Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

KAYCEE

117 bobas left until they both die …

“Hey.” I reach out and snag the edge of Tam’s jacket. The concert is over, and I know he’s as desperate as I am to get back to the hotel so that he can shower and change. When he turns back to me, he’s got a smile on his face, but his expression is far away. “Last minute set change?”

Tam turns the rest of the way around, tucking his hands into his pockets. I can still hear the crowd cheering, but he’s already given them an encore, and he’s most definitely done for the night.

“I was against taking that song off the set list to begin with,” he tells me softly, and I frown. It’s a wonderful song—I’d argue it’s Tam’s best work—but it doesn’t set the right tone for such an upbeat, romantic show. “I was challenged recently to show some heart, so …” He shrugs, but I can’t help wondering who challenged him.

“Want to ride back to the hotel together?” I ask, and Tam nods. He holds out a hand for one of mine and leads me toward the back door, pausing when his assistant offers out his coat. He tosses it over my shoulders, and I smile. Tam is the reason I kept fighting for this dream. When I was sixteen, and he was twenty, I shattered my ankle. The recovery process was brutal; nobody thought I’d make it in this industry after that.

I didn’t know Tam then, but his music and his performances, his candid interviews, they got me through a dark space in my life. He’s not an easy person to date, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. There’s nobody else that I want. Just him. Just Tam Eyre.

He takes my hand again, and we both draw in long breaths before the doors open and the camera flashes start. Heads down, we push toward the SUV and slip inside with Daniel just behind us. Tam helps me get my seat belt on, and off we go.

“I’m so happy that you’re back, Pat,” Tam tells his driver, leaning forward to put his hand on the edge of the seat in front of him. “Jacob is a terrible driver, and he gets even crankier when he has to deal with traffic.”

“Is that even possible?” Pat asks, and I chuckle. Jacob is a notorious asshole, but he’s also Tam’s cousin, so I make the effort. “Beautiful show tonight, you two. I can feel the love between you when you sing together.”

I blush, and Tam sits back in his seat, looking contemplative. I watch as he slips his phone from his pocket, toying with it for a moment.

“Expecting a text from your mom?” I ask, but he shakes his head, smiling over at me.

“I think I made a friend the other day,” he tells me, and I feel my jaw drop. Tam chuckles and reaches out, poking my chin until I snap my lips shut. Jacob makes a strange sound from the front seat, and Daniel snorts from the back.

“He did not make a friend. He ran into some crazed fan at a … what is it called? Some weird tea shop.” Jacob turns around to look at me, worry clear in his gaze. “Kaycee, please talk some sense into him. Remember the last time he thought he’d made a friend?”

I do, and I feel sick over it. Tam started hanging out with a guy from his production crew, going out for drinks, playing pool, chilling in the hotel and playing cards. In the end, the guy quit his job and sold all the secret videos he’d made of Tam to the press.

“I’m taking it slow,” Tam promises me, but I don’t think he realizes how lonely he truly is. I’m the same way. This job is … difficult to explain. Everyone loves us, but we don’t know anyone. Everyone wants to be us, but we can’t trust anyone. Making friends, spending time with friends, it’s nearly impossible. The only people we can hang out with are others in the industry, like Adam and Dylan. Gag. “I think she’s part of a cult.”

“A cult?” I choke out, when what I really want to say is she?! I make myself breathe in and out, nice and slow. I suppose I can’t complain. I spent the other night hanging out with some asshole at a bar. I pick at my tights, and then turn back to Tam. He’s waiting to see what I have to say. I appreciate that. Sometimes, I feel like a doll, something to be posed and dressed up and lusted after. “I don’t understand.”

“The girl believes that she’s suffering under a curse,” Daniel explains from the backseat. I glance back to see Tam’s bodyguard cloaked in shadows, muscular arms crossed over his chest, face in a semi-permanent scowl. He almost never talks. For the first few months after I started dating Tam, I thought he was mute. If even Daniel has an opinion, this girl must be nuts. “I like her.”

