into the logistics of what might happen when Angus’s identity was made public. In theory, Rich’s idea to cover the aftermath of leaking the story sounds like a great way to solidify my place at the magazine.
In practice, it’s much different.
Crimson Edge doesn’t consist of hypothetical musicians. They’re real people, who’ve become my friends over the last nine days.
Making money from their misfortune suddenly feels weird.
Deep down, I honestly thought it wouldn’t be a big deal among the members of the band because I thought they had to know. We assumed the bigger fallout would come from the fans. Considering how hated his family became after raising the prices on those chemo drugs, I was expecting the fans to have a lot to say.
Instead, it’s the band who appears to be upset and, so far, readers online don’t seem to care that much. There are some comments about being able to buy a record deal, but beyond that, the music speaks for itself. They write all their own songs and people seem to like them, so there isn’t much to report from that side. It’s been less than twenty-four hours, so that could change, but I’m not seeing much in the way of discontent from their fan base.
If I’m honest, now that I’m in the thick of things, I don’t want to write a story about the band imploding. I’m almost finished with the story about Lexi, so I’m hoping that takes the focus off of what’s going on with Crimson Edge, but I’m starting to remember why I wanted to focus on being an influencer instead of pursuing a job in journalism.
You need health insurance.
I finish my story about Lexi and email it to Rich, hoping it will get him off my back. That’s the story he wanted in the first place—this thing about Angus is a bonus—but Rich is like a dog with a bone when it comes to getting a scoop.
He’s been texting me all day asking for updates, and I keep telling him the same thing—everything is quiet. I make it sound like everyone is drunk and hungover, half- asleep, even though that’s not even close to the truth.
Now that Angus’s identity is out, he needs to do an interview or make some kind of statement talking about why. Either him individually or the band as a whole. I don’t know him that well but I can tell he’s a private guy. He looks like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders right now and I feel a pinch of guilt.
Because I did this.
I don’t owe him anything, and it’s not my fault he lied, but the mood on the bus is totally different than it’s been before today.
I hate the thought that I could be the cause of them breaking up. I don’t know if things are that bad, but I would be devastated if that happened.
I really don’t want to be some kind of Crimson Edge Yoko Ono.
One of many reasons I didn’t want this job.
Except for that pesky little health insurance thing.
Stupid breast cancer gene.
In the next few years I’m going to have to make some difficult decisions, but I don’t want to think about that while I’m on tour. And I can’t afford it anyway.
Since my article is done, I’m bored so I start checking out what’s going on online.
It’s not terrible, but more and more people have seen the news and there are a lot of opinions.
Think they’ll raise the price of their album to match the cost of Holland-Burke drugs?
Does Daddy know that his heir is a rock and roll bad-boy?
I don’t really understand that one, but people are weird.
I don’t care what his name is—I’d still do Angus/August any time, any place!
There will always be groupies.
And then there are reasonable people.
Who cares what his name is? He’s a hell of a drummer. The music is the only thing that should matter!
He doesn’t even work in the pharmaceutical industry—why is this news? Poor guy probably just wants a little peace and privacy.
Okay, so now I don’t feel as bad.
Of course, I’m also worried they’re going to figure out that I’m the one who spilled the beans. As far as I know, no one saw me near the bus so the general consensus is that someone else saw Angus with his brother. There was a little bit of conversation about that once we got on the bus, but it was short-lived, and no one even looked at me.
The ride seems endless, and by the time we get to the hotel, I’m anxious to stretch my legs. I’ve just gotten off when I hear a voice behind me.
“Ryleigh, I’d like to talk to you about something.”
Angus’s voice is soft, deep, and well-modulated, and despite the August heat, it makes me shiver.
There’s definitely something about the timbre of his voice… it’s so deep.
It washes over me like a caress.
And those fucking eyes.
I don’t even have to turn around to remember that they remind me of the Mediterranean Sea.
Knock. It. Off.
I can’t imagine what it would be like to be staring into them as he makes love to me, our bodies linked, one hand on my throat and?—
You need health insurance, Ryleigh.
“What’s up?” I ask politely, even though my heart starts pounding for some reason. Probably because the sound of his voice almost made me have a wet dream. Even though I’m wide awake.
“How would you like to interview me regarding the current situation as part of the story you’re doing about us?”
Well, that would be convenient, but I don’t want to look too excited.
I cock my head instead, hoping I look curious. “You want to tell your side of the story?”
“Something like that.”
His face is tight, like this is hard for him, and I’m not sure whether or not I want to make it easy on him. I could just say yes and leave it at that, but this is a story that could get me a full-time position, so I have to be strategic in how I go about it.
I also feel like I owe him a bit of shit after the way he turned me down when I asked him for an interview last night.
“I’d need… it wouldn’t be fair unless I can talk to the rest of the guys about it too.”
He sighs. “That’s up to them.”
“Would you like me to try to set up a group interview? Would that maybe make it a neutral place for you guys to talk?” He looks so frustrated, I feel bad all over again.
“I think Tate and Mick are good. Sam is always practical. Jonny’s the one who…” His voice trails, as if he doesn’t want to say too much.
For some reason, I can’t resist reaching out and putting my hand on his forearm. “It’s going to be okay. The music says everything people need to know. They’ll forget about all this.”
His brows knit together and his eyes darken, as if I’ve pissed him off. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Ryleigh.”
His eyes turn a gorgeous blue-green color when he’s mad.
It’s so freakin’ hot.
I may have to go out of my way to annoy him more often.
Stop it, Ryleigh!
I really hate when the sweet angel on my shoulder tells my red-haired devil to shut up.
“I’m just saying that the music is good—really good. Most people don’t care about anything else.”
“Most people isn’t all the people. And there are a lot of people who hate the Hollingsworth family. You’re too young and inexperienced to understand how ugly the world can be.”
Is that some sort of veiled insult?
“What are you trying to say?” I ask. “That I don’t know what I’m doing? You think I don’t see ugliness with my presence on social media? Or having to put up with self-absorbed misogynists in the music industry just so I can pay the bills?”
“You haven’t lived long enough to have a clue how much worse things could be for you. You’re barely out of college and on tour with a platinum-selling band—I don’t think you have too much to complain about. Other journalists would kill for an assignment like this. And we both know you only got it because of your dad.”
Jesus, do I really find this guy attractive?
Because he’s a grade-A asshole.
Now I’m the one who’s pissed off.
“I was trying to be supportive—you don’t have to be a condescending prick.”
“You gonna put that in your article?” His eyes flash.
“Go to hell.” I turn on my heel and stomp into the hotel.
How the hell am I going to do what I came here to do if my temper and my hormones both get the best of me?
And what is it about this guy that’s making me crazy?
“Big girl, panties,” I whisper to myself. “And health insurance.”
Maybe if I repeat that enough times it will somehow sink in.