Code red, p.27
Code Red, page 27
My morning with Maddox replayed through my mind. Him wondering how long he could do this, how long he wanted to. The pressure put on him to stay, the people he’d disappoint if he didn’t. His anxiety about it all.
I considered my wording carefully. “I gotta say, maybe we should use this as a learning curve for what happens when one of them is ruled out. Not if. But when. I mean, it’s bound to happen, right? It’s going to happen. Knees, shoulders, voices, stress.” I shrugged, trying not to give too much away. “I think we need to consider putting contingency plans on the table after this tour. We just expect them to bounce back, to endure it. It’s not just Maddox. Wes and Blake are held together by athletic tape right now.”
Ryan nodded. “I agree. But you know how Platinum is,” he said, keeping his voice low. He rolled his eyes and mimicked Arlo Kim. “Gotta make hay while the sun shines.”
“Yeah well, you can’t make hay if the horse pulling the plow can’t take another step,” I replied.
Amber never took her eyes off me, studying, scrutinizing in that way that made her very good at her job. “There’s something you’re not telling us.” She wasn’t mad or snide. If anything, she was concerned. “Is he okay?”
Fuck.
Of course she was asking about Maddox. I met her gaze. “Between us three,” I whispered, “I don’t think so. I mean, his throat is better . . . Ryan, you should know . . . and so help me god, do not repeat this to anyone. Don’t let him know that you know. I’m only telling you because he’s supposed to ride with you now, but he’s been experiencing some . . . breathing issues.”
They both stared. I didn’t like doing this behind Maddox’s back, but if Ryan was to be spending time alone with him, he should know. This wasn’t a boyfriend thing; this was a professional responsibility thing.
I looked over to where the boys were still talking, laughing, not paying us any attention at all. I turned back to Ryan. “It’s like he can’t get a full breath, so he just needs you to breathe with him, nice and slow, hold his hand, stay with him and stay calm, and it should pass.”
Amber stared. “You’re talking about panic attacks.”
I met her gaze. I didn’t deny or confirm it. I didn’t have to.
“Holy shit,” Ryan murmured. Then he shook his head. “You know what? He should ride with you. Honestly. Fuck Ambrose’s bullshit rule. And it’s not just because I don’t want to deal with this; it’s because when he’s with me, he spends the whole time looking for you. He’s relaxed when he’s with you. Why add stress when we don’t have to?”
I made a face. “Ambrose was pretty clear.”
Amber leaned forward, her eyes narrowed. “But who is our first concern? Them?” She nodded toward the guys. “Or Ambrose?”
Well, Ambrose was technically our boss. But the truth was the five members of the band were our top priority. Always.
In the end, I nodded. “Okay. Thanks. But please, don’t say anything. He’d never forgive me if he knew I told you. He hasn’t even told the boys.”
“I’m assuming the doctor knows?” Amber asked.
“Yep.”
“And Ambrose?”
I grimaced. “Not exactly. He thinks it’s a blood pressure thing. Maddox doesn’t want him to know. He says it will put more pressure on the others, and that just makes him feel worse. But I have told Ambrose that Maddox shouldn’t be pushed right now.” I shrugged again. “He just thinks I said that so he wouldn’t separate us. Which isn’t his fault. Because he doesn’t know what’s going on, so how could he know?” I let out a long slow breath and admitted something I’d known for a while. “Maddox should tell him.”
They both agreed without saying it out loud. Their faces said enough.
“I think Hardwick wants him to see a therapist after the tour.” We had five concerts to go. And that felt doable. “Ten days. We just have to get through the next ten days.”
Dance practice went okay. Maddox was pissed at himself for missing a few steps, for being a bit out of sync. He was distracted and frustrated, and I had to remind him to take it easy.
He knew these dances. He knew the moves, every beat, every motion. He knew them.
“Stop overthinking it,” the choreographer told him before he made them start at the beginning.
“Stop overthinking it,” Maddox repeated sarcastically when we got back to the hotel. He was sweaty and tired, still frustrated. “Jeez. Why didn’t I think of that? Such an easy solution. Has he considered telling a diabetic to produce a little more insulin? Because if I could stop overthinking shit, I would.”
