Page 47 of Wild Fixation
“How are you faring after the incident?” an unseen reporter shouts.
Jacob tries to smile, but my heart dives even lower at the obvious falseness of it.
“I’m fine,” he says. “Really, everyone’s okay.”
“But it must have been a shock, right? You’ve really trusted your security team up until now.”
“I did,” he says. “I still do. They’re great guys. This was a new person, but it’s behind us. The guys who are still with us are great.”
“Who is still with you? We’ve heard your head of security, Seth Atkinson, was fired as well. What can you tell us about that? Was he involved in the incident somehow?”
“No,” Jacob says quickly, almost too quickly. “No, absolutely not.”
“Then why would he be fired?”
Jacob hesitates. He looks directly into the camera, and even through the grainy video on Mason’s phone, his eyes gaze straight into mine. The world hushes, as though I’m back in his room with him, alone, secluded, both of us stripped down to some more honest, more real version of ourselves than who we have to be in public. My chest squeezes so tight I can barely fit a breath into my lungs.
“I don’t know,” Jacob says finally, “but I hope he comes back.”
His words are as soft as a promise, flitting through time and space and phone screens to burrow behind my heart. He might be in a video with hundreds of thousands of likes and views, but for a second, I know he’s speaking only to me out of everyone in the entire world. All those people greedily grabbing at him, trying to claim his time and his person for themselves, and he still found a way to send a message to me and me alone. I did this to him. I failed him. Instead of protecting him, I created this shitstorm. Yet inexplicably, he’s reaching out for me.
He strides away, and when the sunlight catches his brown hair, I swear the waves glint as golden as a crown.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Jacob
WE MAKE IT TO practice. Barely.
The mob outside the place we booked almost traps us in the car. The driver, Ricky, has to circle around the block before the paparazzi thin out enough that we can dash inside while trying to dodge the questions flung at us like hail pelting our shoulders. One reporter manages to get in my face, and I answer out of pure anger and frustration when he asks how I’m doing after “the incident.” When he brings up Seth, I almost lose it.
“I hope he comes back,” I say.
Then Keannen is dragging me away. He hauls me through the crowd and all but throws me into the practice space.
“Holy shit,” he breathes once we’re safely inside.
“Is it going to be like this all the time?” Levi says. “They keep saying it’ll calm down but it’s only getting worse.”
I hunch with shame. “I’m sorry, guys. This is all my fault.”
Shawn grips my shoulder. “This isn’t your fault.”
Keannen nods. “He’s right. You didn’t make Ryan act like an asshole, and you didn’t make these vultures start circling us again. Let’s get to our space and try to practice. I feel like I haven’t actually played music in years.”
I understand the sentiment. This whole journey is supposed to be about the music, but in the weeks since the tour, our planned album has taken a back seat to every other stupid thing this industry can throw at us. Despite my fancy new apartment and greatly inflated bank account, I’m starting to regret signing that contract with Emmett, and if I’m feeling that way, some of the others surely feel the same. We’ve held strong through disagreements, day jobs and overdrawn accounts, but it might be actual success that undoes Baptism Emperor in the end.
I can’t bear to face that.
As I slouch to the practice room, all I can think is that all of my dreams are crumbling before I’ve even had a chance to enjoy them. Sure, the tour was great. I loved being onstage, and I think the rest of the guys did as well. We left that tour as sudden, unexpected superstars, our songs getting thousands and thousands of plays, our indie-produced album selling out everywhere, our lives and fortunes made. But the constant scrutiny and pressure has been hard on all of us. It’s even managed to cost Seth his job.
I can barely sing when we arrange ourselves in the practice room. My chest is so tight I can’t seem to get enough air to hit the right notes. The new lyrics I wrote come out lackluster and dull. I think the others feel it, but they’re not doing much better than me. I’ve never heard us play so poorly, not since our first fumbling practices in the garage of Levi’s parents’ house. Back in those early days, we had a sort of childish naivete about this whole thing, a shining enthusiasm that nothing could dim. It was only four of us then, and when we added Keannen later, everything fell into place. A basic drum beat on a keyboard couldn’t hope to compare to what Keannen brought to us. That was the moment we booked actual shows in actual bars and everything started to change.
We should be enjoying the high, living like reckless rockstars now that our moment has finally arrived. Instead, everything is falling apart before our eyes.
“I need a break,” I say after the latest disaster of an attempt at singing. To everyone’s worried looks, I add, “I’m just heading to the bathroom.”
They let me go, but they’re clearly reluctant. The other guys have been like mother hens since that stuff with Ryan. The day it happened, they stayed at my place overnight, and Dan cooked us breakfast in the morning. As much as I appreciate all their kindness, it’s verging into smothering. I’m a grown man; I can handle this.
