19. Naz
NINETEEN
NAZ
I’m not sure what it is about him that catches my attention. A feeling, I suppose. Maybe it’s the cloying floral smell of his cologne as he passes by me. Whatever it is, it’s enough to pull my eyes away from the locker facility, where I just lost sight of Scott behind a row of lockers.
The curious man has already passed me by the time I swing around to look in his direction.
He’s walking away from me, one hand tucked into the pocket of his coat while the other holds a phone to his ear.
I can’t see his face, but his outfit is strange enough to stand out.
It’s raining, but the long charcoal trench-style raincoat and matching fedora seem out of place in the July heat.
There’s something about him that tickles at the back of my brain. Something I can’t quite put my finger on. Something familiar about his posture or the way he walks.
Then I catch part of his phone conversation, the words drowned out by the pattering of rain on my umbrella. I hear him clearly when he says, “A dumb meathead security guard,” and my pulse skips a beat, then begins to pound.
That voice…
No. It couldn’t be.
I don’t see Scott when I glance through the window again. He pleaded with me and demanded that I don’t leave this spot, but…
My eyes trail back to the man, who is getting farther and farther away with every passing second. Before I think it through, I find myself following him, dropping my umbrella just before the throng of people gets thicker.
I don’t follow close enough to make it obvious, weaving naturally through the people between us while I wait for him to turn his head just once. Just enough for me to see his face. But he never does.
He keeps walking, laughing into his phone as he rounds the corner to the plaza. I’m almost close enough to call his name. I almost do it, too, just to see if he stops and turns around. To see if I’m right.
A burst of laughter erupts directly in front of me.
I wasn’t paying attention to anyone but the man who is getting away, damn it!
Before I can duck and run for cover, seven teenage girls spill into my path carrying umbrellas, shopping bags, and iced coffees, stopping so abruptly to laugh at one of their phones that I nearly walk right into them.
“Oh, sorry,” I say absently, looking over their heads as the man disappears around the side of a building. I step to the side to bypass them, but one of them gasps.
I look down at two pairs of wide eyes staring back at me, then at each other. One of them opens her phone and swipes a few times before holding up her phone next to my face. Then all of them, at the same time and similar pitch, scream right in my face.
Giving them a quick smile, I glance over their heads again, looking in every direction to catch a glimpse of the stranger. Gently pushing my way between the group, mumbling another apology, I hurry to the opposite side of the plaza.
Nothing. The man is gone, out of sight. Replaced by dozens of people moving through the small city plaza as though he never existed in the first place.
Shit.
I freeze when I hear the click-clack of heels behind me. Turning slowly, I find the same group of girls beaming at me. Even in their heels, they’re all at least a head shorter than me, and they look very young.
I look back over my shoulder and let out a quiet breath. Whoever that was is gone, and it probably wasn’t who I thought it was anyway.
Giving the girls my nicest, least stressed out smile I can, I put on my public persona once again.
Only this isn’t like playing where I can be myself.
This is the mask I put on for fans, especially young ones, because they deserve recognition.
After the last few months, the last thing the band needs is a negative encounter used to prove the rumors spread about us.
“Sorry about that, ladies. I thought I saw someone I know.”
“Was it Jesse?!” they shriek, jumping up and down and giggling the way only Jesse Moore can make someone do.
I laugh. “No, unfortunately it’s just me today.”
“That’s okay,” one of the girls says, looking up at me with wide, almost sad eyes. “I love you. You’re my favorite in the whole band.”
“It’s true,” the friend closest to her says excitedly. “She has a poster of you on her wall and everything.”
“Yeah,” another says. “Right above her bed.”
There’s more giggling, blushing from the girl with the poster, and someone even pulls out their phone to show me that she does, in fact, have a rather large poster of me on her wall.
A shirtless one, from our Rolling Stone shoot, where I’m wearing nothing but a leather harness across my chest and my pants are unbuttoned so low it’s positively indecent.
Jesus. There is no amount of fame that can prepare you for how to react to any fan, much less a very obviously underaged fan, who has half naked photos of you displayed on their walls.
I cough awkwardly. “Well, it is really nice to meet you…”
“Kayleigh,” she supplies.
“Kayleigh,” I confirm, holding out my hand to shake hers.
