Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

TAM

329 bobas left until they both die …

I slump down to the couch in my dressing room, leaning my head back against the seat behind me. No sooner have I closed my eyes than my manager is reaching out to shake my shoulder.

“I know you’re tired, but we have two short things to film and then you can sleep in the van on the way to the photoshoot.”

I groan and slap Jacob’s hand away, weary down to my bones. If I’m this tired, and the tour has barely started, how am I going to survive? I’m already positive that I won’t, that I’ll be dead by the end of next year and buried on a peaceful hill in the middle of nowhere. That honestly sounds nice. I could use the rest.

But I have worked too hard and come too far to throw it all away now. I gave up everything to get where I am: my childhood, friends, girlfriends, hobbies. There is my music, and my career, and there’s nothing else. I open my eyes and push up to my feet, slowly, like I’m nearing my hundredth birthday.

“Right this way.” My manager—who also happens to be my only cousin—gestures me toward the door with his iPad clutched against his chest, a perpetual glower on his face. My mom should be around here somewhere, schmoozing executives and making nice with the other managers. I sigh as I pass my bodyguard, Daniel Kang. He offers me a stony, gray-eyed stare, following me down the hall to a red backdrop where an overexcited rookie idol is waiting for me.

His choreographer breaks down about thirty seconds of his new dance, and then we perform it together so that the clip can be uploaded to every social media platform known to mankind. Possibly also to social media platforms known by aliens. It takes all of twenty minutes, but Jacob is already fretting about the schedule.

“Change his jacket; we don’t have time to redo hair and makeup,” he commands, and I swap the black leather with the gold stitching for a plain white hoodie with the Tambourine logo on the front. “Take a seat on this stool, and we’ll film your Spotify Wrapped fan message,” he commands.

I do what I’m told—I’m running on autopilot at this point—and smile for the camera, thank my fans for streaming my music and wishing them the best of luck in the New Year (this won’t be aired until December, but it needs to be filmed now).

After that, I’m bustled out a side door, past hordes of screaming fans, and then tucked into a captain’s chair inside of a blacked-out SUV.

I’m asleep within seconds of sitting down. I’m up again in fifteen minutes and trundling past another horde of fangirls into a new building. Given new clothes to wear. Pushed into a stylist’s chair. Photographed, photographed, photographed, filmed.

When I arrive at my hotel room that evening, I pass out in my clothes, shoes still tucked on my feet, and I don’t wake up until my mother shows up the next morning.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” she says gently, as if I’m twenty-years younger. Six years old and already performing in commercials, taking small roles in Netflix dramas, singing and dancing and posing and smiling. I’m exhausted.

I push up into a sitting position, rubbing a hand down my face.

What country are we in right now? I can’t even remember. South Korea? My brain is made of scrambled eggs.

“Was there something on the schedule for this morning?” I ask. There wasn’t, last I checked. Please God tell me there isn’t. I was promised sleep today.

“It’s three in the afternoon,” my mother tells me, dressed in a crisp white pantsuit, blond hair slicked back and gathered into a perfect bun. Her makeup is flawless, her smile effortless, but all of that foundation can’t hide how tired she is, too. This isn’t just my dream: it’s our dream. I wouldn’t be where I am without her. “I thought you might want something to eat.”

I smile at her, turning and then working one sneaker off with the other until I’m sighing in shoeless bliss.

“I appreciate that,” I tell her honestly, reaching up to ruffle my hair. It’s sticking up on one side, a consequence of collapsing with one cheek pressed into a pillow and remaining comatose for hours. “But I’d rather sleep than eat.”

“Take the rest of the day off,” she tells me warmly. We both know that neither of us has had a single day off in … about six months. Maybe seven. No, no, eight. My mom hesitates before she stands up, and I lean in, lifting a brow and then poking her gently with my elbow.

“Is it that guy again?” I ask, and she blushes. The always uptight Elena Eyre looks a little ruffled as she reaches up to smooth her perfect hair. I smile. “It is, isn’t it?” My mom’s been seeing a new guy, the first one she’s dated since … my dad.

