Page 13 of Wild Fixation
It was meant as an admonishment in a moment of high tension, a moment when I should have been terrified and chastened, but even the memory is enough to send my heart bouncing around my chest. I fold my arms to hide my sweaty palms and pretend I’m listening to even a word of what Emmett is saying.
“Do you understand?” Emmett says.
He looks at each of us in turn, coming to me last. I nod, even though I have no idea what I’m agreeing to. Emmett’s sigh suggests he knows how little I’ve been listening.
“Moving on,” he says, “we need to talk about some upcoming media appearances.”
I barely manage not to groan. At least I’m not alone on this one. Keannen’s usual scowl deepens. Shawn sinks back in his chair. But our broodiest band members have no grounds to complain. They won’t be expected to do much talking. It’s part of Keannen and Shawn’s appeal that they’re such typical rockstars, dark-haired, dark-eyed, strong, silent types. I, on the other hand, am expected to be charming and smiley. I’m the lead singer, which for some reason makes me the de facto leader of the band. I’m the one the reporters always look to first after they ask a question. Most of the talking and smiling will fall on my shoulders, not theirs. And while I am naturally, normally that happy, optimistic, eager-to-please frontman they see on stage, there will always be an element of acting involved when there’s a camera and a microphone in my face.
Part of me can’t wait for our fame to die down.
I know I’m supposed to be living it up. I know it’s paying for the nice new apartment I live in. I know it’s the reason I could quit my job and focus solely on music. But sometimes it’s really, really exhausting. I can’t go for a run or pick up my own groceries or even walk from a practice room to my car. Just because people like my music, I’m now a product they can touch and scream at and harass any time they like. Whatever happened to the reclusive artist? I suppose social media did away with that lifestyle, but I sure wish it hadn’t.
Emmett describes an interview we’ll need to do next week. Some sort of daytime television show. Live studio audience, all that stuff.
“We already have the list of approved questions,” he says. “We can start getting you guys ready for those today, but be prepared for them to throw in some curveballs.”
His gaze flickers meaningfully to Keannen, who huffs and drums his fingers on the tabletop.
“I’m not answering anything I don’t feel like answering,” Keannen says.
“I’m not asking you to,” Emmett says, “but you also can’t dothat.”
He nods at Keannen’s whole … thing. The annoyance scrawled across his face, the glare, the irritated tapping of his fingers.
“I’m not doing anything,” Keannen says.
“You look like you’re going to leap across the table and attack the host.”
“If he asks something dumb, maybe I will.”
“This.” Emmett jabs his finger at Keannen. “This is what you can’t do on live television. They’re going to ask about your lives, about your relationships.” His gaze centers on Keannen once more. “We’ll get you ready for those questions, but if you answer through clenched teeth, everyone will know. Keep your heads out there.”
Keannen waves dismissively. Emmett looks less than reassured. I don’t envy him having to wrangle a group like us. Our sound isn’t loud and aggressive for show. We make the type of music that’s true to ourselves, true to our lives. It’s what we were playing when there were only three people watching us, and it’s not a mere performance.
“Moving on,” Emmett says.
He goes through the questions. They’re mostly easy stuff like how the tour went and what we’re planning to do next. He throws in a couple questions about Keannen’s relationship with The Ten Hours’ drummer, and Keannen snarls and clenches his teeth but mostly gets through it. Emmett concedes with a sigh that he’ll send us all a copy of the questions so we can review them at home before we work on it more next week.
Finally, he winds down, but I speak up before he releases us.
“While we’re all here,” I say, “my birthday is soon. Well, technically it’s today, but I’m celebrating it tomorrow, so we’re going out to Q Lounge. All of us. I’m inviting The Ten Hours too. Make sure you all show up, okay?”
My bandmates brighten, but before they can agree, Emmett steps in to crush my fledgling plans.
“You’re inviting Seth as well,” he says.
I blink as heat rushes up my neck. “What? Why?”
“Because you are a public figure, and this is a public event. People are going to notice. You aren’t going to some nightclub without security. I’ll make the call right now. Give me the address. Seth probably needs to check the place out before tomorrow night.”
My heart sinks, even as the warmth reaches my face. Part of me wanted to use the excuse of my twenty-sixth birthday to do somethingotherthan think about my bodyguard. I was hoping a night out drinking and dancing with friends might cure me of my unhealthy attraction to the one guy I’m not supposed to touch. …Not that it keeps him from touching me. The second I think about him, the ghost of his big hand clutches my bicep in that firm, strong grip.
Emmett is already on his phone, presumably talking to Seth. He paces away to have a hurried conversation with the bodyguard while I slouch at the conference table.
Keannen pats me on the shoulder, but I don’t mistake it for sympathy, especially when he speaks. “Might be more fun this way, eh?”
I shrug off his hand. This is a mess. I wanted to go out and dance, have fun, maybe make out with a stranger. If I have a couple drinks, though, I know my eyes will wander to Seth. He’ll be working, working forme, and therefore the most off-limits guy in a 20-mile radius. Yet I know the second I’m tipsy my eyes will go right back to him. No amount of good intentions will keep me from focusing on a man who’s everything I want and more. The heroic rescues truly have not helped with my “knight in shining armor” complex.
