Chapter 5

CHAPTER5

TATE

The sun is brutal as it leaks through the cracks in my bent and broken blinds, making me squint as rays of light beam upon my face, warming my skin. When I finally got home last night, I stripped out of my clothes and collapsed into bed, falling asleep immediately, not bothering to do all the things I normally do as part of my nightly routine.

Who am I? What have I become? I feel like an old man sometimes. An old man of freaking twenty-one.

At least I dreamed of a beautiful brown-haired, brown-eyed girl dressed up like a frothy piece of cake, a faint smile on her face and her eyes sparkling as she swayed to the music while I sang only to her. I snuck her off into a dark corner and kissed her, and she didn’t slap my face, which I considered a win.

Wait. That wasn’t a dream. That shit actually happened.

Throwing my arm across my eyes, I crack them open and immediately slam them shut, groaning. God, the sun is bright. What time is it? How long have I been sleeping anyway?

I sneak an arm out from beneath the covers and reach toward my nightstand, grabbing hold of my phone. Turning on my side, my back to the window, I hold the phone up in front of my face and check the time.

Nine twenty-six a.m.

I also just so happen to have countless—and I do mean countless—notifications. From all forms of social media that I’m on. A bunch of missed calls. Twenty-three voice mails.

Wait a minute.

Twenty-three?

Scrubbing a hand across my face, I close my eyes again and count to three before I blink them back open.

My phone immediately starts ringing in my hand.

The name flashing across the screen is familiar. Someone I haven’t talked to in a long time.

“Hey, Simon,” I greet our former band manager, my voice more like a deep croak. Last night’s performance took everything out of me, and I thought I was in shape, physically and vocally. I need to hit the gym more. And sing more too, apparently. “What the hell do you want?”

“So hostile! Can’t your old manager check up on you, make sure you’re doing all right?” His tone is falsely bright. Overly enthusiastic. That thick British accent has me on edge just like the old days, and I sigh into the phone, already triggered.

“It’s been years, Simon.”

“And I’m looking forward to catching up.” His voice is smooth, as is his demeanor.

Like usual. The man doesn’t miss a beat. But why the hell is he calling me on a Sunday morning?

An ominous feeling suddenly washes over me, dark and foreboding as it settles on my skin, sinking my stomach.

“What happened?” I sit up in bed, the comforter sliding off me and pooling in my lap, the chilly air making goose bumps rise. “Did—did someone from the band . . . die?”

Or maybe it’s my dark thoughts that are bringing on the goose bumps.

Simon chuckles, and I can tell he’s not loving my question. “Honestly, I always figured you’d be the first one to go.”

I’m immediately offended. “Gee, thanks. Yeah, can’t talk right now.” I lift the phone away from my face, speaking directly into the receiver. “Huh, my connection’s suddenly bad. See ya never, Simon.”

“Wait a minute!” Simon screams right before I hit the red button and end the call. The panic in his voice makes me pause. “Have you been on social media today?”

“I just woke up.” Unease slips down my spine, and I rub the side of my neck. “What’s going on?”

“I mean, have you checked your social media yet? Been on the internet in any capacity?”

“Stop being mysterious and just tell me what the fuck is going on,” I practically growl at him.

He’s completely unperturbed by my outburst. “You’re blowing up, my friend.”

I hate how he calls me his friend. Simon was never my friend, especially near the end of Five Car Pileup’s too-short career. Of course, I put the entire band at risk with my wild behavior throughout our last tour, and I’m pretty much the reason the band broke up, so I guess Simon had a reason to treat me like shit. His cash cow went belly up.

“Blowing up how?” I put the phone on speaker before I go onto Instagram and check my profile, blinking twice when I see my follower number.

I had a respectable amount for a former boy bander. Almost two hundred thousand. But now I’m at over four hundred thousand. Creeping closer to the half-a-million side.

Huh.

“You’ve gained a lot of followers over the last twenty-four hours,” Simon observes, like he knows exactly what I’m doing.

Which is fucking disconcerting, if you ask me.

“What, you keep track of me?” I sound hostile. I feel hostile. All those old memories come rolling back. The constant struggle between the band and Simon. The push and pull. The demands. The pressure.

God, the pressure of trying to measure up and failing miserably every single goddamn time.

“I still keep tabs on you, Tate. Besides, what’s the harm in me keeping track of your follower count,” Simon says, so nonchalant over the whole thing. “There are countless sites on the web that can do exactly that. And you should stop playing stupid with me. It was never a good look for you. You know exactly why you’re blowing up.”