I ignore the feelings in my chest. I won’t make her feel bad for dating when it’s been thirteen years since he died. I keep the smile on my face.

“No, it is not that guy,” she huffs, but I can tell she’s still seeing him by the way she hesitates. “He’s in Tokyo right now, but he’s going to meet us in New York.” I nod at that. Makes sense. If the guy can’t travel to see my mom, they won’t end up together. She’d sooner give up her left arm than her job as my brand manager.

Sometimes, I wonder if that’s because she wants to be here or if … she knows that without her, I’d be alone.

Four-hundred-million Instagram followers, and I am all alone.

“Please call Kaycee today,” she urges, and the smile tumbles right off of my face.

“Please get out of my room,” I tease. Sort of. I’m already yawning again, stretching my arms over my head with a groan. “Don’t you think that out of everything, at least my girlfriend should be my business and my business alone?”

“Not when she’s signed to the same label as you,” Mom says briskly, rising to her feet and smoothing her hands down her cherry red blouse to clear away imagined wrinkles. She picks a faux piece of lint from her elbow. In reality, there was nothing there at all. “This isn’t just a relationship: it’s a business transaction.”

“How romantic,” I reply with a shithead smile. My mom deserves better, but I’m not allowed to be an asshole ever, so it slips out on occasion when we’re alone. “Sorry,” I add when I remind myself how much I owe the woman standing in front of me. I rise to my feet and bend low to give her a gentle kiss on the cheek. “Make you a deal: you call your boyfriend and I’ll call my girlfriend. Okay?”

“You’re a brat,” my mother tells me, but she’s smiling as she strides out the doors of the bedroom and into the suite’s living room area. Her Louboutins and her so-smart pantsuit making her look like she was born to wealth, instead of the woman who clawed her way from the bottom with bloodied fingernails. I smile a little wider.

“A brat? I’m a grown man. Get out of my room.”

“Speaking of grown men …” She snaps her fingers and turns around near the hotel room door. I slouch my shoulder against the wall and rest there. Tired as I am, I doubt I’ll be able to get back to sleep. It’s hardwired in me to push until I can’t push anymore, to move until collapse is imminent. More than likely, I’ll stay up, order some room service, and try to write a song.

The best part of being famous is this: every once in a while, you get to break from the market and make a piece of art that really and truly speaks to your soul. This song that I’m going to write, it’ll be that. It’ll be art.

“Grown men?” I ask on the end of another yawn, scratching absently at my T-shirt. I need a shower. I smell awful. I wonder if the Tambourines would like me as much if they knew that I stink as bad as any other guy who hasn’t showered after working out. I danced for … shit, four hours yesterday? At least. “What about grown men?”

“You have an underwear ad to shoot tomorrow. Make sure you groom yourself today.” She flicks her fingers in my direction, and I hook another wry smile.

“Are you telling me that I smell? Point taken. I’ll shower as soon as you leave.”

“Don’t forget about the underwear ad!” she calls out, and then she disappears into the hallway, and I sag boneless-ly against the wall with a sigh. Daniel already promised me that he checked for spy cams in here, but a person can never be too careful. I’m not letting my naked picture show up online. Definitely not letting a video of me … you know … in the shower go viral.

I pad over to my bag and remove the spy cam detector, giving the room a thorough sweep—especially the outlets—before I put it away and head into the bathroom. I’m relieved to be alone—truly and utterly alone—for once. And I’m even more relieved that there are no cameras. We’ve found them before on too many occasions to count.

First thing I do is order room service from my phone. Second thing I do is strip down and take care of myself in the shower. Try to anyway. Can’t get it up. Too tired.

I sigh.

Some international sex symbol I am. Can’t even make myself come.

I give up. Only then do I scrub, shave, and climb out to wrap a big white towel around my hips.

When I return to the living room area, I see that Daniel has brought the food in and left it for me on a silver cart in the middle of the room. I lift the lid from my cheeseburger and sigh. Day off of everything for me today—especially off of my diet. I should’ve ordered oxtail soup or bibimbap or something, but I couldn’t resist when I saw there were burgers on the menu.

