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He considers this for a second. I can tell he’s trying to think of how much he’s at liberty to say.
“Don’t worry. I won’t say anything to him. We’re not particularly close or anything.”
His lips turn into a thin line as he taps the steering wheel with the end of a long finger. “He just said that she’s vulnerable to particular forces. Didn’t mention much else.”
“Trine is a wonderful person,” I say. “But he’s right, she’s been dealing with some shit for a while now, and she seems susceptible to some…things.”
I look him up and down, wondering if he’s going to question me about it. I don’t personally believe in any of it, but what the fuck do I know? My opinion, which I’ve kept to myself and I will continue to keep to myself unless I’m explicitly asked, is that she had some sort of breakdown after her dad died which only got worse after she watched her mom literally blown away in a house explosion.
I don’t know how a mental breakdown led her to having four boyfriends, but I’ve come to realize that many things about Trine are going to remain a mystery to me, probably for the rest of my life.
Not that she wouldn’t be open to me asking. I could justaskher. I just feel like, if she wanted to share, she could.
She can always talk to us.
“Well, I’m here to help,” he says. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I need to pay my bills, obviously.”
“Right. And you must be good at this, if Misha hired you. I might not believe much of what he has to say, but I do know that he takes his job seriously. He’s always struck me as trying to be competent, at least. I know he cares a lot about Trine, which means you must be reputable, right?”
He smiles at me. “I’m notcheap.”
I know he’s not cheap. I’ve looked him up. He has a heck of an online presence and he’s working on his first book. I think the tour with the band is just fodder for it, but whatever. If that’s what needs to happen so that Johnny Baskets goes on tour, then it’s what needs to happen. I nod. “I know,” I say. “I’ve heard about you.”
He smirks, blood rushing to his cheeks. “Good. I’ve heard about you too.”
Javi
Thesoundofthebar carries even up the stairs. I’m in a suite, my window barely cracked upon, and I can hear thethump-thump-thumpof a Reggeaton song that sounds like it’s on repeat.
I don’t want to go back to the party, but I have to meet the act that’s going to be traveling with us, and they’re coming into the city today. I just don’t have the energy for these parties that I once did. I can’t stay awake for fourteen hours, pounding shot after shot, sleeping with a beautiful woman whose name I can’t remember the next day.
I hear the music and I want to ignore it. I’m tired. I don’t want to be here for this. I’m not in the mood for this, and I think if I do go downstairs, it’s probably going to lead to something that I regret.
Sitting down on the bed, I sigh heavily, and look at my earplugs, which are on the nightstand next to me. Tempting, but probably not a good idea. Being a gracious host is part of the gig. And isn’t this what I want? Isn’t this what I’ve always wanted?
I peel off my shirt after realizing a wardrobe change might make me feel better. I’m exhausted but I can’t go to sleep yet. It’s too hot in here, even with the fan on overhead and the AC churning out cold air, and I couldn’t sleep even if I was allowed to.
The day was grueling. It’s probably contributing to my shitty mood. I had to sweat my way through a promotional photoshoot that took over four hours, and those are alwayshard.
I have to stop drinking water for a couple of days beforehand after going wild on it, and my diet is incredibly strict, my salt intake way higher than it normally is. Also, doing push-ups on the day before a photoshoot is the way to get the best shirtless picture. I don’t handle any of the planning–Londyn, my manager, takes care of all of that–but I do have to do it all.
It means that, by the time it’s time to stand in front of the camera and pretend this is what I look like all the time, I’m exhausted and I feel like I’m going to faint, particularly under the harsh and hot camera lights.
My tattoos are still hot to the touch and I think they’re losing their color. I’m sure it’s just in my head. I spent an embarrassing amount of money on these tattoos. Sometimes, depending on the magazine, they’ll photoshop them out. It’s weird. I don’t have any say over it.
At least when I look at them, my skin feels real. My body feels like it belongs to me. Even when I see myself in magazines and social media, something about it doesn’t feel empowering. It feels oddly dehumanizing.
But it does help with women.
I grab my phone from the nightstand, ignoring the 100+ notifications I have, and it vibrates in my hand.Where are you?
Londyn. Fuck. She’s so good at her job, of course she knows exactly when I’m not where I’m supposed to be.I needed a break. I’ll be down in a minute.
Do you need me to get you?
I shut my eyes tightly. I really don’t want her to get me. If she comes up here and sees how much of a mess my room is, she’s going to want to clean it, and I’ll feel bad because that isn’t her job and I shouldn’t have let it get this bad. I could’ve called housekeeping at any point, but honestly, there’s very little they can do about the pile of ever expanding dirty laundry on the lounger. I need to get my shit together.
No. I’ll be right down.
