Chapter 6
“Lonely” - Justin Bieber + benny blanco
Rhett
How can you listen to this shit?
My kid sister can write better songs than this.
Wonder how much he paid for his followers.
The comments roll in faster than I can delete and block. I toss my phone aside, and it hits the sofa with a soft plop. I shove my fingers through my hair and lean forward on my knees.
Maybe I should take it as a compliment that they feel the need to attack me so relentlessly, but it feels like shit. As soon as I block their accounts, they just make new ones and come after me again. It’s getting old.
The price you pay for fame, I guess. At least in the twenty-first century. Pretty sure my dad never had to deal with social media trolls in the early 2000s.
I sigh and reach for my phone again. Better to deal with this than pretend it’s not happening.
This guy’s a joke. His music sucks as bad as his hair.
Hey wanker. Leave the hair alone, I reply.
Not that it’ll do any good. There will just be five more replies agreeing with him that my hair sucks. Does my hair suck? I run my hand through it again. Considering the hundreds I pay for each haircut, I’m going to assume it does not suck.
The most recent comment flashes on my screen. Only reason this guy’s famous is because of his dad.
That one hits in the center of my chest with a hard thwack.
Mainly because I’m scared it’s actually true.
I can defend my haircut until I’m dead, but I have no way of knowing how much of my success can be attributed to him.
Randy Cole is a household name. What record label wouldn’t want the chance to make the son as famous as the father?
My phone rings as I’m pressing the delete button on the comment.
“Hey, Eddie,” I answer. “How’s it going?”
The A and R rep clears his throat on the other end. “Well, to be honest, not great.”
My heart sinks. What the fuck is going on now? “Oh?” I force my voice to remain cool and detached.
“We’ve been monitoring your social media accounts. You’ve seen some of your latest comments, I presume?”
I close my eyes and squeeze the bridge of my nose. “Yeah.”
“Is this going to be a problem?”
“No, sir. You know how people are.”
“I do,” he hedges, “but these ones seem particularly malicious.”
I want to welcome him to the TikTok era, but I don’t. “I’m handling it,” I say, not sure exactly how I’ll continue doing so while I’m touring. Ten-hour days, producing new music, trying to get enough sleep so I don’t look like a washed-up star.
“This is important, Rhett.” Eddie’s voice grows more stern. “Your contract—”
“Yeah, I know,” I snap. Fuck the bloody contract. That thing’s going to come back to bite me in the ass. “Sorry, sir. I will do my best to keep it under control.”
He sighs through the phone, and I wonder if he already regrets signing me. If so, I’ll just have to prove him wrong.
“See to it that you do,” he says. “Otherwise—”
“Will do, sir,” I cut in before he can threaten to terminate our agreement. “You won’t be disappointed.”
His answering grunt does not seem to agree, but I will take the fact that he doesn’t press it further as a good sign. I can handle this. I just need a game plan.
“All right, Rhett. We’ll give it another shot. I recommend not screwing it up.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, ending the call. “Fuck!” I hurl my phone across the room. Fortunately, it hits the other sofa and doesn’t break.
I push to my feet and pace the floor, kicking a moving box out of the way. I’ve lived here for two years, and I still haven’t fully unpacked. Maybe the trolls are right, and I am just a dipshit.
What I wouldn’t give for a hit of insidion right now. One of those little white vials could make this whole thing disappear, fade into the background and allow me a little breathing room.
But those vials are the reason I’m here in the first place. Starting up again would be the absolute worst thing I could do for my career. It would make the social media trolls look like adoring fans.
My phone pings again, and I walk toward it out of instinct, even though I’m slightly terrified it’s Eddie telling me the rest of the team voted to cut me. I let out an audible sigh of relief when I see Lux’s name on the screen.
Lux: Did you give my idea any more thought? xx
Me: Skinny dipping tonight?
Lux: No, you idiot. About a GIRLLLL
After Maeve stormed out the other night and Pierce went after her, things got awkward.
I guess it’s to be expected that we’ll fight occasionally, but I’ve never seen Maeve that mad.
Maybe whatever she has going on with that wanker, Preston, is more serious than we all thought.
But fuck it if it is. She shouldn’t be messing around with a married bloke.
Pierce returned fifteen minutes later, sans Maeve. He said she had finally cooled down but didn’t feel like coming back upstairs. Thankfully, she hasn’t been ignoring our group chat, so it looks like our poker games will continue for the time being.
