16. Ari
SIXTEEN
ARI
The massive penthouse feels too small for the number of people crammed into it.
The entire styling team is here for our last fitting for the Rolling Stone shoot.
Assistants are bustling around with racks of clothes, garment steamers, and coffee carts.
Makeup artists are on standby to test the looks Myra, our lead stylist, has planned.
It’s chaos.
We’re all pretty used to this by now, but this time it’s different.
Jesse is missing in action. Considering he’s the star of the show and has a rather complicated pair of pants he basically needs to be sewn into, his absence is notable.
Add that no one has heard from him since Sunday morning, and some of us are starting to get worried.
Naz is the only one who doesn’t seem as concerned as the rest of us, but even he’s cutting his eyes at the door or checking his phone every few minutes.
It’s not like Jesse to be missing in action for band business. At least not anymore. There were days when he’d miss the occasional phone call or appointment during his heavier party days, but he’s been nothing but punctual since the new tour started.
I don’t want to be the friend that automatically worries about a relapse every time something goes wrong, but Jesse has been acting strangely lately.
He’s been more flighty and distracted than usual.
Over the weekend before he disappeared Sunday evening, he seemed on edge, like he was nervous about something.
Even during our press conference and interviews about the incident at the other hotel, he was off in another world.
Then he went and requested his own penthouse suite, which felt really odd for him.
He’s kept to himself more since getting out of rehab, but we always share a suite and basically live together on the road.
His absence sits heavy, but it feels like more than that.
Will has been behaving strangely since Sunday night, too.
Or rather, Monday morning. Because, like the codependent sap I am, I came crawling into his bed with my tail between my legs after nearly being mobbed in the hotel bar that night.
The state I woke up in the next morning seems to have set us back on the weeks of progress I thought we’d made.
He’s barely talking to me or making eye contact.
Naz is being weird, too. But I’m pretty sure it has everything to do with worrying over his best friend while assuring us that Jesse is fine, even if his calls aren’t being answered either.
“All I know is that he invited some guy over,” Naz tells us. “He met him at the concert in New York or something.”
“Why didn’t he just say that?” I ask. Naz is Jesse’s best friend, but we’re all close. Or at least we were before Jesse got back from rehab. Things have been admittedly different, no less loving and supportive, but different than they were before.
“Is that why he ran off stage so fast?” Will asks.
“Or why he had that goofy grin on his face when he finally made it to the meet and greet with the whole fucking football team he insisted on inviting?” I add.
Naz shrugs. “Guess so.”
“Still doesn’t explain why he’s not answering anyone’s calls,” I say. “Doesn’t he realize we’ll worry about him?”
“Maybe it’s not fair to put that on him,” Naz answers. “I’m trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“Yeah, me too. I just can’t help but worry. What could he be doing in there for over two damn days without coming up for air?”
“Probably fucking. It’s been a while for him.”
“It’s been a while for me, too, but I’d still check in and let y’all know I wasn’t lying in a tub full of ice after having my organs harvested or something.”
“That’s… explicit.” Will cuts his eyes at me as if I’m the one to be concerned about.
At least he’s acknowledging me.
“Cory and Tad both confirmed brief sightings during food deliveries. He’s there, alive, and so is his guest, as far as we’re aware,” Blake says blankly as he walks through the kitchen.
He’s been on a tirade about Jesse’s absence all morning.
He’s had his assistant Emmy calling Jesse non-stop and even sent him to knock on Jesse’s door several times.
“Myra’s ready for you,” he tells Will, snapping him into action.
Will hurries over to our lead stylist and drops his robe. It takes everything in me not to stare at every inch of skin on display in nothing but a tight pair of black boxer briefs.
Blake barely has time to frown down at the selection of bagels before Emmy is there, handing him a freshly toasted everything bagel, lightly smeared with cream cheese.
He holds it up to Blake casually, as if he’d been asked for it.
Blake accepts the plate with a muttered thanks, and before he opens his mouth again, Emmy produces a cup of something steaming and holds it up to him, too.
I watch with quiet amusement while Blake processes what just happened, narrowing his eyes at Emmy. You’d think he’d praise his employee for seemingly being able to read his mind, but instead he frowns down at the smaller man.
