6. Chapter 6
Chapter 6
Ace
I t’s late afternoon when Xander and I finally step out of Nate’s room, giving the family some much-needed space. Xander’s pissed at me, and it’s obvious. His body language says it all: hands shoved deep in his jean pockets, eyes avoiding mine like I’ve got the plague. I know him well enough to read him, especially when I’m pushing his buttons. I saw the way his gaze snapped to my hand when Scarlet grabbed it. What was I supposed to do? Tell her to fuck off and leave me alone? Sure, we’re all relieved Nate’s going to make a full recovery, but he’s got a long, tough road ahead before he’s back to where he was.
Xander stops in front of the elevator, his frustration clear as he repeatedly jabs the button, each press harder than the last.
"Yeah, I think you've got it," I say, essentially letting the idiot know that pressing the button doesn’t do anything except annoy the hell out of me.
He shoots me a glare and clamps his mouth shut. I know the second we’re in that elevator, he’s going to explode. That’s how we are—always calling each other out on our shit. So bring it on. If he thinks I’m going to take his shit over something I had no control over with Scarlet in that room, he’s got another thing coming.
He knows I’ve told him I’ll keep my distance from her, and he gets the guilt eating at me for fucking up with Nate. But I can’t shake off her touch—how her fingers felt when she grabbed mine. That’s not a conversation that’s going to happen, though. There’s no way he’s finding out about any of that when we start tearing into each other in the elevator.
I spot the starry-eyed nurse from earlier rounding the corner, looking like she’s about to lose it. The moment she sees Xander, she hesitates, takes a deep breath, and makes her way over.
This is going to be a shitshow; I almost wish I had some popcorn to enjoy the spectacle. Watching her try to pull herself together in front of Xander—especially with the mood he’s in—is bound to be entertaining. The Xander I know might just tell her to fuck off if she stumbles again. I shove my hands into my pockets, intrigued to see how this will play out. She pulls a pen from her chest pocket, swallows nervously, and steps forward, still clutching that damn clipboard like it’s her lifeline.
Xander’s eyes remain fixated on the red floor numbers, oblivious to her presence.
Well, he can handle this enthusiastic fangirl on his own. Normally, I’d give him a heads-up about this kind of shit, but screw him—given his attitude toward me, he can fucking deal with it himself.
“Um... Mr. Williams, could I please have your autograph?” she asks in a shaky voice, holding out the pen toward him.
Xander keeps his eyes fixed on the numbers, totally ignoring her. He fucking hates being called that name and despises these moments, forcing himself to wear a fake smile for fans even when he’s in such a foul mood.
Despite the hint, the nurse continues on, undeterred.
With her pen and clipboard extended, she stands there patiently, waiting for him to play along. I can’t help but get a kick out of watching him ignore her, acting like she’s invisible.
She shoots a quick glance in my direction, clearly seeking some backup.
My lips curl into a smirk as I playfully tap Xander on the shoulder. I know exactly what’s coming - the intense glare and the expression that screams “fuck off.”
“Your little fan over there wants an autograph,” I say, deliberately pushing his buttons.
His gaze, once fixed on me, abruptly shifts to her, intense and unyielding. With a sharp tone, he snaps, “I’m not signing autographs today. Fuck off and do your job.” With that, he shifts his focus back to the glowing numbers above the elevator.
I’ve always admired his bluntness and no-bullshit attitude—never giving a fuck about anyone’s opinion, except Poppy and Alex, of course. Around them, his softer side always comes through.
The nurse glances at me, as if silently pleading for me to intervene, but all I can do is shrug. Xander sees these moments as nothing more than an opportunity for her to boast to her friends about how she scored his autograph.
Defeated, she scurries off, the sound of her hurried footsteps echoing down the hall.
As Xander turns his head, his eyes lock onto mine, shooting me a menacing glare. With a sharp tone, he snaps, “You’re a fucking asshole.”
I smirk, meeting his intense gaze head-on, unflinching.
With a familiar chime, the elevator doors slide open, inviting us inside. I brace myself for the usual rant about Scarlet, but instead, he surprises me with something completely different.
“What the fuck are we going to do about the tour, Ace? We’ve been talking all this big game about going solo, and now this shit happens.”
“We can’t do shit about any of it. We have to cancel. There’s no other way. Nate’s gonna be out of action for at least six months,” I say.
“Cancel forty-three fucking shows? We just announced six more yesterday. Shit! I can already picture that asshole Lionel sitting there all smug in his office, knowing we couldn’t do shit without him,” Xander says, running a hand through his hair, frustration evident in his stance.
“Yeah, well fuck Lionel,” I say, even though the thought of canceling the tour is fucking heartbreaking. “Even if we were still with the old label, we’d have to cancel anyway. That’s just how it goes, Xander. It’s gonna suck, and you know the media will blow it up.”
“Yeah, I know those fuckers will,” Xander agrees. “Those assholes will do anything to stir up shit for headlines.” He lets out a heavy sigh, then shifts his gaze from the floor to me. “You need to stay the fuck away from her, Ace.”