I rubbed his thigh. “How does your throat feel? Not sore at all?”
He looked annoyed at me for asking but he sighed. “It’s fine.”
I could tell he was tired and stressed. “Good. Because you’re supposed to do some light vocal sessions tonight, and I was thinking you could do some groaning and begging.”
A hint of a smile pulled at his lips. “Begging?”
I leaned in and whispered, my lips brushing his ear. “Yep. After a steaming hot shower, I’m going to rim you until you beg me to fuck you.”
His breath caught. “Fuck.”
“Yes, I intend to.”
He shifted in his seat and glanced around the common room. “You better not be teasing me.”
I laughed, not giving a shit who saw us, and tilted his chin toward me for a kiss. “It’s a promise, Mr. Kershaw.”
His dark eyes gleamed with desire. “You better deliver, Mr. Hall.”
And deliver, I did.
Was it an attempt to distract him, clear his mind so he thought of nothing else but what I was doing to his body? Yes. Was it an attempt to flood his body with endorphins, to make him feel good, to help him sleep? Yes. Was it hotter than hell, near perfect love-making? Did his body react to every touch, every kiss, did he writhe and moan, beg and groan when I gave him what he so desperately wanted? Also yes.
But I woke up to a noise at a bit after three in the morning to find Maddox out of bed. He was sitting on the sofa by the window, the blinds open, watching the city lights below. He had his guitar in his lap but he wasn’t playing it. His notepad sat beside him, open, pen at the ready.
“Baby,” I murmured, my voice croaking with sleep. “Whatcha doing?”
“Did I wake you? Sorry. I was trying to be quiet.”
I moaned and stretched my arm out to his side of the bed. “Come back to bed.”
“Can’t sleep.”
“What can I do to help?”
He smiled. “Nothing. You just being here is enough.” He lightly plucked the guitar string, coaxing the sweetest chords into the air. “This song is about you.”
“It is?”
He nodded and played another chord, ever so gently. “I always wondered what possessed Elton John to sing a song like ‘Your Song,’” he mused. “I think maybe now I know.” He turned in his seat and looked at me, the hint of a smile on his lips. “He could have given his man anything in the world, but somehow a song . . .” His words trailed off. “A song about you is easy. I could write a thousand. But a song for you? To put into words . . .”
I lifted the blankets on his side of the bed. “Come here, baby.”
He seemed to hesitate for a split second, but he put his guitar down and slid back into bed. I folded him up in my arms and rubbed his back. He nuzzled into my chest. “I love you, Maddox. ‘For every day I have lived, for every beat of my heart.’”
He froze, then pulled back to see my face. Even in the dark I could see his smile. “That’s one of our songs. Off our first album.”
I chuckled and pulled him back in to where it was warm. “What can I say, I’m a fan. Want me to sing it?”
“No, please don’t. I’ve heard you sing.”
So of course I did. “‘For every day I have lived . . .’”
He laughed and pinched my ass. “You’re butchering one of our songs. Pretty sure that’s a crime.”
“I’m not that bad.”
He chuckled quietly and I could feel him smile against my chest. “I was sixteen when I wrote that. I had no idea what love was. I thought I knew. I knew what I wanted it to be.”
“Was falling in love with me everything you wanted it to be?”
He squeezed me, snuggled in, and sighed. “And so much more. I don’t know how I survived before you.”
I kissed the side of his head. “I love you so much, Maddox.”
“Love you, too.”
“Get some sleep, baby.”
“‘I want to dream of you,’” he whispered. “‘Where the world can’t touch us, where time can’t betray me. Where your smile lives on forever. That’s where I’ll be.’”
It was one of their songs from their last album. I finished it for him. “‘Where love still lingers, I want to dream of you and me.’”
We’d just had breakfast and were getting organized for the full dress, full stage production rehearsal. It was a busy day. We were literally five minutes away from leaving, everyone was in good spirits . . . until Ambrose walked in for a quick briefing.
