24. Avery
Avery
I would like to say Wes and I are discreet about our relationship, but it would be more accurate to say everyone else is discreet and adhering to the ironclad guidelines of their NDAs.
After we finish the two-show run in LA, it’s off to Phoenix where Wes and I have hotel rooms on different floors.
When we head to Dallas and Houston, our rooms are across the hall.
Now in Chicago, there’s an adjoining door that is currently wide open.
So, it’s safe to assume that at least a few people know that Wes and I are going at it like horny college freshmen with zero self-control.
We haven’t had sex, but I’m perfectly satisfied with everything else.
I’ve been with a few other people and haven’t thought twice about that level of intimacy, but for us it means more.
I lie on the king mattress with a towel loosely wrapped around my middle which is slowly forming a damp spot where Wes is lying his shaggy head on my stomach. It’s 5 a.m. on our first two day break after six shows, which really isn’t time off because we have our first press appearance today.
“At what point do you think they’ll give up and just put us in the same room to save costs?
” Wes asks, trailing a finger up and down the inside of my thigh, leaving streaks of lightning in his wake.
Weeks of this and still my body can’t get enough, sparking and fizzling at the mere brush of his skin against mine.
Last night, halfway through our final number he gripped my waist, and I nearly forgot where we were. I leaned in to kiss him but caught myself when I was two inches away.
If this is going to stay a secret much longer, I need to get my shit together. I’m fine with this, but for some reason the idea of one room, even if it’s a joke, sets me on edge.
“We should be more careful. Keep this”—I wave my hand between us—“to the hotel. We’re getting sloppy.”
“You see…I like sloppy.” He flips onto his stomach and tugs open my towel to reveal a sliver of skin that he kisses greedily. Shifting his body lower, lips brushing the jut of my hip.
I have to physically shake the daze from clogging my head as I catch his chin and stop him. “I’m being serious. At some point someone will leak that we’re…” I pause for a fraction of a second. We rarely talk about what this is, but when we do, I dance around a label. “Doing this.”
“Would that be the worst thing in the world? For people to know we belong to each other?” I know he’s waiting for me to say yes.
Being here tucked away from the world doesn’t mean I care about him less.
It’s because I care about us so much I want to stay like this.
I don’t want anyone else to have access to it.
They’ll inevitably snatch it up like a clumsy child enamored with a Christmas ornament and send it shattering against the ground.
Thankfully I’m saved from giving him an answer by a chime from my phone. I reach for it and find a sequence of texts from Lydia.
Lydia
New review.
I click the attached link.
At their stadium show in Chicago, Hart and Sloane demonstrate why they’ve earned record-breaking sales.
They don’t rely on over-the-top visuals or pyrotechnics to deliver performance well worth the cost of even marked up resale tickets.
Raw and riveting, they lean into beloved classics from their discographies while displaying how their voices and dynamic have matured since their early twenties.
The highlight of the night is without a doubt their finale song which they sing together with an undeniable chemistry that begs the question: What is happening between the two off-stage?
That question. That’s why I’m not sure it’s a good idea to even walk down the street with Wes’s hand in mine because people push and dig and feel entitled to parts of us that they have no right to.
Lydia
Keep doing who you’re doing.
Me
Don’t you mean what I’m doing.
Lydia
No.
Lydia
Both of you need to be downstairs in 5 for the Ingrid Grant interview.
Wes bites down on the soft flesh of my inner thigh, and I yelp, jerking my leg up but his wrist encircles my ankle and he draws me back down across the silky sheets.
“What is it?” He looks up at me.
“We need to be in the lobby in five minutes.” I start to swing off the mattress but find myself pulled against his bare chest, my legs straddling his hips. “Didn’t you hear me? We have to go.”
His nose teases up the length of my neck as he playfully rocks his hips up to press against me. “All I heard was that I have five minutes.”
As we exit the elevator, Kendal looks up at us, then back down to her phone from where she’s leaning against the opposite wall. “Wow, only ten minutes. I was sure it would be twenty.”
“Have we really gotten to the point where you’re scheduling in a buffer?” I ask.