“You tell me why you think I’m blowing up,” I throw at him, praying no one caught me doing something stupid at Scarlett Lancaster’s party.

“Your performance last night?” Simon speaks slowly, as if he’s talking to a simpleminded child who has issues comprehending information.

“Right.” I fall back onto the mattress, my head hitting the pillow with a thud. “At Scarlett Lancaster’s birthday party.”

“Yes. Why didn’t you tell me you were performing for the Lancasters?”

“Are you for real right now? Give me a break. We haven’t talked in years.” Like I’m obligated to tell him my every business move when he’s the one who dumped me. Doubt he’d care how many “happy birthday” announcements I’ve made and sold over the last year.

Quite the lucrative business venture, but I’m sick of that shit.

“That birthday party is everywhere. All over the gossip sites. The society sites. Fashion sites. Every. Where. Scarlett Lancaster is an emerging name from a very wealthy and well-known family. They are serious old money, and her daddy is the rebel among his brothers. You singing at Scarlett’s birthday party last night has gone viral. There are videos all over the web of your performance, and Tate, you sound fucking fantastic. Women of all ages posted on social media about their reactions to your singing, and they were losing their goddamn minds over you.” Simon hesitates, like he’s sitting on a bomb and dying to drop it. “And then there’s that one photo.”

His compliments have me feeling like I’m on some sort of high. When was the last time I heard someone—Simon of all people—tell me I sounded fucking fantastic? Near the end of my career, I sounded like a dying cat squalling into a microphone. It was like my balls dropped and all of a sudden I couldn’t sing anymore. I couldn’t hit a note, let alone hold one. “What photo are you talking about?”

“You know which one.”

“I have no clue.” I rack my brain, running through last night’s events chronologically. Arriving. Being greeted by Fitzy Lancaster as if I were his long-lost friend, him handing me a check—a check—for the remaining money he owed me for my performance. Me still believing there was some sort of catch.

Who pays a has-been that kind of money?

A rich motherfucker, that’s who.

Speaking of that check, I need to make sure to walk it into my bank first thing Monday morning.

“What exactly happened last night while you were at that party anyway?” Simon asks. “Did you drink at all? Snort a line? Pop some pills?”

“Of course not.” I’m offended he thinks I still do that, but then I remember Simon and I haven’t talked in a long time. And the last time he saw me, I was still an addicted mess. “I arrived at the Plaza—on time, I might add—and performed for her birthday. That’s it.”

“What about the daughter?”

I stare at my bedroom ceiling, noting the water stain just to the right of the overhead light fixture. Need to call the super about that and have it fixed. “She was into it. I pulled her up onstage and sang her ‘Happy Birthday.’”

Wasn’t as into my performance as most of the other women, but I didn’t let that bother me.

Not too much, anyway.

“You sure all you did for Scarlett Lancaster was perform onstage?” Simon asks. “Or was there more of a performance happening . . . behind the scenes?”

The memory comes hurtling back, lodging itself in the forefront in my mind. Of me and Scarlett tucked away in a dark corner, bantering.

More like arguing.

Catching that photographer watching us. How he took photos of us while we argued. Me asking for her help, which resulted in us⁠—

“Because from what I saw, there wasn’t much talking going on between the two of you. More like you had your tongue shoved down her throat,” Simon continues.

I brace myself for a lecture, like I’m sixteen all over again and just got caught partying in a hotel room with empty liquor bottles strewn across the bed and the place trashed, a pair of wadded-up black panties left in the sheets. “Is it bad?”

“Is what bad?”

“Is what they’re saying about me and Scarlett bad?” My voice drops to a harsh whisper, and I hate how agitated I suddenly feel. How this moment takes me back a few years, when my life was out of control and I didn’t care. It was like I had a death wish. “Is the photo causing a scandal or whatever?”

Simon’s quiet for a moment. Like I just stunned him silent. “You haven’t really read anything that’s been said about you this morning, huh.”

“Not really. Like I told you, I just woke up.”

“You’re in for a big surprise then. People are eating this shit up, Tate. They’re saying you two are the next it couple.”

“It couple?”

“Celebrity couple. A couple the public wants to ship. Stan. Whatever terminology they’re using now,” Simon mutters. “Are you that out of touch with what’s going on in the world? I didn’t think you’d gone that far off the grid.”

