Code red, p.8
Code Red, page 8
I ignored how he felt on my lap. I ignored how he felt against my chest. I ignored how he smelled. He, on the other hand, smiled the world’s most beautiful smile and took some photos.
“Don’t upload that,” I said, trying to sound stern. “I mean it, Maddox.”
“But if I do, then we don’t have to decide our stupid couple name because the fans will decide for us.”
“That’s not funny.”
Still sitting on my lap, he turned to face me. “What would be funny is if I put the caption something like ‘You have no idea how good he smells,’ and the internet will die.”
“Maddox.”
“Because you do smell really good,” he whispered. “The world should know. It’s a great injustice that they don’t.”
“The only thing that should happen is you sitting in your own seat.”
“Well, I would,” he murmured, his lips closer to my ear. “But your arm is still around me.”
I looked at my traitorous arm and moved it. He chuckled and slid back over to his seat. Christ, this car ride had been dizzying. I needed to try to recoup some control.
“You can’t post those photos,” I said, my tone low. “Unless you want me on the first plane back to Vermont.”
He shot me a look, alarmed and puzzled. “Why?”
“Because Ambrose would drive me to the airport himself. One, you not seated in your own seat. Two, no seatbelt. Three, on my lap. Four, fooling around. Five, in a moving vehicle. And six, because he can fire me anytime he wants.”
“I told you before, no one’s firing you.”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s not your decision.”
He stared at me, amused and stubborn, and he smiled again. “It’d be interesting to see who holds the most power, me or Ambrose. Don’t you think?”
“No. No, I do not think. That is a competition no one wins. No one.”
“I mean, he can claim control and management, but if I walk away, what does he have? Pretty sure Arlo Kim would pick me.”
This was a dangerous conversation. “What do you mean, walk away?”
Steve turned around in the front. “ETA, one minute.”
Maddox sighed and fixed his cap, pulling it down tight.
I wasn’t letting him not answer my question. “Hey. Do you think about walking away?”
He waited until the van slowed, then he shrugged. “Not really. I don’t think I could.” He gave me a smile that was all stage and performative. His public smile. “I don’t know who I am without any of this.”
The van door opened. I didn’t want to drop this conversation but I had to. I grabbed my backpack and went out first. Maddox followed close behind, and security ushered us through the wall of photographers and fans.
And the madness began all over again.
One interview—live, on morning TV—and a photoshoot.
Madness and mayhem. Push and shove. Screaming crowds, the constant click of cameras, the call of names in a futile attempt to get a direct-eye-contact photograph or even for them to look in that general direction.
The boys would always be polite and wave if they could, but they mostly kept their heads down and kept moving. The majority of fans were just excited, which was great. But some . . . well, some were fucking crazy.
They screamed through the fencing, though, and the boys simply waved, and we followed the studio staff through the doors and into a large room where Bibi and the make-up and stylist teams were already waiting.
They were on a bit of a time crunch—traffic took longer than expected—but they swarmed in, did their magic in no time at all, and before we knew it, the boys were walking out onto the stage to a deafening applause.
They took their seats in formation opposite the hosts, and whereas their last TV appearance had been fun and showed the side of the band that was funny and loud, this interview was more serious.
“Your album Beacon shot to number one just about everywhere,” the host said. “And for me, when I listened to this, I felt an undercurrent of hope, which I guess is what a beacon is. Tell us what the message is behind these songs.”
Wes answered. “We all brought something to the table for this album. We wanted our fans to connect with each song for whatever they’re going through. There’s a journey in every album, I guess. Reasons to be mad, reasons to celebrate, to be grateful.”
“Congratulations on kicking off your tour. Your concert last night was a huge success,” the host said. I got the feeling she was a huge fan. “Rolling Stone called it an ‘epic, cross-genre, multi-generational sensory experience.’ How does that make you feel?”
Blake answered, saying it was surreal.
“If someone told you six years ago, when you were just a high school band with big dreams, that you’d be where you are now, what would you say?”
Luke answered with a laugh. “I’d have called them delusional. There’s no way we’d have believed them.”
“Which song on the Beacon album is your favorite? To sing, to perform?”
Jeremy put his hand to his heart as if he’d been wounded. “That’s a tough question because we each wrote our own songs, or we co-wrote or produced. We had a hand in every song.” He groaned. “But I’d have to say ‘Fly.’”
“‘Oceans,’” Maddox said quickly. It was the first time he’d spoken all interview.
“‘Metronome,’” Luke answered.
“‘Reflection,’” Blake said.
“‘Puzzle,’” Wes said. “Because I wrote it, but ‘Oceans’ is beautiful.” He smiled over at Maddox. “The melody and bridge combo is extraordinary. Maddox wrote it, and when he played it for us, we knew it was something special.”
Of course this opened up a direct line of questioning to Maddox. “Can you explain what the song means to you?”
He smiled and shifted on his seat, nervous or uncomfortable. Or both. “‘Oceans’ . . . it’s, uh, it’s a personal thing. It’s about power and depth, tumultuous and healing, the ebb and flow of life, I guess.”
