Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Jacob
WE SPEND HOURS IN hair and makeup. Apparently, it takes a long time to make five ordinary dudes look like rockstars.
I still struggle to think of us that way, even as the money and attention pours in. We at least look the part after the hair and makeup people are through with us. They smoothed out every imperfection on my face, added subtle eyeliner beneath my eyes so the hazel stands out brighter, did up my hair so the waves are more pronounced and dramatic. I look like a version of myself who actually belongs in front of all those hungry, greedy cameras.
They dressed us as well. Our clothes from home weren’t good enough, so now we’re mostly all wearing black. Keannen and Shawn are the most done up, of course, their tattoos on display thanks to ripped jeans and cut-off sleeves. They pulled back Shawn’s hair into a stubby ponytail to show off the undershave as well.
They put me in a sleek black jacket with a silvery shirt underneath. I’m the only person in the band who gets close to wearing actual colors, and it’s a reminder of what they want me to be, need me to be. The frontman, the face of the band, the guy who smiles and charms. It’s not that I’m not all of those things. I am, naturally and easily, but my propensity to act that way feels stiff and strange now that it’s part of a label-endorsed persona I’m supposed to don every time I’m in public. The real Jacob is in here somewhere, I’m sure, but I struggle to find him as I stare at the guy smiling at me in the mirror.
“Okay, you guys are up,” a stage manager says.
She ushers us out of the greenroom and down a hall. We reach the edge of the stage and stand there hidden by curtains and shadows.
“They’ll bring you out one at a time,” the stage manager says. “Make sure you go all the way across to the couches on the other side of the desk.”
We do as instructed. Dan goes first, then Levi, then Shawn, who gets a big reaction from at least one highly dedicated fan in the crowd. Then Keannen goes, and I’m alone in the dark, palms sweaty with nerves. This isn’t like when we go out on stage to perform. Then, I know the rules. I know what I’m meant to do. This time, I’m supposed to answer weird, prying questions in front of an audience so they can feel like they know me better than they do. It’s a strange sensation, one I don’t get to confront before the stage manager is pushing me forward and hissing, “You’re up.”
The audience roars. I swear the cries are louder than they were for the others, but maybe that’s ego and disorientation talking. The glare of the lights turns the crowd into a faceless blur, even as I smile and wave. I get past the desk where the show’s host sits, then take the last open spot on the couch. Dan and Levi sit behind the couch on tall stools, while me, Keannen and Shawn crowd together on the cushions. The arrangement places me the closest to the host’s desk.
The crowd is still yelling, and the host has to wave to settle them down, chuckling as he does.
“Clearly, my guests today need no introduction,” he says with a toothy smile, “but for anyone who’s been living under a rock, this is Baptism Emperor, the hottest new band from the Seattle area. Great to have you guys here today. How are things going now that the tour is over?”
I smile with genuine relief at this easy start to the interview. Beside me, I can feel Shawn’s unease wafting off him in waves. Fortunately for him, the persona the label chose for him is “broody silent type” so he doesn’t have to say much. His quiet scowling is part of the marketing plan for him. Not that he wouldn’t be quietly scowling anyway. I’m not sure the guy could fake it no matter how many zeroes they attached to the end of that contract. Shawn’s always been like this, introverted and stiff, lighting up only when you throw a guitar over his shoulders.
Thankfully, Keannen and Dan are a bit more willing, and equipped, to help me so that I don’t have to field all the host’s questions on my own. The queries start out simple enough, questions about how the tour went, our first album, what we plan on doing next.
“We’ve been trying to catch our breath after everything that’s happened,” I say in answer to that last one, “but we’ve also been working on some new music.”
“Must be a whirlwind,” the host says. “Meanwhile, everyone wants a piece of you. We’re lucky you’re local boys or we might never have gotten a chance.”
The host and audience chuckle, and I smile obligingly.
“Okay, I have to ask the question everyone is dying to know,” the host says.
I’m not next to Keannen, but I know he’s tensing. Emmett warned us about this one. Keannen pushed back, said it was no one’s business, but Emmett wouldn’t budge. “If they don’t ask it, someone else will. So get used to answering,” he said. And that was that. I was angry at the time, but in this moment, I’m strangely grateful for pragmatic, unflinching Emmett. If Keannen had to improvise his way through this question, it would go even worse.
“What is it like dating a rival drummer?” the host says.
The audience chitters with anticipation. They’ve been waiting for this one too.
Miraculously, Keannen doesn’t growl or jump up to choke out the host. He does exactly what he’s supposed to, exactly what Emmett trained us to do.