“Like her?” Jacob is properly scandalized. “She told Tam that he needs to fall in love with her or she’ll die.”

I let out a tired sigh, working a hole in my tights with a single finger.

“Tam, how many times a day do you see that exact same message on social media?” I ask gently, reaching out for his arm. He offers a tight-lipped smile, and I see what’s going on. Tam is tired of being told what to do. His entire life, he’s done exactly what he’s supposed to, when he’s supposed to. It’s why he’s arguably the world’s most famous celebrity. It’s also why he’s starting to buckle under the weight of expectation.

“She’s in a cult,” Tam repeats, putting his phone back into his pocket. “Her family … I think they might be brainwashing her. I’m worried she might be killed if I don’t give her the time of day.”

“Let’s call it in to the authorities and wash our hands of it.” Jacob turns back to face the front, iPad in hand like he’s already halfway to making the call himself. “She is not your problem, Thomas.”

“Maybe not, but she’s interesting. I can at least entertain her until the deadline passes, right? Show her that she’s got nothing to be afraid of?” Tam has that tone in his voice that he gets when he’s preparing to work on a new song or conceptualizing an album. It’s his project voice, and it scares me.

“This girl isn’t a project,” I insist, wishing we could talk about something else. Tam and I have yet to … we only kiss in public for photos or on music video sets. We never kiss in private, and we haven’t had sex yet. I want to so badly that I ache for him. I think about him at night when I’m alone, and I make myself feel good with my hand. I want my boyfriend in bed, and that’s not such a horrible thing to ask for, is it? We’ve been dating for more than a year. “Let’s have a glass of wine, order some room service, and maybe we could write our own duet this time?”

The idea has me shifting in excitement. All three of our duet songs were chosen from the company directory. They hold no special meaning, and I know both Tam and I want to be more than dancing puppets. We’re both artists, and we’re both talented. We can write our own damn music.

“That sounds good,” he tells me, but then he’s yawning and slumping against the window.

By the time we get back to the hotel, he’s already asleep.

I kiss him on the cheek, climb out of the SUV with a sigh, and then head to my room by myself.

116 bobas left until they both die …

The itch is back the following night, the one that takes hold in my fingers and toes. I want to go out. I want to dance. I want to be surrounded but invisible. I want to drink tequila with too much salt, and move my body to the music, not in some overcomplicated choreography that’s been stamped into my brain.

I switch my clothes out, tie my hair up in a ponytail—I’m more difficult to recognize without my signature braids—and sneak downstairs when my manager is busy on a conference call.

My own bodyguard trails behind me, silent as a shadow. Her name is Wrenlee, and she’s in her early thirties, ex-military, very discreet. She’s the only bodyguard I’ve ever had who doesn’t rat me out to my manager.

I pick a club at random, something close by and popular, somewhere that isn’t known for hosting celebrities. I take a seat at the bar, order a drink, and then … I sit there. Alone. Surrounded, but alone. It’s not much different than the rest of my life, to be honest.

Some days, I ask myself if this is really what I want. I’m not sure the fame or the money is worth the loneliness. It gapes open inside of me, this empty space that’s supposed to be filled with people. My parents died when I was young, and I lived with my aunt and uncle until I debuted. Then my aunt passed away, my uncle remarried, and I haven’t seen him since. No siblings. No other relatives. No real friends. The last true friend I had was hit by a car …

I stare into my glass of tequila until it empties itself, and then I start all over.

I’m drunk by the time I remember him, that asshole from the bar, the one who blew me off because I said something about his sister. I feel guilty about that now, tapping out a sloppy apology to follow up the one I sent that night. He hasn’t responded to me since, and I just sort of assumed that he never would again.

But I’m Kaycee Quinn, I think, both hating and liking the guy for not caring all that much about my hard-won notoriety. If he were anyone else, he’d have let the insult go and not said a word about it. Anything to get close to up-and-coming Kaycee Quinn with her fifty-nine-million TikTok followers.

I’m sorry that I said that about your sister. Truly.

