Page 17 of Sixty Days Of Summer

Before I even have a chance to respond, the elevator doors slide open to reveal the bustling ground floor. As usual, those waiting there widen their eyes at the sight of Xander. He letsout a sigh of frustration before striding out, and I trail closely behind, matching his pace.

As heads turn our way, memories flood back to the days when Xander and I would hang out at my place in our teenage years. We’d sit around, passing a blunt, and envision what it would be like to be famous. We fantasized about the highs—playing to packed venues, the roar of the crowd reverberating through our bones, groupies ready to do anything for us. But back then, I never imagined every fucking detail of my life would be under a microscope. Now, we are completely exposed to the public eye, our lives laid bare for everyone to scrutinize, always craving the next juicy detail.

When we reach the glass doors to exit the hospital, we see the relentless media, cameras ready, eager to capture every moment.

“Poppy said they’re already speculating about Nate’s injury,” Xander mutters with a clenched jaw, his frustration clear. "But it sounds like they don’t have a fucking clue how bad it really is."

“So we keep it simple—his shoulder’s fucked up, that’s all,” I say, taking charge, since Xander usually dodges this shit like the plague. “Let’s clear it up and get the hell out of here.”

Without waiting for his response, I turn and head straight for the doors, ready to handle these assholes.

As soon as the doors slide open, they swarm like vultures, shoving microphones in our faces while the cameramen scramble to keep up.

"How's Nate?" one of them shouts, pushing in closer.

"Can you update us on the situation?" another one yells, barely giving us room to breathe.

With Xander by my side, we’re submerged by a wave of at least twenty microphones and a barrage of questions that pummel us like a storm. I throw up my hands in frustration,desperate to silence them before it turns into a complete shitshow.

Once they finally back off, I take control. “Earlier today, Nate and Theo were involved in a car accident, in case you haven’t heard. Aside from a cut on his forehead, Theo’s fine. Nate, however, wasn’t so lucky. He had shoulder surgery, which went well, and he’s recovering now. We’d appreciate it if you could give him some space to heal.”

As soon as I finish, Xander and I make our way toward my car, but the assholes aren’t done yet. They rush alongside, bombarding us with a flurry of questions and shoving their microphones back in our faces as if we hadn’t already given them what they wanted.

“Xander, got any comment on the situation?” one reporter shouts, stepping right into our path.

“No,” Xander grunts, brushing past the guy with a swift sidestep, barely acknowledging his presence. Normally, Xander plays nice when the questions are about our music or the crazy-packed shows, but after years of dealing with all the bullshit—the media always painting him as some womanizing rockstar—he’s learned the hard way to keep his mouth shut about anything that could get twisted. No point in giving them any more fuel for their fire.

"How’s this gonna affect your upcoming tour?" some asshole yells.

"No comment," I snap.

"Xander, are you guys canceling the tour?" another dick shoves a mic right in his face.

I press the keypad, and the car lights flash like a damn beacon, signaling our ticket to freedom. We’re almost out of this mess. Just a few more steps.

As the questions keep coming, Xander remains silent, slipping into the passenger seat while I settle in behind the wheel.

With a sudden motion, I forcefully insert the key into the ignition, shift it into gear, and smoothly start rolling. Out of nowhere, a dumbass paparazzi leaps in front of the car, forcing me to slam on the brakes and screech to a halt, narrowly avoiding a collision with the fuckhead.

“Fucking hell, man,” I growl, my anger barely contained.

“Just be cool, Ace,” Xander says, trying to keep his calm. But it’s hard when these assholes act like they’ve got a death wish.

I roll down the window and stick my head out, shouting at the jerk, “Get the fuck out of the way, asshole!”

But he just keeps snapping photos, completely ignoring me.

“Calm the fuck down,” Xander says from the passenger seat, but I’m too pissed off to give a shit.

I shove the door open, and exit the car, not bothering to close it behind me.

Oblivious to the chaos he’s causing, the paparazzi prick continues to click away, capturing every moment without a care.

“Move, asshole! There are cars and I can’t see!” I say, my voice dripping with anger.

The weight of all the stress I’ve been carrying suddenly erupts. The guilt of betraying Nate, the sight of him confined to a hospital bed, and the thought of canceling the tour—it’s all crashing down on me. As if to add insult to injury, there’s Lionel, from our old label, probably laughing and taking jabs in the media that we’re fucking helpless without his support.

“Get the fuck out of my way!” I bark again.

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