Page 47 of Where You Are

However, he does things a little… differently, and it takes some getting used to. For instance, the subject I’m discussing over the phone with Ron right now which two months ago would’ve been considered absurd and out of left field.

“Who gives a fuck if I attend Fashion Week, let alone who I go with?” I glibly ask Ron.

“It’s a high-profile event where anyone who’s anyone worth mentioning will be there. You guys show up, it tells the world you’re high up in the ranks, and your success is to be taken seriously. This comes down from Eli and you know he knows his shit.”

“Jack is the front man of the group and the masses are crazy about him and Mayzie. They’re the ones people pay attention to,” I argue.

“Be that as it may, you both hold it all together behind the scenes. You two started this band; you both need to be front and center at these things. If it’s just Jack, that’s all the focus is going to be on, and before you know it, everyone hones in on him as his own entity and forgets he’s part of aband. Eli is firm that you be there too, and that having a girl on your arm increases positive visibility. More people take photos, talk, and then download your music. He knows the formula,” I can hear the shrug in his voice. “Now come on,” he protests as I scoff over the phone, “this guy got you guys headlining the KeyNote Music festival and he’s in negotiations to get you guys the bid for the theme song for that new action movie. The least we can do is listen to him. And showing up to a world-popular event with a hot date? I’d hardly call that a hardship, dude.”

I sigh and rub a hand over my eyes. “Fine,” I say, reluctantly giving in. “Just for appearances,” I add. While I’ve been putting myself back together, I’m in no hurry for a relationship. My mind can’t fathom the idea of something deep or meaningful. Currently, I owe my survival to focusing on the music and nothing more.

“Of course, man. Don’t even sweat it. Just something to spark interest and get fans talking. And Eli gave me a list of prospects. All you have to do is pick one, show up to the show and the gala afterward, be polite for an evening and you’re done.”

“Right, fine. Let’s get this over with.”

“Alright, first is McKenzie Lee. She’s a new actress, was in a pilot that didn’t take off, she could use some camera time…”

“You said ‘new’, how old is she?”

“Uh…” I hear crinkling like he’s looking at something on a paper. “Eighteen. Which is legal-”

“Which means still a fucking teenager. Fuck no.”

“Alright, next… Chantal.”

I know who that is. She’s a lingerie model. New enough that she’s still something of a novelty, but not so new that people don’t know her name. Hell, she can go by just her first name and her looks resemble no trace of sunshine. If anything, she’s got an ice queen look to her with her black hair and dark eyes.

“I know who that is. She might be okay, how old?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Better than eighteen. Alright, set it up I guess,” I agree with a defeated shrug.

“You got it,” he says, signing off.

I toss my phone down next to me and let out another deep sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose. I don’t like this shit one bit. I need to just be my own person right now; I don’t have any room in my mind for anything else.

It’s just a date, I reason with myself.Not even that, just showing up to an event with someone and letting people draw whatever conclusion they want from it. I’m not deceiving anyone or getting into anything deep.

I let these thoughts reassure me and do my best to push out the negativity. I still catch myself stewing in it at least once a day and have to consciously talk myself up to a positive level. I try to acknowledge that I’m just a work in progress and try not to be hard on myself about it. And like I tell myself every day, it’s time to get up and move.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Matt

I’m halfwaydown the red carpet at Fashion Week in NYC and I want to stab out my eyes, not just to get out of being here, but because it seriously sounds more fun. I’ve done red carpets before at music awards shows, but this is taking twice as long, and the photographers and journalists on the other side of the velvet ropes are exceptionally abrasive and annoying, and my date has the personality of a piece of toast. Barely a word passed between Chantal and me in the limo. Although I tried to be polite and make attempts at small talk, I gave up after five minutes of her short one-word answers that accompanied her bored expression.

When we made our arrival, she actually put on a smile when we got out of the limo, but it was small and stoic and I get the feeling she was playing the part of the chic and demure model that lives and breathes sophisticated fashion.Boring.Her hair is done back in a bun so tight it looks bullet-proof, and her dress is like every little, tight black number I’ve ever seen, but for some reason the photogs are going nuts over it, asking who she’s wearing.

Just a few hoursis the mantra I keep repeating to myself to get through this snooze-fest. I amble alongside Chantal with my hands in the pockets of my black and charcoal Armani tux with her arm linked through the crook of mine. I keep my posture straight and confident with a relaxed smile on my face, trying to let on that I come to fashion events all the time, my date isn’t a robot, and I didn’t get stiff-armed into this. About every few feet, we have to stop for photos; some of her on her own as she poses and works the camera the way only a model of her caliber has been trained to, and some of me with the band. On the occasions Chantal and I are asked for a photo op together, I place a respectful hand on her hip and lean in with an easy-going smile. Ron said to just be polite and let the viewers draw their own conclusions, so that’s what I’m doing and no more. Chantal makes it challenging at one point though when she unexpectedly goes up on her toes as a cameraman zeroes in on us, and gently nibbles at the edge of my jaw with her plush, red lips. I try to control my expression and hold back my surprise but I definitely wasn’t expecting that. I feel my eyebrows try to shoot up but I quickly correct it and return my expression to one of cool and calm, lest I hear from Ron later that I wasn’t selling it.

At the runway show, I allow myself a finger of Johnny, the first of my self-allotted four drinks of the night, just to decompress a little and take solace in the fact that Jack and Mayzie are at my other side looking as ready for a nap as I do.

When we get to the dinner gala afterwards, Chantal disappears and reappears in a silver and black metallic dress, because heaven forbid a fashion mogul wear the same thing for more than three hours. At least the designer of this dress looks like they had a little more imagination than the last one. Her hair is still pulled back, but in some other kind of do with some strands lose, giving her a softer and more relatable look. She still sticks to my side, but her verbal interaction is minimal. I converse with the other guys as much as I can, well, at least Jack and Mayzie who could not seem less thrilled to be here, along with Chris who’s sulking like a three-year-old whose parents never let him have any fun. Clearly, Ron had thebehave yourselftalk with him. Josh is the only one who looks to be in hog heaven with a gaggle of models around him, impressively dividing his attention perfectly between them all.

After an eternally dull night, the limo finally pulls up to the upscale Manhattan hotel where Chantal and a bunch of other models from the same prestigious agency are staying for the week. Even though there’s a perfectly good chauffer to help her out of the car, and she and I didn’t exactly hit it out of the park, I’m still a gentleman and I get out to say good night to her.

“Do you want to come up?” she asks, shocking the hell out of me. I don’t think she uttered enough words to me tonight to even fill up an answer on Wheel of Fortune, and acted as enamored with me as I was with her andthatis what she says at the end of the night?

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