Code red, p.2
Code Red, page 2
Amber, Blake, and Luke took the first, Ryan, with Wes and Jeremy, in the second, and Maddox and I climbed into the third.
We drove to the photoshoot location, which was down past Laguna. Hair and make-up met us there, along with wardrobe, and the photoshoot went well. The boys were in good spirits, laughing and joking as usual, and while the photographer, set designer, and lighting crew worked to get the best shots, Arlo’s camera crew filmed everything that went on.
The racks of clothes, the table of jewelry, the behind-the-scenes people who were just trying to do their jobs. They didn’t get in the way at all, but even having them there felt like an invasion of privacy.
I didn’t like it at all.
And apparently neither did Maddox. When we were done and headed back to the hotel, he took his seat, and as soon as the door slid closed, he said, “And the film crew? What the fuck is up with that?”
I groaned, trying to take the middle ground. “Arlo’s orders, apparently. It’s for some behind-the-scenes documentary. Which, in all fairness, I can see why he wants to show that. People will be very interested in seeing the hard work you guys put in, and how it’s not just what they see on stage.”
“But?”
“Why is there a but?”
His lips twitched. “Because I know when you’re not saying something.”
I relented a smile at that. “But,” I said, “I think tours are stressful enough on you guys. And make no mistake, if they get too close to you or if they get in the way or impose in any way I deem inappropriate, I will launch them and all their cameras into the fucking sun.”
Maddox chuckled, the eye-crinkling kind, and went back to staring out the tinted windows for a while. “Can we get some food? I’m starving.”
“Absolutely,” I replied. I pulled up the group chat with Amber and Ryan. Maddox wants food. I’m ordering burgers to be delivered to the hotel. What does everyone want?
We drove into the underground parking garage at the hotel, still incognito. I would expect it would be the last time, given people must have seen our big black vans, but it was good to see the guys relaxed and smiling as they went inside. It was only us staying at this hotel; the rest of the crew were staying at different places. Given there were so many of them—the soundies, the stage production, wardrobe and make-up, and dancers—they’d take up an entire hotel. As it was, “just us” took up half a floor.
As soon as the food was delivered, the guys ate in Luke’s room, and Amber, Ryan, and I ate in the common room. “They’re all psyched,” Amber said. They, meaning the band.
“How’s your boy?” Ryan asked. “He seems happier now that we’re here.”
My boy . . . I liked that a little too much.
“Yeah, he’s okay,” I replied, then sipped my water. Maddox had been quiet in the weeks leading up to now. Actually, he’d been quiet for months, and everyone knew it. “I’m sure he’s just nervous and worried about this trip. Once they start performing, he’ll be fine.”
I didn’t exactly believe that, and I was pretty sure they could tell.
“New albums and tours are always stressful,” Amber added. “Just keep an eye on him and let us know if you need anything.”
I gave her a smile. “I will, thanks.” I picked at a few fries. “He just . . . he feels distant. I’m sure he’ll find his feet once the concerts and press shit starts.”
“He thinks he carries the world. He doesn’t need to shoulder everything,” Ryan said.
“We know that,” I replied. It was almost comical. Of course he didn’t have to. He just did.
Amber shrugged. “It’s how he is. How he’s always been.”
I conceded a nod. “True. But it’s more now. It’s different. Before he thrived on it. The harder it all was, the better he did. Now he’s . . . tired.”
“We’ve got twenty-three shows,” Ryan pointed out. “He can’t be tired before he starts.”
Amber finished her burger. “He won’t let those boys down,” she said. “He’ll give 200 percent until it kills him.”
That’s what I’m afraid of.
I didn’t need to say that out loud.
None of us did.
I knocked on Maddox’s door at 7:00 am. I heard him grumble something before the door swung inward. He was showered, dressed, and ready to go, and when I held up an iced coffee, he smiled. “You ready?” I asked, walking in. His bed was unmade, and I tried not to think about how he slept on the left side . . . how perfect it was because I slept on the right.
He sat on the bed, put his drink down, and pulled on a boot. “Yep.”
“Busy day. We leave in five.”
The next two days were full-on final choreography on stage, full dress rehearsals, sound checks, and roundtable talks about last minute changes and suggestions before the first concert. Tonight was their first television appearance on a well-known talk show where they would perform their newest song, “Fly.”
Maddox and Jeremy had composed the score, Wes and Luke wrote the lyrics, Blake worked in the bluesy rap line. They moved it around like a jigsaw puzzle until it all fit together, and the song went to number one, on day one, in twenty-six different countries.
I picked up his black jacket. Not that it was jacket weather, but it had a hood, and he’d obviously left it over the back of the chair for a reason. “Got your phone?”
“Yes, Dad,” he said with a smirk.
“I’m barely seven years older than you, so shut it.”
He chuckled, that low throaty sound that rumbled through me in ways it shouldn’t. He fixed his other boot, then collected his iced coffee and sipped it through the straw. “Thanks for this,” he said. “Have the others eaten yet?”
“Yep. You know, you could try actually eating breakfast some time.”
He put on a black baseball cap, pulled it down low, and smiled. “No, thanks.”