“Go check on Jesse,” he orders.
Emmy hesitates. “I… did. Just a minute ago. I knocked on the door, but there was no answer. Again,” he adds sheepishly.
Blake stares at him. “Were you assertive ?”
“Assertive?”
“Did you knock politely, or did you knock like you mean business?”
“Well, I—” Poor Emmy doesn’t even get a chance to apologize for his great sin of being polite.
“Timidity will get you nowhere, Emerson. You have to be direct if you want something.”
Emmy turns bright pink.
Everyone, except maybe Blake himself, knows that Emmy is basically in love with him. Or at least he’s very, very attracted to him. He’s an absolute sweetheart and can be shy, but he can barely so much as speak in Blake’s presence.
I lean in closer to Emmy and murmur, “You gonna be alright?” He nods and turns away, trying to hide his deep blush.
Blake clears his throat and announces to the room, “If Mr. Moore does not grace us with his presence in the next twenty minutes, we are relocating to his suite.”
Emmy and several of the other assistants groan.
“Problem, Mr. Keller?” Blake asks, pinning Emmy with a look.
“Of course not, sir. If that’s what has to be done, I’ll see to it. The rest of the band will be done with their fittings by then.”
Blake hmmphs and takes his bad mood elsewhere for the time being.
“Such a hard ass,” I tease.
Emmy’s eyes flick up to Blake’s retreating form, but he says nothing. Poor guy thinks he’s hiding it well. Bless him.
Across the room, Will laughs loudly as our lead stylist adjusts his outfit.
He looks effortlessly cool and edgy in a leather kilt and matching jacket, sleeveless and unzipped to show off his tan and toned body and various tattoos.
I stare at my name written in Greek on his arm, and my hand automatically moves to touch my semi-matching tattoo, the Greek word for “willful” on my ribs.
“Damn, that man can pull off a skirt and make it look butch as fuck,” Emmy says under his breath, and I tear my eyes away, realizing that I’ve been staring.
There’s a knowing look in the younger assistant’s bright eyes that makes me wonder if I’m as obvious in my attraction for Will as he is with Blake.
With a huff, I skim my eyes over the kilt again, cut just above his knees in a way that make his thighs look bulkier. “Myra’s a miracle worker,” I confirm.
Myra is damn good at her job, and all of us love her.
She also happens to be gorgeous and has a youthful glow about her that makes her seem closer to our age than Blake’s.
Not to mention she has this beautiful mass of messy ash-blonde curls that tumble down her back and frame her delicate features.
I could see Will being with someone like her.
She’s fun and down to earth, a caretaker with a wicked sense of humor.
Once again, Emmy seems to read my mind. “She’s amazing. Not in a mom way, but like your cool aunt that lets you sip her mimosas and buys you your first eyeliner,” he says as Myra holds up a pencil in front of Will’s face so she can smudge some of the liner along his lower lash line.
“Will bought me my first eyeliner,” I say quietly, thinking about how he squared up to our foster dad when I was discovered wearing said eyeliner.
He was only fourteen, but he made Don look small.
That was one of the first times I remember Don threatening Will with shipping me off to military school, to “straighten me out.”
“There is something about a boy in eyeliner,” Emmy muses, and both of us take a moment to stare.
Because as Will straightens, the effect of Myra’s addition is immediate.
The leather jacket, the kilt, and the boots are all badass.
But that little touch of makeup turns the outfit up to something dark and dangerous.
Damn .
My brain betrays me instantly, and I’m pulled into an involuntary fantasy of Will wearing nothing under that kilt. The way I could reach beneath it, skim my fingers up his muscular thigh… Drop to my knees, and…
“Ari?”
I startle at Emmy’s hand tapping my shoulder, blinking rapidly as I drag myself back to reality and adjust my robe before focusing on the person trying to get my attention.
“It’s your turn,” Emmy whispers.
Shit. Where is my head?
Quickly, I walk over to the dressing area without making eye contact with anyone, least of all Will. How long was I staring at him like that? Was it obvious what I was thinking about?
After what happened the morning after the hotel mob incident, I need to be more careful. The last thing I want to do is make Will uncomfortable.
Yet he’s the one burning a hole in my back the entire time I’m getting dressed.