Chapter 16. #2
“You meant it, right?” I ask him, still catching my breath. “At your house. When you called yourself my secret boyfriend. That … wasn’t just a cute thing you said? That was the real thing?”
His hands slip from my face and brush down my body, and he weaves his fingers between mine.
“I already put it in my pink-and-red notebook with my pink-and-red pencil.” To the look on my face, which makes him crack a smile, he elaborates: “It means yes. Yes, I meant it. I … I want to be your boyfriend.”
I kiss him again, taking him fully into my arms, stickiness and sweat and all. It’s a special kind of gift, when you experience such a night like this that’s so incredible, you cannot imagine how in a hundred lifetimes you deserved it.
And surely you’ll never know it again.
But you do.
Only this time, it’s in Birmingham, Alabama, and the room TJ gets is on the opposite end of the goddamned planet from yours.
On my way to it, I’m caught by Fiona who asks me (while popping jellybeans) to drop by her room later to hear a couple of chord adjustments for “Down Bad For Him” she wants to run past me.
Then I narrowly escape Naomi only to run face-first into Emmett, who reminds me about a cousin of his who’ll be at the next show, second row, house right.
When I get to TJ’s floor, I have to hide on the opposite side of the vending machine for a group of laughing, phone-wielding fans I recognize from tonight’s show to walk by before I finally arrive at TJ’s room, though I can’t with confidence say no one tracked me.
“How in the hell do these fans manage to book rooms at our hotel?” I ask TJ rhetorically when we’re already naked in bed, well into making out.
He gives me a look and, loaded with all the sarcasm in the world, says, “Gosh, I have no idea. Better be careful or you’ll end up in bed with one. ”
He brought more just-in-cases.
We go through all three.
He’s gonna need to come up with a new name for them, because it’s always the case with us.
Against all reason, he ends up nabbing a ticket to the show in Atlanta.
I enjoy the pleasure (and soul-crippling terror) of having him out in that audience full of screaming fans who would eat him alive if they knew whose face was gonna sneak into his room after the show.
When I become confident he is, in fact, still unknown to anyone in the venue except me (and Raj, who clocked him before I even sang the first lyric of the first song), I pull out all the stops onstage, inspired by TJ’s presence.
I do “Break My Heart and Keep It” and repeat the final chorus twice, giving Fiona a few chances to go all out with her keyboard riffs—and hot damn does she deliver.
I play “Easy Path to My Heart” in the solo section, pretty much all of it directed to TJ, whose swooning eyes are the only thing I know in the world from the start of that song to its end.
During “Down Bad For Him”, our latest favorite closer, Wily goes all out with the bass, and all of us are with him, whole audience included, ending the show with a triumphant roar so loud, it’s a miracle the walls of this place can bear to stay standing.
And as hard as that concert hit, TJ and I hit even harder later in the hotel room, starved for each other no matter how much we seem to get.
Our eyes are locked on. His face, flushed and sweaty.
Mine, cracking apart as the brink rushes forth for us both.
There’s no limit to the paradise we’re creating—and this new sort of music we’re writing together.
Music no one can hear but us.
We get room service. I hide in the bathroom like a shameful secret while the lovely young lady brings in a plate of two burgers, basket of fries, spicy fried chicken wings, and two damned slices of seven-layer chocolate cake, because what the hell else do you eat after sex?
Then we eat all of it on the second bed in TJ’s room like it’s a dining room table, and I feed him bites of chocolate cake, and why does every moment of our lives lately feel like something bad we’re getting away with?
“I know it’s always best for you to go back now,” says TJ, “so no one sees you sneaking out in the morning, but … um …”
I already know what he’s gonna ask. “I’d be honored to hold you in my arms tonight, TJ.”
He bites his lip. “Even if we’re … out of just-in-cases?”
“There’s other things we can do. And besides that …” I crawl over the bed on all fours and put a kiss on his forehead. “I don’t mind just snugglin’ up next to you and drifting off to sleep. Sounds like I’m in for the best damned night of rest I’ve had in years.”