“I’m trying, asshole.”
“Well, damn it, try harder. I don’t want any more problems just because you keep thinking with your dick.”
Before I even have a chance to respond, the elevator doors slide open to reveal the bustling ground floor. As usual, those waiting there widen their eyes at the sight of Xander. He lets out a sigh of frustration before striding out, and I trail closely behind, matching his pace.
As heads turn our way, memories flood back to the days when Xander and I would hang out at my place in our teenage years. We’d sit around, passing a blunt, and envision what it would be like to be famous. We fantasized about the highs—playing to packed venues, the roar of the crowd reverberating through our bones, groupies ready to do anything for us. But back then, I never imagined every fucking detail of my life would be under a microscope. Now, we are completely exposed to the public eye, our lives laid bare for everyone to scrutinize, always craving the next juicy detail.
When we reach the glass doors to exit the hospital, we see the relentless media, cameras ready, eager to capture every moment.
“Poppy said they’re already speculating about Nate’s injury,” Xander mutters with a clenched jaw, his frustration clear. "But it sounds like they don’t have a fucking clue how bad it really is."
“So we keep it simple—his shoulder’s fucked up, that’s all,” I say, taking charge, since Xander usually dodges this shit like the plague. “Let’s clear it up and get the hell out of here.”
Without waiting for his response, I turn and head straight for the doors, ready to handle these assholes.
As soon as the doors slide open, they swarm like vultures, shoving microphones in our faces while the cameramen scramble to keep up.
"How's Nate?" one of them shouts, pushing in closer.
"Can you update us on the situation?" another one yells, barely giving us room to breathe.
With Xander by my side, we’re submerged by a wave of at least twenty microphones and a barrage of questions that pummel us like a storm. I throw up my hands in frustration, desperate to silence them before it turns into a complete shitshow.
Once they finally back off, I take control. “Earlier today, Nate and Theo were involved in a car accident, in case you haven’t heard. Aside from a cut on his forehead, Theo’s fine. Nate, however, wasn’t so lucky. He had shoulder surgery, which went well, and he’s recovering now. We’d appreciate it if you could give him some space to heal.”
As soon as I finish, Xander and I make our way toward my car, but the assholes aren’t done yet. They rush alongside, bombarding us with a flurry of questions and shoving their microphones back in our faces as if we hadn’t already given them what they wanted.
“Xander, got any comment on the situation?” one reporter shouts, stepping right into our path.
“No,” Xander grunts, brushing past the guy with a swift sidestep, barely acknowledging his presence. Normally, Xander plays nice when the questions are about our music or the crazy-packed shows, but after years of dealing with all the bullshit—the media always painting him as some womanizing rockstar—he’s learned the hard way to keep his mouth shut about anything that could get twisted. No point in giving them any more fuel for their fire.
"How’s this gonna affect your upcoming tour?" some asshole yells.
"No comment," I snap.
"Xander, are you guys canceling the tour?" another dick shoves a mic right in his face.
I press the keypad, and the car lights flash like a damn beacon, signaling our ticket to freedom. We’re almost out of this mess. Just a few more steps.
As the questions keep coming, Xander remains silent, slipping into the passenger seat while I settle in behind the wheel.
With a sudden motion, I forcefully insert the key into the ignition, shift it into gear, and smoothly start rolling. Out of nowhere, a dumbass paparazzi leaps in front of the car, forcing me to slam on the brakes and screech to a halt, narrowly avoiding a collision with the fuckhead.
“Fucking hell, man,” I growl, my anger barely contained.
“Just be cool, Ace,” Xander says, trying to keep his calm. But it’s hard when these assholes act like they’ve got a death wish.
I roll down the window and stick my head out, shouting at the jerk, “Get the fuck out of the way, asshole!”
But he just keeps snapping photos, completely ignoring me.
“Calm the fuck down,” Xander says from the passenger seat, but I’m too pissed off to give a shit.
I shove the door open, and exit the car, not bothering to close it behind me.
Oblivious to the chaos he’s causing, the paparazzi prick continues to click away, capturing every moment without a care.
“Move, asshole! There are cars and I can’t see!” I say, my voice dripping with anger.
The weight of all the stress I’ve been carrying suddenly erupts. The guilt of betraying Nate, the sight of him confined to a hospital bed, and the thought of canceling the tour—it’s all crashing down on me. As if to add insult to injury, there’s Lionel, from our old label, probably laughing and taking jabs in the media that we’re fucking helpless without his support.
“Get the fuck out of my way!” I bark again.
Every flash from that prick’s camera intensifies my anger, causing a surge of red to fill my vision. I charge ahead, closing the distance until I’m standing right in front of the fucker’s face.
In a single, swift motion, I snatch the camera from his grasp and slam it down onto the unforgiving concrete. I watch as it shatters into countless fragments, sending debris scattering across the ground.
Ignoring the stillness that hangs in the air, I make my way back to the car and get in, slamming the door.
“You fucking idiot,” Xander says, as I press my foot hard on the pedal, peeling away from the hospital.