Relief replaces the anxious feeling almost immediately. For once, the media seems to be working in my favor, when they’ve been against me for years. “Doesn’t seem like you’re keeping up with the lingo either, Simon. You sound like an old man.”

“Shut the hell up.” His tone is mild, so I don’t take offense. “I called you because I wanted to see if you’d like to meet.”

I’m struck silent for a moment by his change of subject—and what he’s requesting. “When?”

“This afternoon.”

“It’s Sunday, Simon.”

“Every day brings opportunity, Tate. And there is no rest for the wicked.”

“Are you calling me wicked?”

He’s quiet for a moment, and eventually, I fill the silence with a nervous chuckle.

“You know who you are. What you are.”

“And what’s that?” I ask.

“From my current viewpoint, you’re a man with untapped potential who’s about to have another breakout moment.”

I scoff. “Bullshit.”

“Meet me at my office this afternoon, and I’ll let you know my thoughts.”

“Why, Simon?” I grip my phone tighter. “Why do you want to meet with me?”

“To talk next steps.”

“Next steps for what?”

Simon sighs, like he’s irritated with me. “For your career. You’ve just been given a second chance, mate. Looks like you need to take advantage of it.”

* * *

I take a shower to clear out the cobwebs in my brain after that mind-boggling phone call. I stand under the hot spray of water for a long time, my head full of a jumble of thoughts and ideas, plus endless speculation.

Still haven’t fully explored my newfound internet blowup, but once I’ve dried off and slipped on a pair of boxer briefs, I can’t stand it anymore, and I grab my phone, settling on my uncomfortable couch before I open Instagram back up and punch my name into the search bar like an egotistical bastard.

It’s been a while since I’ve done something like this. Searched my name or the band name, checking up on what people are saying about me. I used to do it all the time, especially after the band first broke up. When all I wanted was a glimmer of that old adulation we used to get. When we were on top of the world and seemingly untouchable.

That changed quick. The fans who once loved us turned on us. We were a disappointment, especially me, and that was hard to face.

So I took the easy way out and stopped looking myself up. After I sulked for approximately a year and eventually got sober, I focused on my health and well-being. And part of making sure my well-being was protected included me not searching myself or Five Car Pileup on the internet.

This feels like I’m breaking some sort of personal rule, and I brace myself, waiting for the slam of insults and disappointment that I normally receive, but that’s not what I’m greeted with.

Not even close.

It’s video after video of me performing last night. Posts with comments that are supportive. Complimentary. Some of them even sound like stark raving lunatics.

Marry me, Tate. You’re so fucking sexy!

Ohmygod did you see that smile on his face? UGH.

I’m pregnant.

And those are just the tame comments.

Some of the videos are of women at the party reacting to my performance, their expressions full of shock and awe, their enthusiasm translating to the screen. I made these women happy.

I made them scream for me. And I haven’t done that since I don’t remember when.

I open up other social media sites and am greeted with much the same, my phone continuing to blow up with notifications, calls from unknown numbers that I send straight to voice mail. I don’t know what’s going on, but maybe Simon was onto something.

Maybe—God, it’s hard to admit this without getting my hopes up, something I seriously want to avoid—but maybe I actually have been given a second chance.

Once I’m dressed and primped for my meeting with Simon, I take an Uber to his office downtown—I’m going to have a fat million bucks in my bank account; I can afford it—and show up promptly at three, our agreed-upon meeting time. I’m ushered into his office by a hot little number wearing a black formfitting dress that shows off her curves. The flirtatious smile she’s sending my way has me in an even better mood than I was in before I arrived.

The moment the door shuts, Simon is pointing at the chair in front of his massive desk. “Sit.”

I come to a stop. “What’s your problem?”

“I saw the way she looked at you.” His gaze is focused on his phone as he taps out a message to someone.

“She’s hot.”

“She’s not for you.”

“Why? Because she’s for you?”

Simon glances up from his phone. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

My mouth hangs open for a second. “Get the fuck out.”

Simon is all right looking, I guess, but I can’t imagine him banging total hotties that are my age on a regular basis.

“She just so happens to be my girlfriend. How else can I get a woman who looks like that to work for me on a Sunday? So yeah. Stay away from her.” Simon sets his phone on the desk, his focus now on me. “Besides, I thought you were interested in someone else.”

I stare at him for a moment, drawing a blank.