Just don’t tell Jacob or my mom or the CEO of Hype Co., Ltd.

I settle into a chair at the table with my food in front of me and a blank notebook open on my lap. I tap my pen against it, waiting for the inspiration to come. It takes a few bites of cheeseburger—medium-rare with cheddar and bacon and avocado—to open the floodgates. But once the tide comes in, it’s over for me.

I forget that I’m wrapped in a towel, that I have an underwear ad shoot tomorrow, that my cola has gone flat.

I forget about Kaycee Quinn, too, for a while there.

My phone buzzes, and I blink like I’m coming out of a trance, lifting my head up to glance at the screen. Crap. I set my journal aside and decline the video portion of the chat on my end. I can’t talk to anyone—even my girlfriend—in a towel.

“Hey,” I say, greeting her first and then wondering if I don’t sound like someone delivering a funeral dirge. I glance at the time. It’s been two hours since I sat down to write. It feels good to get lost like that. “And sorry if I sound like an ass, I’m just—”

“Tired?” Kaycee finishes for me, her face concerned on the screen. If she’s upset that I declined to show her my own face, she doesn’t let on. She’s dressed in fuzzy pink pj shorts, and a tank top that can’t be real. It’s only five o’clock, and nobody goes to bed in stage makeup and a tiara. Kaycee must still be at the shoot for her new video. “I understand, and don’t worry about it.” She hesitates there, pursing her pink-painted lips as she glances off to one side like she’s nervous about something. When she looks back at the screen, I think I have a pretty good idea of what it is. “We’re starting the US tour in NYC together. Did your manager tell you that?” Her mouth twitches prettily. “Your mom?”

“Nobody tells me anything,” I say, folding a cold fry into my mouth. I scratch out a word on my notebook page and replace it with another. Scratch it out again and put the original word back. “But that’s great. I assume we’re doing “Our First Night” in duet?”

Kaycee and I have a few songs together, and they’re both her and my biggest hits. That’s the only reason that Hype walked back the no dating clauses in our respective contracts. Except … we’re only allowed to date each other. We’re not even allowed to break up without permission.

“All three songs,” she corrects, sounding perfectly happy about it. “Even better: I’ll be at basically every show with you—minus the last one in LA. I have a drama shoot.” Kaycee pauses, and I can see the skin around her eyes tightening. Here it comes. Shit. “Maybe we could … have a proper date when we’re in New York? Just you and me, a bottle of wine, and … a bed?”

“Maybe,” I tell her, when what I mean is no. Sex ruins everything. It’s the easiest and quickest path downhill, and I’ve worked way too fucking hard to get to the top. “Yes for sure on the first two.”

Kaycee sighs at me.

“You’re the weirdest guy I’ve ever dated.”

I ghost a smile that she can’t see, still scratching away at my notebook.

“I’m the only guy you’ve ever officially dated,” I respond, which is true. That’s what Hype Records wanted for Kaycee’s public persona. “I’ll see you in New York, okay?” Even though there are three months between now and then, it’s highly unlikely that we’ll get a chance to see each other in person. We’ll text. We’ll call each other. Maybe. My favorite part of dating Kaycee Quinn is knowing that she understands that the job comes first, the job always comes first, and being busy twenty-four-seven is just a part of the deal.

“Okay.” She doesn’t sound happy. I lift the phone up so that only my face will be visible and hit the camera icon. Her lips stretch to either side in a pleased smile. “There now, was that so hard? And don’t think I’m going to forget about that bottle of wine.” She hangs up on me before I can respond, and I laugh, shaking my head and tossing my phone aside.

Three months until the biggest tour of my career heads back to the States.

I wish I could say that seeing Kaycee is going to be the highlight of my year, but … that isn’t true.

It’s this.

The music. The crowds. The recognition.

The art.

Those are the things that I live for.

I dial up some more room service, finish the first draft of my song, and get out the body wax. If I don’t use it, somebody else will, and I’m not about letting anyone else into my space bubble. Not a beauty technician. Not a fangirl. Not even Kaycee Quinn.