The next moment, I’m bombarded by various things to sign, declining to sign skin or any clothes currently being worn. I sign a coffee receipt, cups, shopping bags, a few shoes, and multiple phone cases before we move on to my least favorite thing: selfies.
I pose for selfies long enough that it stops raining, smiling and doing my best to convince myself that I didn’t get into this awkward situation by following a stranger who I thought had the same aura as someone I used to know.
“Alright, everybody squeeze in!”
I bend my knees enough so I can get in view of the phone screen for a group selfie.
Someone, I’m not sure who, definitely touched my ass, but I can’t say if it was on purpose or not.
The one who tattled on Kayleigh about her poster looks a little guilty, her cheeks flushed pink as we try again, this time with me holding the phone because my arms are longer.
I narrow my eyes at that one and shuffle a little further away.
There’s another gasp, which I don’t even react to this time because it seems to be a regular thing with this lot, and then one of the girls squeals.
“Scott!”
Okay, here’s the thing—I low-key love that Scott was the one who was recognized earlier and that he seems to have his own fandom.
I find it far more entertaining than having one of my own, having gone most of my career blissfully unaware I even had one.
It’s Jesse that the fans go feral for, followed by Will and Ari, especially since they announced they’re together.
I didn’t consider it before, but it’s all their fault.
First Jesse gets into a relationship with America’s sweetheart and has the most public love declaration of all time.
Then Will and Ari decide to stop hiding that they’ve been bumping uglies since whenever—which we all knew, by the way.
So now the fans are looking at me like, you’re next.
And of course, the only person who gets close to me regularly outside of my bandmates is none other than my bodyguard, who the press routinely catch looking in my direction.
He’s not looking at me any particular way though. That’s just his face.
Well, not right now it isn’t.
Right now, Scott is marching across the plaza with an expression I’ve rarely seen, much less directed at me.
His jaw is tight enough I fear for his molars. Rain has plastered his naturally quaffed hair to his forehead, and he looks like he’s deciding whether he wants to shake me like a rag doll or strangle me to death.
Instead, a young girl with glitter eyeshadow and more audacity than Emerson Keller assigning sleeping arrangements thrusts a phone into his hands.
“Would you mind?”
Scott stares at the phone. Then at her. Then looks at me and holds my gaze hard enough that I notice a vein in his temple throbbing in my periphery.
“Yeah, Scott. We’re just finishing up here. Would you take our picture before the rain starts again, please?” I ask through a wide, plastered-on smile, trying to tell him with my eyes that this is not the time or place.
“Sure,” he mutters.
Seven girls crowd around me again. Scott lifts the phone and takes the picture. Before he can lower it back down, another girl says, “One more! I think I might have blinked.”
Scott takes the photo again and then looks down at his work. “Nobody blinked that time.”
“Thank you soooo much,” the girl with the phone says. Then she grins. “Could you…”
“Can you do the eyes?!” Kayleigh finishes for her.
Scott blinks. “The eyes?”
“You know…” She demonstrates, widening her own eyes dramatically before looking at me with exaggerated devotion. One of her friends snaps a photo, I’m sure of it.
“Like the memes,” one of them says.
“Yeah, no. That’s not going to happen.”
He says it so flatly that the girls dissolve into laughter anyway. My lips quirk, having a hard time taking him seriously even though I know he really, really needs me to.
Scott snaps another photo, then hands the phone back without another word and turns on his heel. I try even harder to bite back a smile.
“Sorry,” I tell them. “It’s been a really long day.”
They giggle again.
“He’s mad,” one of them says, but the way she says it makes it obvious he didn’t intimidate her. She thinks he’s hilarious.
“Yeah. I was a bad boy and kind of gave him the slip. It’s okay though, I’m going to take him home and make sure he gets a good meal and a nap. He gets hangry,” I whisper loudly. They giggle again, and I let them all give me awkward hugs before I wave and jog after my angry bodyguard.
He doesn’t slow down until we’ve put half a block between ourselves and the plaza. He doesn’t speak as he holds up his hand and hails a nearby car. When we climb inside, he gives the driver the address and continues not to speak to me. Halfway through the drive, I can’t stand it anymore.
“You’re mad.”
Scott lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “You think?”
“I’m sorry…”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“But–”