“Scarlett Lancaster.” He pauses, the look on his face incredulous. “Remember?”

“Right. Fuck. I’m totally hot for her.” He thinks we’re together? I guess I can keep up the facade.

“Looked like you were last night.”

I lean back in the chair and lift my leg, resting my left ankle on top of my right knee. “Those photos of us were pretty good, huh.”

“They were fucking great. Chef’s kiss, as the kids say. You know what was even better?” Before I can answer, he continues. “Your performance. Jesus. You sounded . . .”

I sit on the edge of my seat, waiting for the rest of his words. My heart is racing, my body tight with anticipation. I catch myself gripping the chair arms and try to relax my cramped fingers.

“. . . you sounded pretty fucking amazing, Tate. Your voice was clear. You sounded better than you did back in the day. Deeper and more mature.”

I bask in his compliment for a moment, not saying anything.

“Five Car Pileup was a bunch of teenagers playing at singing about love and relationships, shit you kids knew nothing about. Now you’ve got a few more years of experience in you. You’ve struggled, and you’ve come out the other side, and it shows,” Simon says. “You should be proud of yourself.”

I’m stunned by the sincerity in his voice. Simon was always so slick. Always mostly full of a bunch of shit too. “Thank you.”

“How much did Lancaster pay you to perform?” He holds up his hand at the same time as I part my lips, ready to brag about the ridiculous amount I made. “Don’t tell me. I’ll be jealous I didn’t make a cut.”

I snap my lips shut for a moment before I say, “It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

“I’m sure,” Simon says dryly, grabbing a slim folder that’s sitting on his desk and opening it. He glances at the piece of paper nestled inside, his expression thoughtful when he lifts his head to study me. “This has the potential to blow up and transform your career.”

“My career can’t be transformed much. Pretty sure I trashed it so hard I can never bounce back,” I admit with a nervous chuckle.

“I’m not meaning in a negative manner. I’m talking positive. Your life has the potential to change completely, just like last time.”

“All because I kissed an heiress?”

“You did more than kiss her. You performed like you had zero fucks left in you, kid. You were on fire on that stage. I’ve never seen anything like it.” He shakes his head as if he’s in awe of me.

A normal human being would be thrilled at all this praise. Who wouldn’t want constant fame, endless money, and women throwing their panties at them? For a brief, shining time in my life, that’s what I experienced as a member of Five Car Pileup.

But that period in my life also left me hollow inside. A shell of the person I once was. Hell, I lost myself. I lost friends. My girlfriend. All the fame disappeared, replaced with hate. Drugs and alcohol. Eventually the money dried up. The contracts were rescinded and the band split.

It was fucking awful.

I love hearing Simon’s praise. Can’t lie—it builds me up, but it also terrifies me.

Not sure I can go through that again.

“All of the attention is great, but I don’t know if I’m ready for the shit that comes with it, you know?” I admit.

“I’m guessing you’re not,” Simon says drolly. “And why should you be? The best opportunities are usually surprises. This is where I step in.”

“You want to step in?” More like take over completely. When I was a kid, I had no problem with that. But now? “I never said I was going to hire you.”

“Trust me when I say that you need to. You need someone to manage your career, Tate. Keep you on the right path, line up proper business deals before you get taken advantage of.”

“I’m not the same dumb kid I was,” I remind him, insulted.

“I’m not saying you are. I just know this kind of thing can be . . . overwhelming. And I don’t want you jumping into the first opportunity you’re offered. You might have some leverage here,” Simon says.

Leverage? Doubtful. I’m a has-been who the ladies are raving about for a brief moment. One of those nostalgic moments because it makes them feel young again or whatever. It’ll last about two seconds before the next big thing comes along.

“I drew up a business plan for you. A strategy that I’d like to put in place before Monday morning. We need to be ready for the onslaught.”

“Onslaught of what?”

Simon shakes his head, making a tsking noise, like he can’t believe I’m so obtuse. “Offers, mate. Have you checked your hashtag on social media? It’s exploding.”

I’m such a dumbass.

Opening up Instagram, I punch in my name and look up the hashtag, my eyes widening as I take in the number. As I check out the top videos, I see they’re all from last night. Me in all black, crooning to the audience. Me grabbing hold of Scarlett in that poufy pink dress, pulling her in for a deeper kiss.

Fuck, that photographer wasn’t the only one who captured our embrace. Looks like other people did too.

Lots of people.