I bring my attention back to my conversation with Lux and type out a reply.
Me: She said no
Lux: I wasn’t aware it needed to be someone in particular??
Me: It doesn’t. I just really wanted this one
Lux: So ask her again. xx
I sigh and shake my head. I hate admitting how much Saylor’s rejection stung. Until she told me no, I didn’t realize how much I was already visualizing the two of us on tour together, getting to know her again, maybe falling back into the place where we were as kids.
Me: She’s going to hate me
Lux: She must already if she told you no.
Me: Ouch
Lux: Just kidding!!!!! xxxxxx
Me: Well she’s definitely not a fan
Lux: Who is she? I’ll cut her. How can she not be a fan? You’re Rhett Cole!
Me: Please don’t. And you don’t know her
Lux: Just ask someone else!
Me: Will you be my fake girlfriend on tour while simultaneously keeping me from doing drugs and washing my career down the drain?
Lux: Cute.
Lux: And I’m deleting that text so Slate doesn’t kill you.
I could ask someone else. If I were smart, that’s what I would do. But now that I’ve imagined Saylor doing it, I don’t want anyone else pretending to be my girlfriend.
I really want to see her again. I want to see her so badly, I’ve actually dreamed about her a few times. Nothing too inappropriate.
The day I drove her home felt like destiny.
What are the odds the two of us would run into each other like that?
Literally, if I had stopped at Restore Hope to drop off the check later that day, she would’ve been gone, and I would never have known how much I’d missed out on.
If fate wants us together, she can’t stand in the way.
I pull up our text thread. We’ve hardly talked since the day I called her and she turned me down. I’ve texted her a few times, but she rarely responds. She’s either very busy—which I doubt, given the loss of her job—or she doesn’t want anything to do with me—more likely, but harder to swallow.
Her not answering makes me think about her even more.
Most girls won’t stop texting me, asking what I’m doing or when they can see me again, until I’m ready to become a monk just so I don’t have to put up with the clinginess.
But at the end of the day, sex always wins out, and I end up giving my number to yet another girl who won’t take the hint that I’m not interested in anything more.
But with Saylor, it’s different. We’ve never slept together, but I’m not even thinking about sex, to be honest. I just find myself wondering what she’s up to when I’m driving, or picturing her face while I’m working on a new song.
I read through our messages once more, automatically smiling at the exchange. She’s funny, and goddamn, funny girls are hard to find. Funny girls who don’t send a million texts a day? A goddamn rarity.
The tour is only a few weeks away, and I need a handler before then. If Saylor refuses to do it, I’ll have to suck it up and look for someone else. But that doesn’t mean I’m giving up on her just yet. I’ve been known to charm pricklier things than my summer camp crush.
Me: Hey
I regret the text as soon as I send it. What better way to sound like a twelve-year-old wanker than to start a conversation with “hey.” I try again.
Me: Sorry that was my dog hitting on you
Several minutes pass, and I can’t help checking for a response every thirty seconds. When the speech bubble finally pops up next to her name, my pulse picks up speed. I knew the dog comment would get her.
Saylor: You have a dog?
Me: It was a hypothetical dog
Saylor: …
Me: What would you say if I asked you to please reconsider my offer?
Saylor: I’d tell you to kindly fuck off.
Me: Wince. Are you always this sweet?
Saylor: Only with dogs trying to get with me.
Okay, I deserved that.
Me: What if I told you I wasn’t interested in you like that?
There’s a long pause before she finally replies.
Saylor: I’d ask if that’s supposed to be a compliment.
Me: No. Also not the truth
Saylor: I can appreciate the honesty.
Me: But I’m willing to make it the truth if you’ll reconsider
Saylor: I already gave you my answer.
Me: Hence the reconsideration
Saylor: You can point in any direction and find a hundred women willing to take you up on it.
Me: And if I don’t want them?
Her response takes an agonizingly long time to arrive.
Saylor: I thought it was supposed to be fake.
I bite my lip as I consider my response. She is taking no bullshit from me, and I’m loving it. I’m so used to girls throwing themselves at me that this kind of verbal firing is actually refreshing.
Me: I’ll double my offer
Saylor: You already did.
Me: I’ll double the double
Saylor: Put your money to better use.
Me: Is there anything I can say that would change your mind?
Saylor: Nope.
My chest deflates like a balloon slowly releasing air. I take back everything I just said about this being refreshing. It feels like I’ve been sucker punched and am reeling for breath.
I am royally fucked.