Chapter 23
“Monster” - Shawn Mendes + Justin Bieber
Rhett
This practice session is shit. Chase keeps screwing up on the keys, and I swear if Jamal waggles his eyebrows at me one more time, I’m going to punch him in the throat.
Sure, I’ve forgotten a few lines here and there, but we’ve done this show nearly every night for the past month. It’s time to get our shit together.
My phone rings from the pocket of my jacket on the other side of the room. I walk over in the middle of the song to answer it. It’s not like we were getting anywhere anyway.
When I see the name on the screen, I move to take the call outside.
“Eddie, my man,” I say once I’ve left the practice room. “What’s up?”
“Rhett.” The tone of his voice does not match the enthusiasm in mine. Shit. What now? “We need to discuss a few things.”
God, I hate the word discuss. It sounds like something white men in stodgy suits do around a big-ass table laden with donuts. “Shoot,” I say.
Eddie doesn’t beat around the bush. “Your record sales are down.”
My brows knit together, and I kick at a wadded napkin in the corridor. “Nah, mate. My shows are mostly sold out.”
He clears his throat. “Ticket sales are down as well. You’ve received some bad press recently. The label is afraid people are moving on.”
Bad press? What the fuck? I force a laugh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. My fans love me.”
“Your fans do, yes. But what’s concerning the label is the rate at which you’re making fans. Or in this case, not making them.”
My blood runs cold. This can’t be happening. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that unless things change, and soon, the label is thinking about cutting your contract short.”
“They can’t do that.” That’s the whole point of signing a contract.
“They can, and they will, if they feel you are in breach.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something.” He ends the call.
I slap my palm against the cold block wall. The smack echoes down the hallway. First the fucked-up practice session, and now this. Today might be the worst fucking day of my life.
I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor. Propping my arms on my bent knees, I start searching for this “bad press.” I won’t know how to fix it if I don’t know what people are saying.
I log into social media, and holy fuck, Saylor was right. My socials have blown up since she took over. I make a mental note to show my appreciation later.
It doesn’t take long to find what Eddie was talking about.
There are a handful of videos of my concerts, with people claiming it was the most boring show they’ve ever attended.
Someone even claims to have fallen asleep during it, which is bollocks.
The hardest punch is the one labeling me as just another washed-up pop star who thinks he’s someone.
That is, until I find my dad’s interview.
It’s a clip from a longer video, only about thirty seconds long. The interviewer asks him to confirm that Rhett Cole is his son and that he recently attended one of his shows.
“That’s right,” Randy says, with a short nod. No change in his expression.
“And what was it like? Seeing your son onstage?” the interviewer asks.
My dad ponders this for a second, then says, “It was great. I gave him his first guitar, you know. I don’t know if he has what it takes to make it to the top, but for a new artist, he’s decent.”
The phone falls from my hands, the interview already replaying on the screen. Cold from the wall seeps through my thin T-shirt, chilling my skin until it’s the same temperature as my heart.
I know I shouldn’t have watched those bloody videos, especially the one of my dad, but fuck me. I wasn’t expecting that.
I’m decent? God, would it have killed him to share a single fleck of the spotlight?
I head back to the hotel. If the guys are wondering what happened to our session, they can go fuck off. Maybe they can use this time to figure their shit out.
The bartender at the hotel bar is young and hot, with a nice set of tits under her tight T-shirt. Unfortunately, the only thing I’m interested in right now is getting smashed. Fortunately, with one flash of my smile, she’s more than happy to serve me as many drinks as I want.
* * *
If the shot glasses lined up in front of me on the bar are any indication, I’ve accomplished my goal. I grin at Macy, the bartender, and she leans down to whisper conspiratorially, “I think you’ve had enough.”
“Macy,” I say, using my sexiest drawl, “I’m just getting started.”
I know the effect my Wesbournian accent has on women. Macy is not immune. It, combined with my good looks and the knowledge of who I am, has her wrapped around my little finger.
She bites her bottom lip and glances to the side before picking up the bottle of Don Julio. “Okay, maybe just one more. And then you really should stop.”
I grin and knock the shot back as soon as she pours it. “You’re the best, Macy.”
She’s about to say something in reply when her eyes dart to the door behind me. Straightening, she backs away a few steps.
“There you are.”
I turn to see Saylor marching toward me, face tight with anger. I offer her the same smile I did Macy, but it does not have the same effect. “Hey, babe,” I say, reaching out a hand.
She slaps it away and stares at me. “What are you doing?”
I lift an empty shot glass. “What does it look like?”
“You have a show in three hours.”
“You’re sexy when you’re mad.” I hold up the glass toward Macy for another refill, but she shakes her head and turns away from us.
“God, you’re absolutely plastered.” Saylor turns toward the door, and I think she’s going to leave me alone. Instead, Bear and Leo join us, each grabbing one of my arms.
“What the fuck, fellows?” I protest when they lift me out of my barstool. “Leave a man some dignity.”
When they release me, however, I nearly crash into a table, so I permit them to help me to my room, ignoring the stares from the other hotel guests. If they know who I am, fuck them. Maybe this will give them something to talk about that isn’t what a suckfest my shows are.
Once we’re inside the suite, Saylor starts barking orders at the PPOs. I cover my ears to block out her voice. “And you”—she yanks my hands down—“are getting in the shower.”
I’m too scared to not do what she says. The water’s way too fucking cold, and I yelp when it hits my body. Saylor glares at me, so I stay under the spray of icicles.
