Page 25 of Wild Fixation
“What is it like dating a rival drummer?” the host says.
The audience chitters with anticipation. They’ve been waiting for this one too.
Miraculously, Keannen doesn’t growl or jump up to choke out the host. He does exactly what he’s supposed to, exactly what Emmett trained us to do.
“We don’t consider ourselves rivals,” he says shockingly calmly. “We never did. There’s plenty of space in the music industry for both of us. We didn’t go on that tour together to compete. We did it to complement each other. It’s no different off-stage than what you saw onstage.”
“Would you say the two bands are friends?” the host prods.
It’s my turn to jump in. I nod, my smile more genuine. “Absolutely. We love The Ten Hours. They’re great.”
“Does that mean there’s hope for a collaboration in the future?”
I glance at my bandmates. We practiced this, too, as well as the sheepish grins they give me. I offer the diplomatic response Emmett fed me.
“That remains to be seen. Right now, we’re focused on our music.”
The host accepts, just like he’s supposed to, and goes back to bothering Keannen about his boyfriend. Keannen answers, and it’s barely noticeable that he’s clenching his teeth through it. Yes, they’re still together. Yes, they moved in together. Yes, they talk about music together. Keannen does exactly what he’s supposed to, and I have to admit I’m proud of him for it. If I was in a fresh relationship with the kind of history behind it that Keannen and Tim are carrying, I’m not sure I could stay calm while someone grilled me about it on television.
Not that I have any chance of being in a relationship.
Unbidden, my eyes skip toward the edge of the stage, where Seth stands in the dark, arms folded over his chest. He flinches when I meet his eyes, but his face remains stony. He’s said nothing to me since that kiss, leaving me to wonder if he hates me for it, if he regrets it, if he feels anything at all about it. When he ushered me into the station today, he barely looked at me, doing his job as though he had a blindfold on.
“Is that why they were at your birthday?”
I blink, snapping myself back to the moment, a moment in which I’m supposed to be doing the bulk of the talking for my band while we’re on live television.
“Huh?” I say stupidly. This latest question doesn’t fit with any of the ones Emmett prepped us for.
“I was wondering if that’s why The Ten Hours were at your birthday party the other night,” the host says. “Was it Keannen who invited them, or are the two bands simply that close now?”
I blink. How does this guy know about my birthday? We weren’t told he’d ask about this. He’s definitely going off-script, but I can’t say that. I can’t do a single thing about it. These interviews are supposed to at leastseemspontaneous.
“I, um, yeah,” I manage after a pause that’s probably incredibly awkward. “Yes, I invited them. I consider them friends.”
“Seemed like quite a night,” the host says.
Shawn sits more stiffly beside me. I wish I could shoot him and the others a panicked glance, but the second I do that, the facade will crack. I’m on my own out here, navigating this with no script and no plan, alone even with my entire band around me.
“It was fun,” I say.
“Just fun? It seems like it got pretty rowdy.”
I watch in horror as the host waves and photos of the night go up on a big screen behind him. They’re flattering, at least, but they do show us dancing and passing around bottles. Thankfully, none of them show the moments when I stumbled onto the dancefloor downstairs, drunk and defiant.
Why do they have these? Why is it anyone’s business what I did for my birthday? Emmett is going to murder the host for springing this on us, but Emmett can’t stop what’s already in progress. Once again, my life is on display for the world, and I didn’t get a say in that. Everything I do belongs to everyone else. Even a simple night out with friends is now the entire world’s amusement.
The host leans forward. His grin turns my stomach.
“Tell us, did you celebrate with anyone special?”
I go cold. Does he know? Are there more pictures than what he showed? I was so drunk that I have no idea if I did something that might have made my attraction to Seth obvious. I’m pretty sure nothing happened that night, not until he carried me home and put me in bed and slept in a chair to watch over me. Not until he made me breakfast the next morning and I kissed him goodbye.
My eyes flicker involuntarily to the dark at the side of the stage. Seth stands rigid, his eyes locking on mine. I can all but hear his teeth grinding with tension. He looks like he’ll crumble if I reveal what happened the morning after the club. Except … that’s not all I find in his gaze. The anticipation isn’t only fear. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he looks scared I’ll blurt out a name other than his.
“Come on, Jacob,” the host says. “There’s no need to be shy. Everyone is cheering you on.”
Cheering me on. Right. That’s why they’re prying into every intimate detail of my life. There’s some things I won’t give them, not for all the money and fame in the world. That stolen kiss the morning after the club — that belongs to me and Seth and no one else. I won’t turn it over to cameras and social media posts and prying hosts.