Only, I’m drunk, so the message looks more like this: im sry aboot yer sister. trutyl.

Shit.

I try to type up a correction, but my head is spinning. I drank too much. Happens sometimes, on days like this. I certainly don’t expect to get a reply.

Are you drunk? I can imagine that guy’s sharp face, lips parting in a tired sigh. Where at?

Oh, that’s right. He said he was following the tour with his sister. Hmm.

I debate on whether or not I should respond to him, but in the end, the loneliness wins out. Tam is in the practice room tonight, and then he’ll hit the gym, and after that, all he’ll want is a shower and some sleep. Can’t blame him. But today’s my day off, and I … guess I just want to make a friend, too. If Tam can make one, then surely I can, too?

I text him the address of the club, and then I wait.

Within fifteen minutes, I feel him standing next to me. I can’t explain it except to say that this guy—Joules, right?—has a presence. I turn my head slowly to the side, trying to play it cool, and I smile at him. The expression is sharp, turning my lips into a blade.

“You actually came?” I ask, and he snorts, reaching out to snatch the glass from my fingers before it can reach my lips. He takes the shot himself, and then sets the glass on the counter, reaching out a hand to me.

“Come on. You’re way too drunk to be out in public by yourself.”

I just stare at him, turning on the stool and nearly falling off the side of it. Damn. Maybe I’m a lot drunker than I thought? Is anyone looking? Has anyone seen? Is this going viral tomorrow?

Joules catches me before I can fall, and then he snaps his fingers in front of my face, breaking the stream of rapid-fire anxiety in my brain.

“Relax. Nobody knows you’re here. Let’s get you back to the hotel, okay?”

I narrow my eyes at him.

“My bodyguard is here; I’m not alone.” My words are slurred, barely recognizable, but somehow this guy with the handsome but very mean face understands them anyway. And those eyes, so blue, like frost.

“I know; she patted me down already. But that’s not what I meant. Come on.” Joules hauls me off the stool, and I stumble, falling into his chest. He catches me around the waist, but he doesn’t cling or rub or try to take advantage. He does his best to get me to stand up, and then leans down to peer into my face. “What hotel?”

I shouldn’t tell him. I should call my manager and have her come get me. I sniff a little, and then there are tears that I don’t want, that I don’t deserve to shed. I’m Kaycee fucking Quinn, and I’m rich, successful, and talented. Every girl wants to be me. Every guy wants to … sleep with me.

I cry a little harder, putting a hand over my face. And then I’m somehow crying and laughing at the same time, and Joules is holding me up with an arm slung companionably around my waist.

“Do you think we could be friends?” I ask him, and he looks startled. He wasn’t expecting that. He purses his lips.

“Why would you want to be friends with me?” he returns easily, as if he genuinely wants to hear my response to that question. All the while, he’s carefully guiding me toward the exit with Wrenlee on our heels. She doesn’t like this, but she knows not to interfere in my personal life. It’s a trait my manager does not share. If Laura finds out about this, she will lose her shit.

“You hate me because I insulted your sister,” I explain, still slurring my words. The world tips around me, and I stumble like I’m on the deck of a ship in a storm. Joules keeps me standing, guides me, waits for me to finish talking. Like Tam, he actually cares what I have to say. I feel my cheeks warm. “I’m sorry about that, by the way.”

“So you’ve said: three times already. Don’t worry about it. I accept your apology.” My knees collapse, and Joules scoops me up into his arms, his mouth twisted in a frown. “Do you have someone that can stay with you tonight? You might throw up. Hell, you might even have alcohol poisoning.”

I don’t answer. I just throw my arms around his neck and close my eyes, trying to stop the world from spinning. Joules lets me be, carrying me outside, hailing a taxi. He has the driver drop us off down the block from the hotel, and then puts me on my feet, back against a wall. Wrenlee waits silently off to one side, watching carefully.

Joules strips off his hoodie and then pulls it over my head, flipping the hood up to cover my hair and face.