“We don’t consider ourselves rivals,” he says shockingly calmly. “We never did. There’s plenty of space in the music industry for both of us. We didn’t go on that tour together to compete. We did it to complement each other. It’s no different off-stage than what you saw onstage.”
“Would you say the two bands are friends?” the host prods.
It’s my turn to jump in. I nod, my smile more genuine. “Absolutely. We love The Ten Hours. They’re great.”
“Does that mean there’s hope for a collaboration in the future?”
I glance at my bandmates. We practiced this, too, as well as the sheepish grins they give me. I offer the diplomatic response Emmett fed me.
“That remains to be seen. Right now, we’re focused on our music.”
The host accepts, just like he’s supposed to, and goes back to bothering Keannen about his boyfriend. Keannen answers, and it’s barely noticeable that he’s clenching his teeth through it. Yes, they’re still together. Yes, they moved in together. Yes, they talk about music together. Keannen does exactly what he’s supposed to, and I have to admit I’m proud of him for it. If I was in a fresh relationship with the kind of history behind it that Keannen and Tim are carrying, I’m not sure I could stay calm while someone grilled me about it on television.
Not that I have any chance of being in a relationship.
Unbidden, my eyes skip toward the edge of the stage, where Seth stands in the dark, arms folded over his chest. He flinches when I meet his eyes, but his face remains stony. He’s said nothing to me since that kiss, leaving me to wonder if he hates me for it, if he regrets it, if he feels anything at all about it. When he ushered me into the station today, he barely looked at me, doing his job as though he had a blindfold on.
“Is that why they were at your birthday?”
I blink, snapping myself back to the moment, a moment in which I’m supposed to be doing the bulk of the talking for my band while we’re on live television.
“Huh?” I say stupidly. This latest question doesn’t fit with any of the ones Emmett prepped us for.
“I was wondering if that’s why The Ten Hours were at your birthday party the other night,” the host says. “Was it Keannen who invited them, or are the two bands simply that close now?”
I blink. How does this guy know about my birthday? We weren’t told he’d ask about this. He’s definitely going off-script, but I can’t say that. I can’t do a single thing about it. These interviews are supposed to at least seem spontaneous.
“I, um, yeah,” I manage after a pause that’s probably incredibly awkward. “Yes, I invited them. I consider them friends.”
“Seemed like quite a night,” the host says.
Shawn sits more stiffly beside me. I wish I could shoot him and the others a panicked glance, but the second I do that, the facade will crack. I’m on my own out here, navigating this with no script and no plan, alone even with my entire band around me.
“It was fun,” I say.
“Just fun? It seems like it got pretty rowdy.”
I watch in horror as the host waves and photos of the night go up on a big screen behind him. They’re flattering, at least, but they do show us dancing and passing around bottles. Thankfully, none of them show the moments when I stumbled onto the dancefloor downstairs, drunk and defiant.
Why do they have these? Why is it anyone’s business what I did for my birthday? Emmett is going to murder the host for springing this on us, but Emmett can’t stop what’s already in progress. Once again, my life is on display for the world, and I didn’t get a say in that. Everything I do belongs to everyone else. Even a simple night out with friends is now the entire world’s amusement.
The host leans forward. His grin turns my stomach.
“Tell us, did you celebrate with anyone special?”
I go cold. Does he know? Are there more pictures than what he showed? I was so drunk that I have no idea if I did something that might have made my attraction to Seth obvious. I’m pretty sure nothing happened that night, not until he carried me home and put me in bed and slept in a chair to watch over me. Not until he made me breakfast the next morning and I kissed him goodbye.
My eyes flicker involuntarily to the dark at the side of the stage. Seth stands rigid, his eyes locking on mine. I can all but hear his teeth grinding with tension. He looks like he’ll crumble if I reveal what happened the morning after the club. Except … that’s not all I find in his gaze. The anticipation isn’t only fear. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he looks scared I’ll blurt out a name other than his.
“Come on, Jacob,” the host says. “There’s no need to be shy. Everyone is cheering you on.”
Cheering me on. Right. That’s why they’re prying into every intimate detail of my life. There’s some things I won’t give them, not for all the money and fame in the world. That stolen kiss the morning after the club — that belongs to me and Seth and no one else. I won’t turn it over to cameras and social media posts and prying hosts.
“No,” I say, looking right at Seth as I speak, not caring how strange it might seem. “No, there’s no one. Not right now. There was someone I was interested in, but he didn’t feel the same.”
“That’s a shame,” the host says.
I don’t respond, don’t look. My eyes remain locked on Seth as he sinks deeper into the shadows at the side of the stage.