Chapter 3 #2
When our music started reaching across the pond, things started to change rapidly.
We were unsigned rowdy boys from Bristol, and we were excited to get recognition that wasn’t just from our local pubs.
We had a decent name for ourselves in England, but nowhere near as popular as we are now.
Getting signed at Midnight Records helped with that.
It felt like a dream come true, but then the fine print came back to haunt me.
I shouldn’t be completely cynical about it, though.
Thanks to this little scheme my label concocted, The Rogues is one of the biggest names in rock right now.
Anything that helps my pack prosper is one I’m willing to take, even if it meant pretending to date the princess of rock ’n’ roll, no matter how much I despised her.
Luckily, Jamie understood that I didn’t have a choice, but I was still sick to my stomach every time they made me go on a fake outing with her, and we went everywhere.
Restaurants, basketball games, on a fake vacation to the Maldives (where I basically talked to Jamie all day and night on my phone, despite the beach photoshoot they pawned off as paparazzi photos).
We were in each other’s lives constantly, pretending to stay at each other’s penthouses, talking about each other in interviews like it was this very real thing happening in our lives.
I can’t believe people bought it, too. There were video edits and posts about us all over the internet, people shipping us, sleuthing on our whereabouts and how we met.
And when we broke up, the internet took sides on who was right and who was wrong, even though we both posted statements on our social media pages stating it was “mutual.”
Not to mention, Cleo has a drug problem, and I don’t want that anywhere near my pack.
It made her irrational every time we were forced to see each other, and when I couldn’t hold my tongue about it anymore, it immediately put me on Cleo’s shit list. With her secret out in the open between us, everything turned sour.
She was completely enraged knowing that I knew, that I potentially had ammunition toward her and her reputation.
Ammunition that I was never going to use, for one, but she didn’t need to know that. Maybe the fear of her secret coming out could make her do the right thing for once and get clean.
If only.
I think that’s why the narrative got a bit construed after the fake breakup.
Suddenly, I was the villain. She would make backhanded comments anytime someone asked about my band or me in interviews, and that started the rumor mill for what actually happened between us.
Many theorized that I cheated, or flirted too much, or put down her music.
After a while, I started throwing my own grenades into the mix.
If she could imply I was an asshole, then I could imply she was erratic.
It revived my character for a time, let me feel more powerful in the facade, but it got old very fast. I wasn’t someone who took personal digs, but it started becoming expected of me, the rivalry between our bands and us fueling the controversy and heightening the publicity for both of us.
I don’t want to fight with anyone. I just want to play my music and let my pack live out their dream.
“I have not spoken to her,” I say matter-of-factly. “I mean, she’s setting world records. There’s no chance to catch up when you’re that scarce for time.”
Again, it’s a white lie. I have no intention of speaking to her, busy or not.
“Aw, so you haven’t spoken at all?”
I give a casual shrug. “She’s a busy woman, Renee. She doesn’t have time for a slum like me.”
“You’re not a slum!” Renee giggles, playing up the friend act.
“Try telling her that,” I say out of the side of my mouth.
They both laugh like I said the funniest thing ever. If I’m honest, the statement leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, but I remind myself that this is what the label wants. They want me to continue the narrative, bait the public into believing the scorned lovers’ story, even if we’re anything but.
Luckily, they change the subject, and we get to announce the new single for our upcoming album, which was the whole point of this appearance to begin with.
When we get off the set, I can finally take a breath. Jamie walks by me, nudging his shoulder against mine and giving me a sympathetic smile.
“One day,” he whispers, holding my eyes.
I nod. “One day.”
We’re barely in our dressing room when my phone rings. Our agent’s name shines on the screen, and I let out a groan before hitting accept and pulling the phone to my ear. “What’s up, Mac?”
“Cyrus! What an interview. You lot are really getting the hang of this, huh?” he says with his heavy Long Island accent.
“Well, you know what they say. ‘Practice makes perfect’ and all that,” I respond, watching as Remi pops open a bottle of champagne from the fridge and fills the flutes for everyone just before Lennon grabs his and throws it back in one go.
Malaki and Jamie are on the couch, tangled up in each other, watching something on one of their phones that’s making them giggle.
“Yeah, but I never thought I’d see the day you guys were decently media trained,” he jokes. “Although you could have kept that dig toward Vicious Velvet to yourself.”
That actually makes me crack a smile. “I’m media trained, but I’m not a miracle worker. Is there a reason you’re calling, Mac?”
“You’re right, let me cut to the chase,” he says. “Has the label told you guys yet?”
The question comes out ominous, and my heart sinks to my stomach. “Told me what?”
There’s a deep sigh, one that I’ve heard many times, so I brace myself for impact. “It’s time to pack up, kid. You boys are going on tour.”