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“Hijinks–all one word, is the less common spelling of high jinks. It was a popular eighteenth-century drinking game in Scotland. Basically, it’s another way of saying mischievous.”
“Cool name!” I say.
“Cool name for a very short-lived career.”
“Oh.”
“I’m what you call a one-hit wonder. I skyrocketed to the top of the charts overnight and then, I crashed and burned.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I tell him.
“There’s a handful of well-known white rappers who have name recognition. I had the rhymes, but I wasn’t street enough.”
“Street?” I ask.
“I didn’t grow up in poverty—we were middle class. I was never part of a gang, I never sold drugs, I never shot anyone, I wasn’t part of any drive-by shootings, my face wasn’t—and still isn’t—covered with tattoos, and my teeth aren’t stapled with diamonds or plated in gold.”
“Oh God, that sounds painful.”
“It’s all part of having a shtick—something that makes you memorable, unique, and edgy. I thought my strong emceeing skills were my ticket to fame… for a while, they were. With hours of practice, I could out-rhyme anyone who challenged me. My flow was smooth. The delivery, impeccable—”
“You should hear him spit,” Beckett says.
“Spit?” I ask, confused.
“It’s when rappers drop clever verses or rap ridiculously fast,” Beckett says.
“I see.” I nod.
I know nothing about rap music.
“That’s how I caught the attention of a producer,” Rhys says. “That kind of verbal speed is an art form. Still, the music industry chewed me up and spat me out.”
“That’s horrible,” I say.
“That’s show business.”
I let his words sink in.
“You didn’t know each other before rehab?” I ask.
“I knew who Beckett Christensen was—everyone knew who he was—but it wasn’t reciprocal,” Rhys says.
“I’ll make sure to Google both of you after the meeting,” I tell them.
“I guess it’s game over for you, Christensen, once Arianne discovers your skeletons,” Rhys says.
“My former life is an open book,” Beckett says. “There isn’t much I can do about it.”
The glee in his eyes is dangerous.
“Former life?” Rhys asks, incredulous. “You made headlines two weeks ago.”
“Whatever!” Beckett rolls his eyes.
Rhys’s jab piques my curiosity.
I guess Beckett’s expensive tailored suit hides more than meets the eye.
