6. Naz
SIX
NAZ
Stepping off the plane and onto the tarmac, I pull the brim of my cap lower, grateful for the late afternoon sun hanging low enough in the sky to throw long shadows across the private terminal.
There’s rarely anyone hanging around the private airfield except pilots and stuffy rich dudes, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.
The hat alone probably isn’t enough to hide my identity, but paired with the lightweight jacket I have zipped halfway to my chin despite the North Carolina humidity, it should do. I’m at least less recognizable. Less exposed.
It’s an odd position to be in, having to hide my identity like this.
Even through the worst of the negative publicity lately, I haven’t really changed my habits.
While everyone else was lying low, I still went out in public when I needed to.
Sure, paparazzi followed me and social media apparently loves making memes out of me and Scott.
The most common is taking his expressions out of context and twisting them to make it look like he’s a lovesick puppy.
He thinks it’s hilarious, thankfully. I usually can’t be bothered by what the public thinks of me. That’s their problem, not mine.
Except now it’s different. Now it feels like we’re being hunted.
I still can’t believe that bomb was real. That someone actually wanted to hurt us. To kill us, even.
We’ve gotten death threats before, people have burned effigies of us or our merch, and we’ve been getting more than our fair share of protestors at our concerts and outside the record label headquarters and recording studios.
I’d be lying if the sudden increase in that kind of behavior hasn’t concerned me, but for the most part I’ve been able to move on with my life. Haters gonna hate and all that.
Now we’re all being sent into hiding. Jesse and his boyfriend are on a yacht somewhere in the middle of the ocean, making the most of their time off before Luc starts training camp.
Will and Ari are in California, staying at a remote beach house owned by Alonso Carter, a movie star friend/ex-boyfriend of Ari’s.
I thought about hiding in plain sight in New York like I normally do, but after the excitement of the last week, I need some major quiet time and decided to play it safe.
The homestead I’m building outside of Raleigh is far outside the city limits, a good thirty-five minutes from the nearest neighborhood or grocery store.
It’s off the beaten path, so even the construction isn’t likely to be noticed, and even if it was, there’s nothing to tie my name to the property.
Officially, the land belongs to a holding company that my grandparent’s lawyer helped me set up, owned by a trust for an added layer of privacy.
Every permit, tax bill, and utility account points back to a lawyer’s office in Raleigh.
I suppose someone determined enough could probably untangle the trail eventually, but considering not even the contractors know who they’re building for, it’s unlikely anyone is going to find me out there.
That doesn’t stop me from pulling my collar up higher to cover my tattoos and darting my eyes around to see if anyone is watching as I make my way to the car idling with a driver holding my alias name.
“Mr. Rio?”
I nod to the waiting driver and let him take my duffle bag to the trunk, slipping into the back seat.
While the driver attempts idle chitchat, I find myself checking the road behind us frequently to see if we’re being followed.
Not that I think anyone is out to get me personally, but it’s important to me that “the compound”, as I’ve been calling it, remains undiscovered.
Not just for my privacy, but because my grandparents will be living there and I don’t want there to be any chance that their privacy or safety is compromised.
I can’t even imagine the fuss they’d make if some photographers or news vans showed up at their door.
If they ever move in, that is. Their house has been finished for months, and they keep making excuses not to move in.
By the time I’m dropped off in front of the house I built for my grandparents, I’m exhausted, and not just from the trip. The tension in my body and mind from being so alert from the moment the plane touched down has taken its toll on me.
I stare up at the mid-century modern house until I can no longer hear tires on the long gravel drive, then I bypass it entirely and walk around to the back of the property, where the winding gravel road continues up a small hill.
Once I reach the crest of the hill, I can see my place.
It’s just a small trailer for now, but right there on the edge of the small lake is the spot I picked out for myself.
It’s secluded enough to be private while still being close enough to my grandparents and the third building I have planned, a guesthouse big enough to house the whole band and security team, plus a state-of-the-art recording studio in the basement.
That house is being built now, but the foundation and wood framing are currently all that’s up.
My house will be last and far more modest, a smaller version of the house I built for my grandparents, except the entire back of the house is going to be floor-to-ceiling windows, positioned for the perfect view of the sunrise over the lake.
My brows furrow when I notice lights on in my trailer.
I’ve only stayed here two other times, and I’m pretty sure I turned everything off.
The front door is locked, and everything inside seems to be in the right place.
Until I notice a bowl full of fresh fruit that definitely wasn’t there the last time I was here.
If it had been, it’d be rotten and full of flies by now.