Once I’m out and dried off, Bear shoves a bottle of electrolytes at me. I dutifully drink the whole thing. When I’m done, I take the plate of food Leo’s holding.
“You can stop hovering,” I tell them as I tuck into the sandwich.
“We all have a vested interest in you making it onstage tonight,” Saylor says, hands on her hips. God, she’s hot. She turns to Bear and Leo. “You guys can go. I’ll keep an eye on him.”
After they’re gone, I turn to her with a grin. “My thoughts exactly.”
Her face doesn’t hold a single emotion. “You’re getting nothing from me, except maybe a slap in the face.”
“Come on, baby. Don’t be like that.” I wipe my hands on the napkin and reach for her.
She skirts away from me and over to my suitcase. “Put these on.” She tosses a silk orange shirt and black leather pants onto the bed.
“I’m not going,” I call as she walks out of the room.
Her raised middle finger is the only indication she heard me.
I put the clothes on because I’m still wearing only a towel, and I’m pretty sure Saylor was right about that slap. If I thought it might lead somewhere fun, I’d risk it, but that woman means business. I’m not about to get in her way.
We soon arrive at the venue, and the drive there feels like a blur, maybe because I slept the whole way. Bear and Leo hustle me inside. I’m perfectly capable of walking on my own, but I guess they’re not about to take any chances. I’m not sure how they think I’m getting onstage to perform.
There’s a strange energy buzzing backstage.
The band members are all here, and they give me wary looks as I walk in.
I ignore them and look for Saylor. She’s in what appears to be a serious conversation with Noah.
They’re both frowning, and when she spots me, they both turn an appraising look in my direction. I grin and flip them both off.
Saylor stalks over. “What is wrong with you?”
I don’t drop the smile. “Fuck this.”
“What?” she hisses.
“All of it.”
Her eyes narrow. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m not going up there.” I nod in the direction of the stage, where Velvet Inferno’s playing their third song, and cross my arms.
“Yes you are, even if I have to push you myself.”
“That could be fun.”
“Would you stop it? God, drinking makes you obnoxious.”
“Obnoxious, washed-up, fucking decent. I’m just raking in the compliments today.” I roll my shoulders to work out the tension that’s gathered there.
Saylor’s face softens. “You weren’t supposed to see those.”
“Well, I did. And nobody wants to watch a wasted fuckup, so let’s head back to the hotel and do something fun.”
“You’re not a fuckup.”
I drop the mask and meet her eyes. “You ready to die on that hill alone?”
“Yes.” Her chin lifts. “But I’m not alone. Do you hear all of those fans?”
I let my attention shift to our surroundings. We’re still backstage, but the band and the production crew have disappeared. Velvet Inferno is done with their set and packing up their equipment.
Then I hear what Saylor means. The noise level is insane. With the rest of the band already onstage, the audience is going nuts. But then I remember the videos and the comments. I shake my head. “I can’t do it.”
Saylor grabs my face in her hands. “They’re cheering for you. Some of them drove hours to be here tonight. Some paid hundreds to get a ticket in the pit. Are you really going to do that to them?”
“They’ll find someone else to follow,” I say thickly.
Her palm hits my cheek with a resounding smack. “How dare you do that to me.”
Lifting my hand to my face, I blink at her. I’m not sure what surprised me more, the slap or her words. “Do what to you?”
“I came on this tour to support you, to help you show the world that you have what it takes. And you’re just going to throw all of that out the window and give up?”
Who is this woman, and where has she been my whole life?
My sigh carries the weight of the world on its back. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get up there on a night when I’m feeling good? I don’t have what it takes, baby.” The term of endearment slips out before I can stop it.
“Of course you have what it takes,” she says.
“You have a number one hit and three others on the charts. You got an expedited album and a six-week tour deal from one of the top record labels in the country. You have twelve million followers on TikTok, and that number climbs every day.” She pauses for a breath before continuing.
“You somehow, against all odds and my better judgment, convinced me to follow you around the United States for a month and a half and play your girlfriend.” Her tongue flicks out to lick those luscious lips.
“Do you think I would do that for anyone but you?”
Something happens while she is talking. My heart gets noticeably lighter, like someone has tied it to a hot-air balloon and fired it up. Instead of a black cloud of despair hanging over my head, I can make out the colors of a rainbow.
“You are Rhett fucking Cole, so get out there and show people what that means,” she says quietly.
I don’t think. This isn’t a moment for thinking; it’s a moment for doing.
So I grab her and kiss her soundly, taking her mouth with mine like it belongs there—because it fucking does, and it feels so good, she feels so good.
But Noah is at my side, barking something in my ear about needing to get out there.
I drop another peck on Saylor’s lips, give her the biggest grin in my arsenal, and follow my tour manager to the stage entrance. At the top of the steps, I turn back and give her a wink. I’m pleased to see that she’s still flushed and those pink lips are still swollen from our kiss.
The crowd goes wild as I walk out to center stage and grab the microphone. “Hello, Dallas,” I say into it, and they lose their shit.
Maybe Saylor’s right and Eddie’s wrong. Maybe I’m not done yet.
I don’t have a plan for how to bring my image back and keep the label happy. Right now, I’m just focusing on getting to the end of tonight’s show without any major catastrophes. So when the thought pops into my head, I go with it.
I wait for the applause and cheers to die down, then grin into the mic, letting the cool metal of the grille brush against my lips. “I’ve got a surprise for you all tonight.”