He can barely fight off the cute smile swelling on his face. Had he been building up this question in his head for a while now? “I … I just didn’t want to get you in trouble or anything.”
“Too late for that.” I wink at him. “Just gotta get my phone. Be right back.” I leave him on that bed to digest our king’s feast and poke my head into the hallway to check for creepers. I slip out and pad my way back up to my room, relieved to run into no one at all.
I turn the corner and stop short.
Ian’s leaning against the wall by my door, arms crossed, flat-lipped with his glasses at the very tip of his nose.
That’s his I’m pissed face.
I blow past all that coldness radiating off of him like a winter storm and swipe my card in front of the lock, pushing my way into the room. “What can I do you for, Ian? Droppin’ in for a goodnight kiss? Ain’t it past your bedtime?”
The door shuts behind him when he follows me in. I grab my phone off the nightstand, then discover real quick I’ve got fifteen missed calls and texts from Ian, missed call from Drew at the label, and a butt-load more notifications than I’m used to.
I also notice Ian hasn’t said a word. I look up from my phone to find him holding out his own, screen aimed at me.
On it, a picture of me and TJ at that Korean BBQ spot back in Houston.
Wouldn’t be quite so bad if I wasn’t feeding TJ a bite.
I part my lips to say something like, “So? Two dudes can feed each other for fun, big deal.”
But he swipes a thumb, pulling up another pic. TJ and I, again, walking side-by-side on the street.
Another pic, my arm over TJ’s back, laughing, face close to his.
And another. Another. Another. Then Ian lowers his phone. “I told you to be careful,” he starts.
“It’s not—” I cut myself off, crossing my arms, my first instinct being to dismiss this all away. Because really, who cares? “They’re pics of me out with just a friend.”
“Just a friend?” He thumbs over more pics and lands on one of me taking TJ’s hand tenderly into mine, unmistakably romantic, as we were heading back to the hotel.
All of them obviously taken in Houston, all at the same time, probably by the same person.
“Just a friend, Chase? You wanna keep insulting my intelligence?”
I roll my eyes. “I’ve been out since my debut. It shouldn’t be any surprise to anyone that I’m hangin’ with a guy. I’m touchy-feely even with my pals. Wily’s straight, and I’ve probably kissed his cheeks in more pics than I can—”
“I told you what the label expects,” he cuts me off. “It’s vital right now that you’re single and remain that way. You’ve seen the numbers, you’re soaring for the sky, we’re moving up, Chase. Why do you want to sabotage that with a scandal?”
“I’m not sabotagin’ a damned thing.” I let out a laugh, at once back to blowing it off. “Tell the label to fuck off. We clearly know what we’re doin’. These new songs are killin’ it. It’s all viral sexy singin’ cowboys online. Let me have a boyfriend if I want.”
“Boyfriend?” He nearly drops his phone. “Chase …”
I choke back a chuckle. “Don’t talk to me like that, like you’re talkin’ down to your daughter.”
“You know what the label said to me? They handled it. They did their magic, whatever it is they do to leaks like this. It’s taken care of to the best of their ability.
But they told me—I quote, and yes, real quote here—to ‘keep him in line’.
Him. That’s you. They want me to do the impossible fucking task of keeping you in line.
How am I supposed to do that when you disrespect me, disrespect your label and your image, disrespect your team, and do whatever you want anyway?
Aren’t we supposed to be …” His tone softens. “Aren’t we supposed to be friends?”
“You tell me,” I sass back.
“I stay transparent with you. But you aren’t doing the same with me. Why are these pics blindsiding me? Why did I look like a total jackass talking to Drew and Irene for over an hour convincing them I have any idea what’s going on in your personal life?”
“Transparent? Really?” I shake my head. “You’ve been feedin’ me fake compliments about my music for how long?
When in fact it’s turned to shit. People call me a sellout now.
And this new stuff I’m cookin’ up? It’s the most brilliant work I’ve put out since we started this.
Everyone’s on fire about it. Everyone except you. ”
Now it’s Ian who looks tickled with laughter like he’s losing his mind, hands going up to his head and hopefully not to rip out whatever hair remains on it.