Dropping my bag by the couch, I walk through the open-concept space to the counter to stare down at the fruit. There’s an envelope next to it with my name on it.
Hope everything looks good. Let me know if you need anything else. -Emmy
A laugh escapes me. Of course it was Emmy. The federal agents we met the other day probably have fewer resources than that man. He’s probably the most capable and thoughtful person I’ve ever met.
Sure enough, both the fridge and pantry are stocked with everything a person might need while hiding from the world in the middle of nowhere. Which means I don’t have to brave the nearest grocery store and risk being spotted. It also means I’m free to finally relax.
After texting Emmy my thanks, which he may or may not receive because the signal out here is shoddy at best, I grab a beer from the fridge and open the sliding glass door to the small deck that overlooks the water.
Sitting down in the single lawn chair, I lean back and take a long pull from the cold drink and look out over the water stretching before me.
Stillness settles into my bones as the sounds of the land around me come alive.
Frogs croak. Crickets sing. Cicadas buzz.
Birds call to one another from the trees.
For the first time in weeks, I don’t hear the never-ending traffic of the city.
There are no sirens or alarms. No reporters shouting questions or lawyers arguing over liability.
Nothing but nature. The silence here is a cacophony of sounds meant to soothe and relax. Every chirp or hoot or splash from a fish or turtle in the lake is a balm I desperately needed.
It’s my paradise. Or it will be soon, once all the construction is finished.
Not that I could scoff at the way it is now.
Even this trailer is just as nice as my overpriced condo in the city.
I’m sure Scott would laugh and call me bougie for even referring to this place as a trailer, but it has wheels and is here temporarily until the rest of the property is finished.
My eyes roll at the direction my thoughts have taken. Of course my brain finds its way back to Scott. It always seems to, whether or not I want it to.
He’s back in New York, probably finishing up another round of questioning from the legal team and the detectives who have signed on to investigate the attempted bombing.
Logically, I know why he’s being questioned separately. He was the only member of the security detail who wasn’t on the floor when the package was discovered. Procedure is procedure, and nobody gets an exception when lives are at stake. Not even Scott Riley.
Still, I hate the thought of him being treated like a suspect. I know he didn’t do it. Not because I have evidence—I was dead to the world asleep when someone started banging on my door to pull me out of bed and evacuate. I can’t technically prove anything.
I just know it wasn’t him.
I know it because I know him. Not to mention the frantic, worried look on his face when he came running out of the hotel.
The way his eyes locked on mine and all the tension seemed to drain out of him is burned into my memory.
He looked at me like I was the only thing, the only person, that mattered in the world.
I know that’s what he was feeling because it echoed my own thoughts.
From the moment I was torn from my bed, to being herded out into the hallway and down the back stairs while Cory shouted into his phone trying to figure out where Scott was because he wasn’t in his room, to arguing that we needed to go back because he wasn’t out there with us where he should be—All I could think about was what would happen if he never appeared.
What would happen if the bomb detonated, if the building went up in flames with him still in it.
The investigators explained later that the device wasn’t powerful enough to bring down a building like what you see in movies.
It probably wouldn’t have even brought down an entire floor.
Most likely it would have just busted out some windows and caused a lot of damage in the small blast radius, which was mostly blocked by walls and heavy doors.
But my imagination isn’t interested in facts. And at the time, every possible outcome led to Scott being critically injured or worse. Those visions are still seared into my brain, the same way the look on his face is.
I scrub a hand down my face.
This is exactly why some distance is a good thing.
I think I’ve gotten too comfortable with Scott.
Too attached. Too dependent on the way he makes everything feel quieter.
The way he can pull me out of my own head with a mere look.
The way I sleep better when he’s nearby, even though I refuse to let him sleep next to me. The way I look for him in every room.
Scott does to me what this place does, except with boners. And sweat. And cum.
Yeah, none of that is healthy. This time apart is going to be good for both of us.
That thought sounds reasonable. Responsible. Mature, even.
It also sounds suspiciously like bullshit that I’m pretty sure I can’t logic myself into actually believing.
Eventually, the growing darkness drives me back inside.
I put a meal prep container in the microwave and grab my bag from the floor.
Back in the single bedroom, I smile at the crisply made bed and fresh linens folded neatly on the chair.
While my dinner heats, I unpack my duffle and take a quick shower to rinse the stress of the day away.
I eat my dinner on the couch, not even bothering to turn the television on or listen to music.
I just enjoy the silence and try not to think about what Scott is doing right now.