I went to the door and held it open for him. “Move it or we’ll be late.”
“Yes, Mom.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You wanna fucking walk?”
He laughed as he walked past me. “I’m gonna tell my mom you swore at me.”
“Your mom likes me.” I pulled the door closed and met him at the elevator. It was true. His parents did like me. I’d come to know them quite well over the last few years. Considering I spent almost every day with Maddox, it was only natural that I’d become familiar with them as well.
“Yes, she does.”
“She promised to make me some of those almond cookie things.” The elevator doors opened and we stepped inside. “I still want them, if you could ask her for me, that’d be great.”
“She speaks to you more than she speaks to me,” he replied.
I snorted. “That’s not true. She knows you’re busy, so it’s just more efficient.”
“Oh,” he said. “Speaking of family. You still leaving me after New York to go see your folks?”
“I’m not leaving you,” I said, liking that a whole lot more than I should. “It’s just for a week. It makes sense while I’m on that side of the country. I’ll see you through the last concert of the tour. You’ll come back here to LA and sleep for a week. You won’t even have time to miss me.”
He was about to say something when the elevator stopped at a lower floor and the doors opened. Two people got in, both female, mid-twenties, maybe. They didn’t pay much attention to us, too busy looking at their phones. But Maddox backed up against the wall, kept his head down, his cap covering his face.
Instinctively, I stepped in front of him, putting myself between them and him. They got out at the lobby, and when the doors closed again, leaving us alone, I heard him sigh. Those two girls were harmless, but the risk was always there.
That brief moment of levity, of smiles and joking around, was gone. Security met us in the parking garage, we filed into our van, and drove to the Rose Bowl stadium for a full day of rehearsals, sound checks, and dance routines for this stage set-up. Maddox never said much at all, and I didn’t want to push him. He had enough to worry about without me nagging him.
Once we were there, with the guys and our team and all the familiar faces of the crew, Maddox relaxed and we all got down to business.
Watching them practice on stage never got old. They joked around together, getting their mics and earpieces all sorted. The LA morning sun was warm with not a cloud in the sky. The stadium was empty, of course, so the five of them goofed around on stage while the sound guys got ready.
They danced, they twerked, they laughed. Maddox did this slow squat and grind move that was so fucking hot, it should have been illegal. Jeremy called it a slut-drop, and everyone laughed some more as they all tried it. Then they did silly dances, and when they got the nod from the sound guy, Maddox strutted down the center stage, stripping out of his jacket like a hooker while singing the first verse, a cappella, of Joe Cocker’s “You Can Leave Your Hat On.”
It was sexy and sultry and I’m not gonna lie . . . it was hot.
The others laughed, and Maddox and Jeremy did some impromptu duet dance break. But once the music started, they were all serious. In key, in sync, and so beautiful to watch.
The documentary film crew caught it all, of course, and I tried not to let it bother me that this private moment between the boys would be given to the public. Would their fans love it? Hell yes. Was any part of their lives not up for public consumption? Not so much.
“They’re pumped for the tour, huh?” Amber said from beside me. I hadn’t heard her come up, and I wondered just how much of my watching she saw.
“Yeah. They won’t be like this by show twenty-three.”
She nodded slowly. “No, they won’t be.”
“It’s good to see them all so happy,” I admitted.
Amber nodded to Arlo’s documentary crew. “You know, letting the fans see them like this is a good idea. They’ll eat this shit up. It’s good for publicity.”
“True.” But I was a little sad that such a fun, private thing between the boys was going to be used to sell them. And I knew there would be quiet times after this tour before the next album where adding snippets of this footage to their social media channels would keep fans happy.
I knew it made sense. But still . . .
I left Amber in charge of watching them to go make myself useful elsewhere. We had director meetings—security, wardrobe, transport, catering—and by the time we called the boys off the stage, they were a sweaty, tired mess. But there were a lot of smiles, and with a promise of a late lunch, we made our way back to the hotel.
Maddox’s shirt clung to him, sweat-drenched down his chest and back, his wet hair stuck to his forehead, his cheeks flushed pink. He all but fell into the back of the van.
His smile was contagious. “Feel good?” I asked.
“Yeah. We’re ready.”
“You are.”
“What time are we leaving for the talk show?”
“Six.”
He met my gaze. “Can we do something?”
“Like what?”
“I dunno. Anything. Just drive around, see where we end up. Maybe get ice cream at the beach?” He shrugged. “It’s kinda our last day of anonymity.”
I wasn’t sure that was a great idea, but he wasn’t a prisoner. “Sure. Let me get it organized. Who wants to go?”
“Oh.” He blinked. “Um. Lemme ask,” he replied, pulling out his phone and thumbing out a quick text.
They had a group chat, and within a few seconds, he looked up at me with a funny grimace. “Uh, that’d be everyone.”
I sighed. That meant it was a full convoy: the band, managers, security. “Ambrose is gonna have a stroke.”
Maddox laughed. “He should come.”
“He should. I’ll tell him to bring his credit card.”
Maddox’s smile widened. “Then he would have a stroke.”
