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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 checkedyoursocial 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 hisfriend. 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.
