Page 62 of Fire
Now I feel embarrassed if no one else seems to notice it. “I mean, uh…” I grab the back of my neck. “Someone asked me to sign their tits today.”
Asher nearly chokes on his water, sputtering a laugh. The water dribbles down his chest, past what seems to be a family crest, maybe? I’ve never asked. “Welcome to the club. I’m asked that at least twenty times a show.”
“Did you?” is all Darius contributes to the conversation.
“No!” I shake my head. “I’m—” Seeing someone? In a relationship? Off the market? Fuck, I don’t have a clue how to finish that sentence, so I just step right over it. “Anyway, stuff like that’s never happened to me. I’m new, and so far, I’ve been pretty invisible, except to the few reporters who hounded me about my family connections.”
“Fuck those guys.” Asher’s tone is bitter, his accent a little thicker. “Tell them to piss off and be done with it. That’s what I do when folks ask about mine.”
At the same time, I thank him, and Darius says, “That was probably my fault, yeah?”
We both turn and give him a blank stare. “What do you mean it was your fault?”
He shrugs, the fabric of his tight black tank top straining. I thought I was in pretty good shape until the first time I saw Darius Payne. He’s built like a brick. Tall, with the solid muscle of a linebacker. Like Asher, he came from wealth, but he’s not bitter about it.
All the original members went to the same boarding school—that’s how they all met—and instead of bonding over how they were all going to be future billionaires or some shit, they decided to start a band.
It turns out that the little rebels were actually kind of good. Really good, actually. But even though they’ve all come a long way from their boarding school days, they’re all still rich boys at heart.
Even Asher, who tries his damnedest to hide it.
“Do you not have any social media presence?”
“Not really,” I answer. “I probably should, but I had to manage Zander’s for a while before we hired someone at the agency, and I just got burned out on the whole thing.”
“Okay. Well, remember New Orleans? How I was filming content for mine?” Darius says.
Unlike me, Darius is serious about making content. I have to give it to him. From what I’ve seen, he’s pretty good at it. He’s careful about what he posts, like during Sunday’s concert when he made sure to get all of our permission before posting a video to his account, and he’s always kind to his fans. It must be a lot of work, but unlike Asher and Zander, who shy away from the attention, Darius seems to enjoy it.
“Yeah,” I answer. “What about it?”
“So, it was supposed to be just a behind-the-scenes video where I walked around and introduced various crew members, showed off the green rooms and the hospitality suite, and then,of course, let them get a glimpse of the band. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but you”—he points at me—“were in the wardrobe, and I think they were grabbing a different shirt for you or something and…”
I try to think back to that moment when he dropped in and asked me to say hi to his followers. “I was shirtless?”
He just nods. “And the internet went wild, mate.”
“Why? Asher takes his shirt off all the time. Hell, he’s not wearing one right now.” I motion toward his bare chest. He chuckles, clearly amused by this whole thing. Honestly, he is probably just happy to not be the center of attention for once.
“Exactly. You never take off your shirt, so it was sort of like that episode where the Mandalorian takes off his helmet for the first time. Very thrilling. Kind of forbidden.” I roll my eyes. “Right. Well, the video has a few million views, which is proper good, yeah? My videos tend to attract a lot of attention anyway, but?—”
I gape at him. “It’s been three days.”
“You’re welcome?”
“For what? Making my abs go viral on the internet?”
“No.” He laughs. “The video is fleeting. It’s your name they’ll remember. The rest of the story, though? That’s up to you.”
It takes exactly fifteen minutes for my siblings to start blowing up my phone after I exit the stage. I’ve barely changed out of my sweaty clothes before the messages start rolling in.
Pres
Dude, your man chest is everywhere.
Merc
You’ve actually gone and proved me wrong—bass players can be famous.