Ryan’s number flashed on my screen. He was in the second car with Jeremy and Wes. They were a good ten minutes ahead of us. “Have you heard? The boys want to do something before the show tonight.”
“Yep, but I hate to break it to you,” Ryan said. “I don’t think we’ll be going anywhere. There’s an issue at the hotel.”
“What kind of issue?” I asked. Maddox’s gaze shot to mine.
“Crowds, paparazzi. The police are trying to redirect traffic.”
I sighed. That meant it was bad. “Fuck.”
“Some asshole papzz are following us from the stadium. Drivers are being instructed right now,” he said, and sure enough, our driver was talking into his earpiece while checking his rearview mirror.
“Be safe,” Ryan said.
“You too.”
The call disconnected and I let my hand fall to my lap with a shake of my head. “Fucking papzz.”
Maddox sighed, his face a resigned frown. “It was good while it lasted.”
And sure enough, the front of the hotel was a shitshow. Our driver zipped into the underground parking lot and security quickly blocked the access after our car. We pulled up at the elevator entrance, and Maddox squeezed into his jacket and pulled his hood up, hiding his face.
I got out first, to the sound of camera clicks and people shouting his name, even through the hotel parking garage security. I stood between Maddox and the fray, blocking their chance of any decent photo. He kept his head down, and we dashed inside.
A hotel staff member was holding an elevator door for us, and with a swipe of their fob hit our floor number. “No stops until your floor,” he said.
“Thank you.”
When the doors were closed and it was just us, Maddox let his head fall back. “I guess going to the beach and getting ice cream is out of the question.”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
He tried to smile. “And so the fun begins.”
God, the look on his face just killed me. When we stepped out of the elevator, the hallway was clear, and he went straight to his door, two rooms up from mine. “Maddox,” I said before he went inside. “If you want ice cream, I’ll get you ice cream. Berry swirl, right?”
He smiled then, that gentle half a smile that he was famous for. “You don’t need to do that.”
“It’s no problem.”
He seemed to consider it for a long moment, but in the end, he shook his head. “Nah. Thanks anyway. I’m gonna go shower.”
He disappeared through his door, and I stood there for a second like an idiot, until I remembered what I was supposed to be doing. I dialed Amber’s number and put my phone to my ear. “Everyone okay?” I asked.
“Yeah, and you?”
“Yeah, we’re fine.”
“Good.”
We now had a whole string of issues to sort out before the talk show appearance tonight. “Where are we meeting?”
Chapter Three
Late Nights in LA was an iconic talk show that had been around for decades. It would be the band’s first TV appearance, their first interview, for this tour. It was important. We implemented a few security modifications and briefings with hotel security and police traffic control, but nothing extraordinary.
For a little while at least we had flown under the radar. But this appearance and performance on TV would change all that.
At the end of the day, it was what we were here for.
When I returned from the security meeting, Wes, Luke, and Blake were in Jeremy’s room. Room service trays with mostly eaten food were on the table, and they were watching and laughing at something on YouTube. “Where’s Maddox?” I asked.
“In his room,” Jeremy replied. “We asked him to join us but he had his head in his notebook. You know how he is.”
I nodded. Yes, I knew. Blake burst out laughing at the laptop screen. “Here it is, here it is, watch this.”
We all turned our attention to the video. It was them, on YouTube, in some clip where they couldn’t have been any older than sixteen years old. They were at their high school by the looks of it, just a group of baby-faced, weedy adolescents with bad skin and braces.
Jeremy roared laughing. “Holy fuck, look at our hair!”
Luke and Blake fell back on the bed, cry-laughing. “Look at Maddox! Oh my god, this is gold.”
Wes was half-covering his eyes, horrified but still laughing at the screen. “What is he wearing?”
I couldn’t help but chuckle. More at them laughing so hard than what they looked like in the video. “Just as well he’s not here,” I said. “So he can’t hear you laughing at him.” I went to the door and tapped my watch. “Hair and make-up in one hour.”
They waved me off and I could still hear them laughing as I knocked on Maddox’s door. “It’s me,” I said, and his door opened a few seconds later.
He was dressed in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt. His hair had been washed, though it was almost dry. His feet were bare. He looked annoyed. “Hey,” he said gruffly.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
He stood aside, a silent invitation, and I went into his room. The curtains were drawn; the room was dark, despite the afternoon sun outside. The bed was rumpled, a notebook and a pen lay atop the covers.
Maddox went back to sit on the bed, leaning against the headboard. He picked up his notebook, though he never opened it. He seemed . . . nervous.
I sat down, trying to look natural and reduce my size in his space. “Are you okay?”
He paused for the briefest moment before his eyes met mine. “Yeah, yeah of course. Why, wassup?”
“The others are in Jeremy’s room.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“They’re watching old videos of the band and they’re laughing at your hair.”
A smile almost pulled at Maddox’s lips but he never said anything.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt. Were you writing?”
He held the notepad a little tighter but still didn’t open it. “Uh, yeah.”
“Music or lyrics?”
He shrugged. “A bit of both.”
“Always writing,” I murmured.