“Come on.” He takes my hand and tugs me around to the back of the hotel and the employee entrance. There’s an empty silver pot there, propping the door open. Several employees stand around smoking cigarettes. “You are the worst little sister ever, Lake,” Joules says loudly, dragging me past them.

As soon as they hear that, the employees look away and pay us little attention.

I giggle as Joules guides me down the hall toward the elevator. Once we’re inside, I slump against him.

“You must be a challenging guy to have as a big brother,” I tell him, and he laughs at that.

“Yeah, well, fuck.” Just those three words. I look up to see him running his fingers through his hair, his expression faraway, guarded. He wasn’t either of those things the first night I met him. He looked determined, like he thought he could waltz into that club and seduce Kaycee Quinn with the same level of effort he uses on other girls.

Now … I don’t think he likes me.

“So, do you want to be friends?” I repeat, and he thinks for a minute. He stands there with his arms crossed, waiting for us to ascend twenty floors to my room. I wonder where he’s staying? Should I try to reimburse him for cab fare? I should, but I only have a credit card. “I can Venmo you the money for the cab.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he responds gruffly, taking my hand again when the elevator arrives. Joules leads me down the hallway toward my room, waiting as I try and fail to remove the key card from my wallet. “God, I can’t take it anymore. Give that to me.” He wrenches the card from the slot and taps it on the door handle, opening it up, and then gently pushing me inside with a hand on the small of my back. Wrenlee edges in behind me, and then turns, as if daring him to come into my room.

Joules ignores her and looks over her shoulder at me instead. “Drink some water, get some sleep, and if you still want to be friends in the morning, text me.”

He slams the door behind him and disappears.

I smile as I stand there in the foyer, swaying slightly on my feet. I look down and realize that I’m still wearing his hoodie, a solid black one with a logo on the front. Frost Family Construction it says. I pinch the fabric and pull it toward my nose, tilting my head forward, and closing my eyes. I inhale deeply, breathing in a spicy body spray and the vaguest cling of generic hotel soap. I know it well, from all the years I spent staying in cheap rooms while I chased my dream.

He’s no Tam Eyre, but … I like this gruff, honest person.

Yep. He’s the one. The first real friend I’m going to make.

“I won’t tell Laura about this,” Wrenlee says, as if she can read my mind. I look up and try to smile at her, but instead, all the tequila I drank comes right up my throat.

I barely make it to the toilet.

Since it’s not exactly in her job description, Wrenlee doesn’t hold my hair back. But that’s okay because Joules’ hoodie does it for me.

Afterward, I slip the hoodie off, stick a dry-cleaning tag on it, and hang it outside my door. If word gets around that I’m drying some rando guy’s hoodie, I’ll claim that a fan sent it to me as a gift or something. On my way to bed, a text comes in, and I stumble eagerly over to my phone, expecting a message from Tam. He’s been making an effort to text me every night before bed.

There is a message from him, but it must’ve come in a while ago, and I didn’t notice. Sleep tight, Miss Kaycee Quinn it reads. I smile, but I quickly scroll away to see what the new notification is about. I don’t get many on this phone; it’s my personal phone and full of shadow accounts that get little to no activity.

Did you drink water? Keep drinking it. And in the morning, just have an ibuprofen for breakfast. Don’t wait—you’ll regret it.

Another message comes in as I’m reading the first.

Oh, and you can keep the hoodie. My uncle has them printed by the dozen. I have six identical ones.

I’m grinning as I crawl into bed with a bottle of water by my side.

In the morning, when I get the hoodie back from the hotel staff, I put it on and bring it into permanent rotation in my wardrobe. For the rest of the day, I check to see if any videos or pictures about me have surfaced. If Joules wanted to, he could start a scandal with what happened between us.

When #DrunkKayceeQuinn doesn’t surface on social media, I make my decision.

Joules texts me in the afternoon.

My uncle now has enough construction jobs to last for the next two years. A ten-minute pause between messages. Thank you, KQ.

You’re welcome. P.S. I definitely want to be your friend, Joules Frost.

I put my phone into the pocket of Joules’ hoodie and make my way to dance practice.