Chapter 8 #2
The things I see while looking into them are disturbing.
Members of huge groups making millions a year for their companies being chased by these crazies through airports, no protection, no support, no help in sight.
Grown women openly kissing international idols on the face against their permission.
Fans sending funeral wreaths to a company with a member's name on the ribbon because he got a little drunk and wrecked a scooter.
I have no idea what's wrong with some of these people, but it's insane to me. Being with kNight Entertainment has to be a shock to the system for someone who grew up working in that kind of environment.
The staff lounge, which we've been given access to as employees of the idols present, is hardly a lounge and more like a closet, but there are chairs, a table, and a cooler filled with bottled water.
I've worked under harsher conditions, so I suck it up, pull out my computer, and start on some busywork.
Kai's schedule needs to be adjusted to fit in some shows the company wants him on.
Starting on that is easier said than done, though.
Without Kai here to approve schedule changes, it means that anything I do can and very likely will be shot down or repositioned after I do all the hard work.
But it's gotta get done. I'll deal with the fallout later.
Nobody tells you that when you're managing schedules for a semi-successful singer/actor/model/whatever flavor of celebrity you have this week, how much time you'll spend on the phones, begging for forgiveness, assuring people you'll show, and praying everything can be sorted out to the company's specification and expectation.
It's a lot.
By the time Kai's stage is ready to go live, I've managed to reschedule no less than the next two weeks of time blocks, and pulled some strings to add an additional section in his free time for a meditation and massage session.
Maybe that'll be enough to soothe the beast when he finds out the company added in three more appearances for him this week—two interviews and a variety show.
My phone rings idly as I work with my noise-cancelling headphones in, but I ignore it.
If it's important, they'll call the new cellphone the company gave me.
When I'm on the official clock, and not on call, I try to avoid answering my personal phone.
Everyone important has the new work number now, so whoever it is, isn't important enough to answer when I'm supposed to be focusing on more important things.
Like Kai's stage.
The closet of a break room does have a TV that plays the stages out front.
It's not as fun as being front and center as a social media manager, grabbing stills and action shots and putting them together for some major media appeal.
The choice isn't mine to make, though, because here, now, that's not my job anymore.
So I lean back, put my feet up on the table, and shove the chair off two of its legs so I can stretch my calves and see how Kai does tonight.
I'm not disappointed. He's a trained professional, after all.
Every move is calculated, every spin and twist and turn elegant when it's called for, snappy and precise when it's not.
If I didn't know what he'd been complaining about the other day in practice, I wouldn't know what to watch for, and I'd be hard pressed to find any errors.
But he was right.
When he spins at the chorus, his hand flicks the wrong way, mostly because the way the choreographer wants it to go isn't a natural position for him. When he finishes the turn, his hand needs to swing around, pivoting on his wrist, and he pivots his whole arm instead, which isn't as flexible.
His start is a second late, though he recovers nicely. Nobody notices, except for me, and him, I'm sure. And that's not all I notice, though if you ask me, I'll deny the hell out of it.
I watch how his pants cling to his thighs as he twists and dips.
I can't help but appreciate the way his shirt stretches across his pecs, hugging him like a glove in the arms as his biceps flex.
He's by no means ripped, but he's toned in all the right places, and it stirs a familiar desire in me—not for him, specifically, just . . . for a man.
Right. Not because it's him. Just because it's been too long. That's it.
And if I bite my lip when he rolls his body and thrusts his hips—nobody will ever know.
The room is empty aside from me, and there's nobody around to tattle on my less-than-professional reaction to his performance.
I shift in my seat, uncomfortable with how his stage presence affects me, but unwilling to look away.
At the end, I notice his shirt in the back is tearing at the seams and make a note to have them let his shirts out a bit at the shoulder line. We don't want him busting out of a shirt on stage if we can avoid it–unless it's planned.
When Kai's part is over, he takes his place in the ranks of idols waiting for the awards and announcements to be made, and I return to my work.
After all, we're far from done here. And I've got plenty of time to move his time around.
I'm juggling a million and one things, and at any moment something might fall, leaving me screwed.
But hey, at least the bills are paid up. And as long as I can get my job done, and snap out of this funk, everything will be okay.