He gave us a bulleted rundown on all the usual particulars. What to expect at the stadium, what last minute minor details had been changed, what times we needed to be done.
“Unit teams are as follows,” he said. I knew it was coming . . . I just knew it. “Luke and Blake with Amber, Wes and Jeremy with Roscoe, Maddox with Ryan.”
Ryan and I both moved to object, but Ambrose declared the meeting over, turned on his heel, and walked out.
“I’ll go speak to him,” Ryan said.
I stopped him. “Don’t worry about it. He clearly saw the pictures from yesterday.”
Maddox and I had been photographed leaving the dance studio complex; the photos were everywhere. Us side by side, my hand on his back. And obviously Ambrose didn’t like us not following his rules.
“Are you sure?” Ryan asked.
I nodded. The truth was, Maddox could handle riding with Ryan just fine. What wouldn’t have gone down well was another reprimand or a caution or an official warning of breach of my employment contract. “I think it’s best if we just keep our heads down and get through the last five concerts.”
Ryan gave a nod, and although Maddox was pissed, he more or less agreed with me.
He just wanted this tour to be over.
The rehearsal went fine. Maddox’s throat and voice held up well, though he didn’t push it too hard. He rested when he should, he drank honey tea, lots of water, and took his pills like a good boy. He didn’t sleep much that night, and like the night before, I woke to find him writing in his notebook sometime after three. He was frowning at the paper, his knee bouncing, like his mind couldn’t settle.
He was tired the next morning, though of course he never complained. He was quiet though.
The Toronto concert went well, and Maddox’s voice was strong. Wes was rolling his shoulder, grimacing. Blake limped off the stage.
The Ottawa concert was much the same though everything was beginning to take a toll. It wasn’t unusual to find them asleep in the dressing room or barely able to keep their eyes open during hair and make-up.
The Montreal concert went off like a firecracker. The Olympic Stadium was packed with sixty-five thousand screaming fans, and it really felt like they were part of the show. They roared with each song, they danced and sang every word, and the guys left absolutely nothing behind on that stage. For over two hours, they gave every single thing they had.
When they came off after the last song, they were breathless, sweating, exhausted. Wes’s shoulder would need more PT, and Blake’s knee would likely need another injection, at the very minimum. Maddox’s throat was sore again, though not inflamed or swollen like it had been. Jeremy was sucking on an oxygen can and Luke was flat on the floor.
They were happy, yes. The concert had been great, the crowds were awesome, but there was no bounce in their steps as we left the stadium. There was no hyped-up excitement, no laughing as we bundled into the vans and drove back to the hotel.
Maddox didn’t sleep too well. He hadn’t slept well for over a week. Even after the concert, the hot shower, and a belly full of food. He was utterly exhausted but slept fitfully at best. I’d pulled him in for a hug, rubbing his back and holding him tight, and he sighed and leaned heavily into me.
“Two more concerts to go, baby,” I whispered. “Just two.”
Leaving Montreal for Boston, Hardwick put Maddox on another twenty-four-hour voice rest, which to be honest, I think he was thankful for. We spent the day traveling anyway, but Maddox was happy to pull his hoodie up, hunker down in his seat, and stare out the window.
Boston was always one of my favorite cities, but not even being back in the States helped Maddox’s state of mind too much.
We were almost at the finish line. We were so close we could almost see it, but I was beginning to wonder if we’d ever get there.
The Boston concert was at the Gillette Stadium, which felt impossibly large. We’d played in bigger, but for some reason it felt vast and never-ending. It felt like a chore. The rehearsals, even the actual concert. The crowds were amazing, the fans always were. Mostly. But god, I just wanted it all to be over.
Everyone was tired: the boys, the stage crew, the production crew, the make-up and wardrobe teams. The smiles and the energy from the beginning of the tour were long gone, as I knew they would be by now.
