Chapter Fifteen
I’m still mad the following morning.
I recognize that part of my anger is grief.
Selfishly, they’re one of my favorite bands, and the thought of never getting another album after this is gutting.
Annoyingly, I also understand their reasons for wanting to move on, to go out on a high rather than continue to create when their hearts are no longer in it.
I respect it, but I’m not quite over it yet.
I’m mad at them for not telling me. I get why they didn’t tell me. I wish they hadn’t told me, the pressure to get this article right tripling, after already being doubled by John making it a two-parter.
I feel better after sleeping on it, but the conflicting emotions are still there, dulled from a deafening roar to an ever-present unease, roiling menacingly beneath the surface. The only thing holding me together are my objectives:
Get through this shoot without anyone catching even a whiff of history between Dax and me.
Wrest the unreleased album out of Dax.
Draft this damned article before anything else leaks.
All of which I doubled down on when Mike Song teased “shocking news” in his latest vlog that I hate-watched this morning. It could have nothing to do with Final Revelations, but I’m paranoid.
Robb asked me about the unreleased album nearly in the same breath as she said good morning, and even though it was already on my list, I can’t ignore the mosh pit of nerves in my stomach at the mere idea of listening to it.
There’s a high probability that there are songs about me—either our relationship or our breakup—and I don’t know which one scares me more.
I may have been letting Dax off the hook a bit too much by not following up about it, because I don’t know that I’m ready to face it yet.
I’d be madder at all of them for keeping so many secrets if my life hadn’t been simpler without them. I’ve got enough on my plate as is.
Like making sure Dax is on time for this shoot.
I check my phone anxiously. The rest of the guys rolled in a few minutes ago, Barrett dropping a massive carafe of coffee and donuts in the break room for everyone. Dax isn’t late—yet—but having everyone else here already makes it feel like he is.
My stomach swoops with relief when the front doors open and he slips in, double-fisting coffee, with one minute to spare.
He curls his long frame over the front desk, checking in with our sweet elderly receptionist, who—I can tell from halfway down the hall—is blushing.
I can’t blame her. He’s so on right now, his stage aura permeating all the way to where I stand between the break room and line of cubicles, one eye on the rest of the band chatting with my coworkers, the other on Dax’s nerve-rackingly punctual arrival.
“Finally,” I mutter, waving to the guys before going to fetch Dax and spare Dolores.
When he spies me approaching, he straightens, saying something to Dolores that I can’t hear, but I can see the wink he gives her.
“Stop flirting with my receptionist,” I grouse as he approaches.
“Why?” he says with a backward glance at Dolores, who is still watching him. He waggles his fingers in a wave over his shoulder. She flushes deeper before becoming suddenly very interested in her day planner. “You got dibs?”
I glare at him, clenching my teeth together to fight a smile.
“Good morning to you, too, by the way.” He extends the second coffee in his hands to me.
“Barrett already brought coffee for everyone,” I say, words clipped, accepting the coffee anyway. “And donuts.”
“But you prefer muffins,” he counters, extracting a pastry bag from the pocket of his hoodie.
I accept it begrudgingly, because damn it, I do prefer muffins.
“You look good,” he says under his breath, and I want to throttle him.
“Shh,” I hiss. “I’m still pissed at you—”
“Oh, trust me. I’m aware.”
“And if anyone hears you—”
“They’ll think I have eyes?”
A small grunt of frustration escapes me, and I turn on my heel, nearly running bodily into John, whose office we stupidly had this conversation outside of. I pray his door was closed and our voices didn’t carry, never mind the glass wall that would’ve meant he saw everything.
“Morning!” John says cheerily. Having Final Revelations in the office is the editor equivalent of being a kid in a candy store.
“Morning,” Dax says congenially, shaking John’s proffered hand.
“Excited for the Halloween show,” John says in his weird way that’s not a question but you still feel obligated to answer. He hasn’t written in years, but it’s said he was an absolute shark.
“Of course,” Dax answers around his straw, clearly taken aback by John’s… John-ness.
“And the new album,” John plows on, either oblivious or invigorated by catching Dax off guard. “Good odds on new stuff making the set list this weekend?”
Dax cuts a furtive look to me for a second, clearly unused to not being the one in charge. Unbridled glee lights up my insides like a holiday tree-lighting ceremony. “We’ll see,” he manages.
