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Twenty-Six
Z
Theincessantbuzzofmy cell on the nightstand pulls me from sleep.
Bloody fucking hell. If Hail keeps up this early morning shit, I’m going to have to find a way to become a morning person, so I don’t snap at him. These memories that keep popping up in my sleep and waking me in a panic aren’t helping.
Rolling over in Hail’s hotel bed, I grab my phone and open it up to his message of heart emojis and a selfie of him on a walk through downtown, hair tied up and grinning in such a precious way, my chest constricts painfully.
But then my sleepy eyes adjust to the eighteen new missed calls from unknown numbers. Horror unfurling in my gut, I listen to the first voicemail and my heart drops out of my chest. Detached from reality, I watch it beat on the floor while I clutch the phone to my ear.
“Zander Graves? This is Elevated Rock Magazine. We’d love to feature an article about you in our next issue if you’re interested. Please gives us a call—”
Next voicemail. Same thing.
“Zander, this is Bella Rodriguez from Spinhaven Records reaching out to see if you have time to meet with us. We’re huge fans of Visage—”
Blood whooshes in my ears. What the fuck is happening?
My stupid brain wonders if I made a mistake letting Atonement into my life. Could they have dropped my identity to someone? Did Hail tell someone? Did Selma? Would she betray me like that?
I stumble out of bed and cross the hall between our rooms. Tucked in the privacy of my own room, I retrieve my laptop with shaking hands. Google reveals dozens of recent articles about my revealed identity as the lead singer for Visage, as well as the other members of the band.
A sickness blooms inside of me. There’s more in-depth knowledge about my life than I’ve ever shared. Raw details on my drug and alcohol use. My apparent temper.My brother had just fucking died and my mother was spiraling down into a bottle, you asshats.
To add to the churning bile in my stomach, there are even a few rumors about my ties to Hail.Metal God Intimate with Trouble-Making Zander Graves?
Sure enough, someone posted fucking pictures of us holding hands in that cafe when we first met. It’s like the whole world is standing before a bulletin board of my life, pinning strings together to figure me out for no good reason other than to prove what a piece of literal garbage I am.
There are comments praying for my return to music, but for every one of those, there are two more to cut me down.
Hopefully, he doesn’t join Atonement and wreck them, too. Go back to being nobody, Zander.
Fucker is a drug addict. No wonder he could write good songs. I could do the same thing blitz out of my mind.
I swear to god he pushed his brother into that pool. My cousin was at that party. Zander was an absolute dickhole.
Yeah, those ones fucking suck. But it’s the rumors about Hail that trouble me the most.
I don’t think I can listen to Mykhail anymore without thinking about him taking dick up the ass.
Great, he caught the Zander disease. Enjoy the descent into hell, Hail!
And then there are the pictures of my brother.
I’m shaking. The media has no fucking right to share this information with the public just for entertainment purposes. Don’t they realise we’re fucking humans? That we’re entitled to some privacy, too? I suppose all respect for that goes out the window when you achieve a bit of fame.
My stomach churns. God, there are even pictures of Lex and me as kids, dressed in superhero pjs and camping in the backyard. Pictures only my mother would have had.
White-hot betrayal stabs at my aching, fragile heart. Did she… did she sell me out to the media? A final ‘fuck you’ for taking everything from her? Is this about quid?
Of course it’s about quid. That’s all she’s ever fucking cared about.
I drop my head between my knees, holding back the urge to puke all over the patterned carpet. Is there anywhere I could go that they wouldn’t follow me? Any way I can salvage Hail’s reputation before I butcher that, too?
I tug at my hair. I don’t want to do this again. My chest is heaving. My lungs are convinced there’s not enough room in this stuffy, dark hotel room to satisfy my body’s needs.
Needs. What do I need?