When we finally got to New York City, the guys wanted to do a thank you video to their fans. The tour was almost over and this would be their personalized send off. It was just an impromptu and candid thing, filmed on Luke’s phone set up on a tripod in front of them. They sat in the common room at the hotel, with Maddox, Jeremy, and Blake on a sofa, Luke and Wes sitting between their legs on the floor. “Hello!” They all waved at the camera.
“Maddox is back on voice rest,” Jeremy announced. Maddox waved again and managed half a smile. Jeremy took Maddox’s small notepad and held it up for the camera. “He’s supposed to write down what he wants to say, but it’s basically just rude words and obscene pictures.” Maddox snatched back his notepad and shoved Jeremy. He quickly scribbled something down and Jeremy gasped. “Mom! Maddox said a rude word!”
It was all in good fun, and they were joking and hilarious and charming, just like always. They thanked everyone for the amazing tour, and how they loved all the fans, and how the whole team behind the scenes had worked really hard, and how they were in New York City for the final show of the tour. It was short and sweet, but they wanted their fans to know how much they appreciated their support.
But when the interview was over, when they all got up from the couch, Maddox came straight over to me and into my arms. He was so tired, so over everything. I kissed the side of his head. “Wanna go to our room?” I asked. He nodded against my chest, so I took his hand and led him out.
I didn’t give it another thought. We ordered some room service and put some movie on the TV, Maddox strummed on his guitar for a bit, and I answered emails.
But then Jeremy called Maddox’s phone. He hit Answer but he still wasn’t supposed to be talking, so he put it on speaker.
“You’re on speaker,” I called out.
“Guys, you better come here. To the common room,” he said, his voice low. “Uh, now.”
Well, shit, that didn’t sound good at all . . .
So we went.
They’d uploaded the video onto their social media platforms, as was the plan, and sure enough, within an hour, they were trending.
The power they held, the driving force of their fans. It was pure madness.
But I hadn’t checked my phone, I hadn’t looked at social media. And there on the TV screen on the wall in the common room was a photo. Just a usual photo of Luke laughing, clearly taken just after the video they’d done, but there behind him . . . it was kinda blurry but distinguishable enough.
“I didn’t notice before I uploaded it,” Luke said, pale and horrified. “I’m so sorry.”
He’d taken some photos after the video had stopped filming. They’d all been mucking around with their phones. In the background of the photo was Maddox and me. My arms around him, his arms around me, his face against my neck, his eyes closed, my lips at his ear. It was a lover’s embrace, no doubt about it.
“We were gonna take down the photos, but we didn’t know if that’d make it worse,” Jeremy said. “But Madz . . .” He shook his head. “It’s too late. They’re everywhere. This photo of you and Roscoe has gone viral.”
Chapter Fifteen
Viral was an understatement.
It was trending on every social media platform, along with variations of Roscoe and Maddox, Moscoe is real, Raddox in love, blah blah blah. It was on every news entertainment site, every music site; it was everywhere.
Not only was there the photo of Maddox and I hugging, but now every photo of us together ever was being posted. Photos that were years old, photos from yesterday. Us smiling, us in Buenos Aires, in Miami, him waiting for me, him dragging me into the van, him wearing my coat, my hand on his back, me carrying his stuff . . .
So many photos.
It was . . . well, it wasn’t fucking good.
Then Ambrose walked in, eyes narrowed, iPad in hand, and one of his assistants behind him appeared a little bewildered as though she’d just witnessed him lose his shit. He looked at us all together, noticed the screen with the photo on it, and sighed as if he was clinging to his last thread of sanity.
Luke stood up. “It was my fault. I took the photo, I uploaded it without noticing what was going on in the background. I know better, but I’m so used to seeing them together, I guess I just didn’t even notice. I don’t know.” He turned to us again. “I’m really sorry.”
Ambrose was flustered and angry, though he let out a slow breath. “What’s done is done. It can’t be removed, it’s everywhere. But there will be no more private uploads until this tour is over. From anyone. I have no idea how PR will spin this.”
“Spin this? If there is an apology,” Maddox said, his voice a little gruff. He cleared his throat and tried again. “If an apology is released because head office believes two guys hugging is something to be sorry for, I will lose my fucking shit.”