I watched from the wings, my pulse thumping oddly in my veins. The conversation with him in the car this morning had been a rollercoaster. He’d been everything from happy and flirty to vulnerable and scared.
And now to hear him talk about something personal in public just made my heart ache.
Jeremy commandeered the question, thankfully, and talked about the writing process, about what came first, the lyrics or the melody, and how a song is born.
Maddox was never excluded. He agreed and nodded and was involved, but the focus was off him, and I was relieved.
Until it was almost time to cut to a commercial. “Now, Maddox, I can’t let you leave without asking you something that’s been on everyone’s mind since yesterday . . .”
She gestured to the screens behind them, and there was a photograph of me.
Fucking fuckity fucking fuuuuuck.
“Now, this is not your bodyguard, is it?” she pressed.
Maddox laughed. He actually fucking laughed. “No, that’s my manager.” Then, because he apparently couldn’t help himself, he pointed at me standing off camera. “There he is. Roscoe, say hi.”
Every camera swung around to face me.
I was going to kill him.
Amber and Ryan scattered like scolded cats, and all I could do was wave. Like an idiot.
“Roscoe, is it?” the host asked, grinning, because he’d just handed her the scoop of the fucking year.
“Yes, that’s right,” I replied.
“Now, you’re sure you’re not some long-lost Hemsworth brother?”
I couldn’t help but smile at that, because that was ridiculous. One of the studio crew handed me a mic, which was also ridiculous. “Absolutely sure. Sorry.”
“I have to ask,” she said sweetly. “What’s it like managing the biggest band in the world?”
“I’m part of a team, so it’s not just me,” I replied. “But I can say, confidently on behalf of the entire management team, it’s like herding cats.”
The five boys burst out laughing. Maddox laughed the loudest, and it was a genuine laugh too. He almost doubled over.
The director gave her the wind-up signal and she recovered quickly. “We’ll be back after this commercial break with Atrous performing their hit song ‘Fly.’ Don’t go anywhere.”
The guys got off their stools and our sound crew quickly fitted them with their earpieces and mics, and they took their places on the dance floor. They played to the audience a little and when they went back on-air, the song was introduced and they sang.
Oh, they were great and Maddox was perfection.
But I was still going to kill him.
“I’ll be in the green room,” I said, not even waiting for the song to finish.
Amber gave a nod. “I’ll herd the cats.”
I grumbled all the way to the green room. The stylist teams were gone, already off to the photo shoot location. I began packing up all the mess, with probably more vigor than was completely necessary. I swear to god, they’d been in this room for less than thirty minutes. How did they make such a mess?
I heard them coming before I saw them, and when they bustled in through the door, they stopped when they saw me.
Jeremy meowed, and they all busted up laughing again.
“Pick up your shit. We leave in two minutes.”
Jeremy, Luke, Blake, and Wes all stared at me. I’d probably never sworn at them before. Maddox pounced forward, his hands like claws. “Feisty kitty.”
I sighed, letting the backpack I was holding drop so I just had the handle. I looked at the others, who were now trying not to smile. “Please collect your belongings. We’re on a schedule.”
I waited for them at the rear exit doors. The vans were lined up, and soon enough the guys filed out with their security, all of them with trying-not-to-smile smiles. Amber and Ryan gave me a nod as they walked past, Maddox was last, followed by Steve, and we walked in silence to our waiting van.
Steve slid the door shut behind me and Maddox watched as I took my seat. “I feel like I’m in trouble.”
“You are.”
“Like I’ve been sent to the principal’s office.”
“Put your seatbelt on.”
“You put yours on.”
He . . . he had a good point.
I put my seatbelt on and he smiled as he buckled his. “You know, I didn’t bring the topic of you up in that interview. She asked me.”
“You could have deflected the question.”
“But you were right there. And you being all stern with your arms crossed was kinda hot.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
“And herding cats? I can’t believe you said that.”
I shifted in my seat. “Well, that was probably out of line. Sorry.”
“Are you kidding? It was funny as hell. And I bet you anything you like . . .” He took his phone out, scrolled for all of two seconds, and nodded. “Yep. Herding cats is trending. And you. Soooo many pictures of you.”
He turned his phone to show me the screen. And there I was. Standing next to a cameraman with my arms crossed and a none-too-pleased smile on my face.
Soooo many pictures of me.
“That is the exact thing I wanted to avoid.”
Maddox looked at his phone again, scrolling. “Have you tried not being so hot?”
I sighed.
“Ooh, right click and save. This one’s gonna be my screensaver.” He scrolled some more. “And I found my lock screen pic.”
He turned his phone long enough for me to see a zoomed in photo of me, again with my arms crossed. “Holy biceps,” he mumbled. “And in a polo shirt. God, they’re going to write fanfictions about you as a sports coach, or a preppy professor and I’ll be the rogue student who needs a very firm lesson, if you know what I mean.”
I didn’t reply to that.
“You know they do that, right? Write fanfiction stories about all kinds of shit. We read some once. It was weird, and kinda hot, kinda gross.”
“Yes, I know they do that.”
“Have you read any?”
“No.”
“I think you have and you’re just too embarrassed to admit it.”
“Can this conversation end now? Please.”