John smiles broadly, a twinkle in his eye, Dax failing to realize that an evasive answer is like catnip to a journalist. “Uh-huh,” John says, seemingly dropping it, but I know he’s only tucking it away for later. Taking a large bite of donut, John checks the time on his watch.
“I’ll take them over now,” I announce. I might be floundering with my article, but I can keep this shoot on schedule. And as amusing as watching Dax be wrong-footed was, I fear leaving the two of them in conversation any longer.
I gesture to the guys in the break room, letting them know it’s time to move, and they scramble to gather their things.
Cain shoves a whole donut in his mouth to free up his hands.
He laughs, powdered sugar flying everywhere, and Robb follows after him, brushing it off him as they file out of the room.
“Robb can take them over,” John says decidedly. Robb has the good grace to only look bewildered for half a moment before recovering, motioning for the guys to follow her. “Sloane and I will catch up—after we catch up,” John says to me, grinning with pride at his play on words.
I match his expression, but it feels like carving it out of granite.
I wish we’d chosen a different location for the shoot.
A collective of artists operate out of the other side of our warehouse, and John offered the space to Isaac—the only photographer Final has worked with in years.
It made sense, since we need to film the short video announcing the upcoming article—take that, Mike Song—but I’m now realizing John offering it wasn’t pure charity but a way of keeping an eye on things.
I can’t blame him for it. This is a big piece, but the mounting pressure only makes me clam up more.
“All good?” John asks, a hand at my elbow, guiding me into his office.
“Yeah. Why?” I hate how defensive I sound, mentally a million other places, trying to deduce what prompted this.
John sinks into his chair, studying me over his glasses. “I sensed some tension—with Nakamura.”
He couldn’t possibly know. Instinct kicks in, and I bluff harder than the time my brothers and I accidentally slap shot a hockey puck through the basement window. “Well.” I laugh. “You know frontmen and their egos.”
John nods, his gaze a little too piercing. “Is that all?”
I open my mouth to speak, unsure how to lie my way out of this when I don’t even know what we’re talking about. “Sir?”
John tosses his reading glasses on the desk. “Sometimes”—he clears his throat—“with the female writing staff, the talent can be…” John gestures vaguely. “Inappropriate.”
Oh. My cheeks flush. “No,” I rush out. “They’re all perfect gentlemen.” While they’d all laugh their asses off at being called “gentlemen,” there’s a reason they’ve never been the subject of that kind of rumor, unlike some of their counterparts.
“Glad to hear it,” John says, relieved. “Y’know,” he says thoughtfully, punctuating the air with his finger. “Actors often give their best performances when working opposite someone they can’t stand. I think this bodes well for you. How’s the article coming?”
“Good,” I lie. “Great,” I amend. With vocabulary like that, no wonder the article’s been a struggle.
“Great,” John echoes distractedly, checking the caller ID on his buzzing phone. He sends it to voicemail. “Sorry I’ve been so hands-off.” That makes one of us. “I gotta get through the Halloween show this weekend, but after that—” He flashes me a grin. “You have my full attention.”
“Sounds great.” If fissure lines appeared on my face from the force of my faked smile, I wouldn’t be surprised.
“Monday,” he decides, pulling a date out of his ass. “Let’s meet and go over everything. I want a full progress report.”
I can tell him right now the progress is zero, but I continue smiling and nodding. “Monday,” I confirm.
His phone buzzes again, and he sighs. “I have to take this—”
I’m out of the room as fast as I can without running.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, I swear internally all the way to the door that connects our side of the warehouse to the other sections.
I let myself into the art studio, momentarily forgetting my completely self-created problem by getting swept up in a guy and not in the massive career opportunity at my feet.
The windows, which normally lend ample natural light, have been draped with olive-green fabric, casting a yellow-green glow over the space. They’ve set up a couch in front of the wall that’s still tagged in graffiti from when the warehouse was abandoned. It’s both eerie and incredibly cool.
Isaac’s face is buried behind his camera as he takes a few test shots while a hair-and-makeup artist fusses over the guys’ appearances, polishing them up.
I wait until Isaac’s done studying the screen on the back of his camera before wandering over.
“Hey,” I call.
He glances up briefly, tapping a few buttons to adjust his settings. “Hey, Sloane. Almost ready for you.”