“I don’t think I need to answer that.”
We head out back to where a car is waiting.
It takes thirty minutes to get to the studio that houses Morning People with Ingrid Grant, the most popular morning show in Chicago, which over the last year has started to gain increasing amounts of national and even international attention.
Kendal hops out with us, but instead of heading toward the entrance, she starts toward the exit.
“Are you coming?” I ask.
“No, I’m heading to a café around the block to scrub through interview footage from my video call with Dave, but I’ll stop by after,” she says with a tight smile. A car door slams shut further into the lot and her eyes dart toward the origin of the sound.
“You’re sure? This would be a great place to make connections.” She’s been working non-stop on the documentary with minimal help, and I want to ensure she has opportunities after this and if she tagged along she’d have the chance to network.
“It’s fine. There won’t be much need for connections if I don’t finish this project, but I really appreciate you thinking about me.” With that, she hoists the strap of her backpack higher on her shoulder.
Inside, Wes and I are directed to separate dressing rooms. The interview isn’t for another hour and a half, but it takes that long to go through makeup and wardrobe.
I end up wearing pinstriped Levi’s and a basic white T-shirt, a blatant attempt to make me daytime TV appropriate.
The selection reminds me of what I’d wear for my grandparents, covering up as much as possible.
I don’t protest, I’m on their turf. The least I can do is pretend I want to be here when I’d rather be sleeping.
During this process, one of the producers for the show walks me through what to expect. We’re slotted for a thirty-minute segment and then after we’re welcome to stay for a tour of the studio, which essentially means they want pictures of us in the studio to use on their social media.
Once done, I’m directed out of the dressing room and deposited on stage right.
“You’ll be on after the next commercial break.
Ingrid will welcome you and you'll sit on the side of the couch closest to Ingrid. When she talks about any images, they’ll be on the screen behind you.
As a reminder, this is a family-friendly program.
” There’s a pointed emphasis on the phrase family-friendly.
“Got it. No tainting the children with my filthy mouth while I help you capitalize on my dirty sex music.”
The only response I earn is a glare, fair, I did provoke that.
Yup. They wish they could cover every single one of my tattoos and throw a wig on me.
The only reason we haven’t done any nighttime television interviews is because they have more freedom over the topics covered, and with Wes and my complicated past, Lydia and Derek thought something you’d watch while drinking your morning coffee would be safer.
“If they don’t want your filthy mouth, I sure do, and honestly, I don’t like sharing,” Wes says as he comes to stand next to me. His hand finds mine, but I pull away. “It’s dark.” The hurt in his voice makes me wish I didn’t have to let go.
“And there are cameras and people everywhere who still might see.” It comes out sharper than I intend. But I’m more on edge than I thought I’d be. I haven’t done a live interview for over a year, not since the press junket with Jamie and everything in me is winding tight.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Even in the dim lighting of the wings, I see his expression fall.
From the stage, an artificially bright voice chimes, “We have some amazing guests here with us today. You might know them from crying in your bedroom in the 2000s or from their more recent music that has you screaming the lyrics in the car, though that might just be me. Let me welcome Wesley Hart and Avery Sloane as our newest Morning People.”
The live studio audience erupts as we walk across the pale wood flooring of the stage, waving until we reach the stiff butter yellow couch across from Ingrid.
She’s a white woman with honey colored hair in her late forties with a wide mouth framed by smile lines.
Her French manicured nails wrap around a steaming branded mug of what I think is coffee, though if it were something stronger, I’d respect it.
“How are you two liking Chicago?” she asks.
“You mean besides the wind chill?” Wes replies smoothly earning a titter of laughter from Ingrid and the audience. “Otherwise, quite welcome.”
More stiffly, I add, “It’s always a treat to come back and perform here.”
“Speaking of last night’s performance! Behind me is one of my favorite moments.”
The screen behind us fills with a professional shot from last night.
Wes in that crop top of his with my face on it and me in my black dress.
It’s the high point in the song, a full out belt that makes it look like I’m yelling at him.
They could have chosen any of thousands of images, but of course they select one that makes me look bad.