He laughed. “Anyway, back to the herding-cats thing . . .”
My phone buzzed again, and needing the distraction, I checked the screen. It was Ambrose calling me. I showed Maddox the screen. “Oh, goodie. This conversation is gonna be so much fun.”
I hit Answer. “Hall speaking.”
“I saw the interview.”
“Yeah, about that—”
“It’s all over the internet.”
“I know.”
“The band has, in one way or another, held four out of the top ten trends on social media in the last twenty-four hours. Including you.”
“I know. I tried to explain—”
“It’s a good thing, Roscoe,” he said. “It’s keeping our PR team busy, that’s for sure.”
“It’s hardly—”
“Anyway, we can discuss it later. I’m coming to the photoshoot. I have some news for the boys.”
I contained my temper enough not to sigh. “Okay, see you there. We’re on our way now.”
I ended the call and took a deep breath as quietly as I could.
“So glad he let you finish one sentence,” Maddox said, not looking up from his phone.
“He’s coming to the photoshoot.”
Maddox looked up then. “What for? If he reprimands you about the herding-cats thing, I’m gonna be pissed.”
I scrubbed my hand over my face and decided it was just best to read my emails and messages.
After a few minutes silence between us, he tapped his boot to mine. “Hey,” he said, waiting for me to look up before he continued. “I’m sorry about the interview. Next time I’ll deflect the question.”
“There won’t be a next time,” I replied. “I’ll be staying in the green room from now on.” Where I should have stayed today.
He chewed on the inside of his lip for a bit, then grimaced. He showed me his phone again, and this time it was a photo of us walking into the TV studio. I had my hand on his back, and he was smiling. “We have a couple name.”
I rolled my eyes and sighed. For the love of fucking God. “Don’t tell me what it is. I don’t—”
“It’s Moscoe.”
I groaned and banged my head against the headrest a few times. After I sighed, again, I tried to stay composed. “Thank you for not telling me.”
He grinned. “You’re welcome.”
Chapter Seven
The photoshoot for Rolling Stone was in an old, abandoned stage theater. The parking lot was fenced off with mesh-covered chain link, so our convoy was hidden from the street.
The venue itself was an amazing nod to Art Deco architecture and must have been magnificent in its prime. Now it was peeling paint, warped drywall, and sprung upholstery. Time and neglect hadn’t been kind to the old-fashioned plaster molds and tin-pressed ceilings, wallpapers and drapery. It was creepy and eerie and would make an amazing horror movie set, but today it made a stunning location shoot.
There was more make-up, more hair stylists, and outfits and jewelry worth more than I made in a year. Amber, Ryan, and I kept everything in order, and Maddox handed everything off to me like he usually did. There was an interview to go with the photos, but the whole thing was really well done and a lot of fun.
“Last photo,” the director called. He asked the five band members to show the tattoos on their right wrist. They each had a triangle inked there, each one a different section of the pentagon shape that together made up the Atrous logo. They gripped the forearm of the guy next to them, making a pentagon shape, and the photographer lay on the ground and snapped a pic from underneath. You could see the tattoos, but together they made their logo. It was a powerful photo.
He called it a cover-worthy shot.
The interviewer asked, “A pentagon for the five of you, obviously. Does it signify anything else?”
“No,” Maddox answered. “A five-sided shape of equal parts. That’s what we are. If one of us was gone, we could never be whole.” He shrugged, somewhat nervously. “Like the saying goes, the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. On our own, we’re just five ordinary guys. Together we conquered the world.”
“None of you would ever consider a solo career?” he asked. “When and if the time ever comes?”
Maddox’s expression was cool, if not a little offended. “God, no. Who the hell would I be without these guys? When I’m not with them, I feel like I’ve lost my phone or my keys. Five fingers, five senses, I dunno. Pick your analogy.”
“I could totally go out on my own,” Wes said, grinning.
Jeremy shoved him. “Fuck off. You can’t even decide pizza toppings on your own.”
They dissolved into laughter and more pushing and shoving, and I had to try to get the $20,000 diamond earrings off Maddox before they ended up falling down a crack in the floorboards.
I hadn’t noticed Ambrose arrive—I’d actually forgotten he was coming—until he called out from the top of the auditorium. “Still herding cats, Roscoe?” he yelled out.
That brought about more laughter, and Ambrose made his way down the steps to the stage. He held up three fingers. “What does this symbolize?”
“Wes’s IQ,” Blake replied.
“How high Blake can count,” Wes snapped back.
Ambrose’s smile became a grin. “Three. Three symbolizes . . . Triple. Platinum. Boys, the album’s just gone triple platinum!”
Holy shit.
There was a moment of stunned silence, then cheers and hell-yeahs, hugs and clapping.
“And I’ve booked a celebratory lunch at the Polo Lounge!” Ambrose said. “Let’s go!”
Steve barely had time to blink before he was organizing his security team for a full public outing without warning. We packed everything up, checked that all the outfits and jewelry were accounted for and signed off on. We thanked the Rolling Stone’s crew, and after Amber, Ryan, and I made sure we had all our things, we filed back into the vans and were off again.
