Chapter 3 #2
The video features a rugged blond man riding a tractor, beer in hand, while some busty lady in Daisy Dukes shouts at him from off the field. In lieu of shouting back, he sings:
Why you gotta grind my gears, grind my gears?
You know this only ends in tears, ends in tears.
But then again, if you start a fight,
We can make up tonight …
I can picture all too clearly now the part where the man—Griffin—Riff—breaks the fourth wall and winks right at the camera, an image that cuts to him working on the same tractor’s engine in a run-down shed, torquing a wrench on the exposed gears.
All I could think at the time was, “Wow, he seems like a douche.”
I scream internally. It’s a decent play on words, but the rage burning in my veins won’t allow me to admit it out loud.
Griffin shakes his head. “I don’t get it. I told you I’m with the label. You even made the ‘overbearing manager’ joke back at me—like you understood that I have a manager.”
“I was being sarcastic!”
“How was I supposed to know that?”
“I thought you just worked at Glambam, not that you were an artist. You’d still know the industry. How could I possibly think you were … who you are … when you completely misrepresented yourself?”
“This is who I am.” He gestures at his whole self. “If anything, it’s onstage where I misrepresent myself.”
“So your whole career is just, what, a game to you?” I clutch my cape tight in one hand, wanting to wrap it around his neck and strangle him with it.
I’ve been with actors before; I know how quickly the lines between fact and fiction can blur, how hard it can be to know when the man you’re with is sincere or whether he’s simply good at pretending.
Griffin may technically be a musician, but it’s clear he’s been acting his ass off.
“Most people have to do jobs they don’t like,” he argues. “I’m lucky enough to like parts of mine, even if a lot of it isn’t me. But I didn’t say a single thing to you that wasn’t true.”
“You left out some very important details though. Seriously—we’ve been out here long enough that some of those should have come up. For example, the fact that you have multiple hit singles, or the fact that you’re Glambam’s newest signed artist.”
“I didn’t want to talk about my career! I came out to get away from it for a minute, remember? Same as you.”
“Talking about your career and telling me who you are, are two different things. You could have introduced yourself by a name I might actually recognize.”
“Sure, I could have.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“I don’t know.” He throws up his hands. “Because I—”
A young man comes striding around the bend, wearing a plain black eyemask and a headset, with a tablet tucked under one arm. Hunter, the assistant. “Oh, thank God. Riff—finally. Where have you been?”
“‘Griffin,’” Griffin sternly corrects the young man without breaking our eye contact.
“Right, but we’re at an event,” Hunter replies.
“And you’re with—holy shit.” He takes a long look at me and backs up.
“Harmony Sonora—I’m so sorry. Wow. Um. I didn’t mean to disturb you guys, it’s just that Riff—I mean, Griffin—is in high demand for a photo op.
Populus is here and wants to get a few shots of him at his first big celebrity event since he signed with Glambam, for their upcoming issue. ”
“It’s fine,” I tell him, trying to tamp down my spiraling thoughts.
It was an honest mistake. A misunderstanding. I’m lame for feeling upset. He didn’t actually lie to me.
But he was holding back about himself, though, whether he admits it or not. Why?
Would he have done that if he’d run into anyone other than me out here?
Was he trying to impress me and he thought I wouldn’t like him if I knew what a bro-country, thinks-my-tractor’s-sexy sort of musical sellout he really is?
I was going to find out eventually, but for the moment, he could let me think he was more sophisticated, more interesting, more … attractive?
And the worst part is … it worked.
I let him do all kinds of hedonistic things to me. Then I was about to unzip his jeans and—
God, I’m so stupid.
“We’re done here anyway,” I tell Hunter.
“I don’t think we are,” Griffin tells me.
“We definitely are.” I push past them both and head for the doors.
Griffin trails me for a few paces. “You’re really going to just walk away?”
A smattering of guests has begun to spill out into The Habitat, stopping me in my tracks. Then Griffin sees them too.
Now that the last FANTASIE song is over, everyone must be gradually dispersing throughout the resort to mingle and explore before the afterparty gets going.
Here it’s a couple of YouTubers that look vaguely familiar, a popular TikTok dancer, a few socialites with drinks in hand, three of the five members of the alternative rock band Reckless Oblivion, and a photographer with a lanyard badge that reads Populus Magazine.
Hunter, Griffin, and I all exchange loaded glances—because we know what a terrible time this is for a heated argument. Too many witnesses, plus the media. Our disheveled clothes and agitated tones have already drawn attention.
With his jaw clenched tight, Griffin deflates.
Stefanie steps out next, spots me, and rushes over. “Harm … where have you been? What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I say, “Not anymore, at least.”
With one last disgusted shake of my head at Griffin, I flee the scene.