“I don’t think you quite appreciate the severity of this situation, Chase, and it’s taking every last cell of restraint in me not to pop off right now. ”
“Please. Do us both a favor. Save some time. Pop.”
He shuts his eyes, choosing instead to swallow it all down. He takes a seat on the edge of the bed and nods next to him without speaking. I pocket my phone and take a seat there, then lift my eyes to his and patiently wait.
When he speaks, it’s deathly quiet and calm.
“You got sloppy. You used to not be. I remember your exes. Both of them, first year we were doing this. Then the guy two years ago who drifted in and drifted right back out of your life. Just a few little pics can paint a big picture, and soon, you’re hiding a secret fiancé, then Facebook groups and IG private chats pop up with wine-mom fan girls and suburban sleuth squads storyboarding all your personal business.
They’re the ones buying all your tickets.
All your merch. Wearing it. Sharing posts.
Mashing those like and subscribe buttons.
They made Chase Holt. They can destroy him.
That’s what they believe. You owe them everything. Your life. Your time. Your music.”
“They aren’t like that. You don’t understand my fans.”
“You don’t,” he says right back, eyes burning into the side of my face. “The second they feel their Chase Holt slipping away, you got fans feeling betrayed, hunting you down, burning your merch in a backyard bonfire live on YouTube with 10 million viewers. We have to shut this down,” he demands.
I started shaking my head at some point.
“No,” I finally say. “I don’t think they’re like that.
That’s not the fan base I have. I know them.
” I turn to the brick wall of Ian and his flared eyes.
“Why not lean into it? Into me havin’ someone?
I’m a singer with a backlog of a hundred songs about the one damned thing I ain’t allowed to have.
Why? Love is somethin’ I deserve to actually experience, too, not just sing about. ”
“Love? That’s what this is?” He points at the door. “Love is what’s waiting for you down there in Room 218?”
My eyes snap to his.
“Let me give you a clearer picture here, Chase. These people, they aren’t gonna be coming after you first. They’re gonna want to know who stole their Chase Holt’s heart. Where does this guy live? What’s his name? How can he possibly deserve our Chase? He will be eviscerated.”
I flinch at that word.
Looking away. Jaw tightening.
“Alright, fine.” His voice softens. “Think I’m being dramatic?
Let’s look at it at another angle. What’ll everyone think about your guy?
This groupie who caught your eye and followed you around to your shows?
You have gay fans, too, y’know. Guys who’ll wish they could’ve been that lucky boy who somehow got you.
They’ll hate him. They’ll think he seduced you.
Trust me, it’s never gonna be his ‘personality’ they credit.
Regardless of the truth, they’ll believe the worst version of it because it makes for tastier tea to tell their friends.
Clickier titles for online articles. You want the world to think that low about your guy?
Doesn’t sound like a story for the grandkids, does it?
He’ll be socially and literally eviscerated. ”
“Stop using that word.”
Ian looks away. A silence passes. He rises from the bed, moves to the door and stops.
“You know I fucking hate this conversation, right? Like, it makes me sick to say these things to you?” He looks back at me.
“Believe it or not, I’m looking out for him as much as I am for you.
Please. For his sake if not your own. End it already. ”
Then he leaves. Door closes.
Silence again.
I know Ian isn’t the villain here. Wouldn’t dare paint him that way. Maybe that’s what scares me most, that everything he’s said is terrifyingly reasonable.
They’ll hate him …
I drift with these thoughts back to TJ’s room.
No one nearby. No eyes and no ears. I give it a gentle knock.
TJ opens the door, his eyes sleepy but bright—he obviously fixed himself up a bit in the mirror while I was gone, hair back in place, face washed—and I’m let inside.
“Got your phone?” he asks me. I smile back at him, put a kiss on his lips, and nod—my phone, and so much more.
It’s while we’re cuddled on the bed, lights out, bluish glow of the TV over us, about to fall asleep together for the first time, that I tell him, “After Nashville, we’re getting two full weeks off.”
“I know. I saw. Do you … have any plans with your break?”
“Yep.” I turn to him, meeting his eyes in the dark. “I plan to spend every single minute of it with you.”