This doesn’t seem to impress Tarek, who rounds on him. “What, all talk no action, is it?” He folds his huge arms and moves into Adam’s space. “You’re the first to complain and the last to do anything.”
Adam laughs again, blowing strands of hair away from his face. “Ohhh, I don’t think I’m the first to complain.”
His meaning is clear enough. Tarek has been on at MCM since day one, ever since they bought Cyclone. Ever since the court case.
“Well, what can we do?” I ask, before they find themselves in another brawl.
“MCM brought her on board for a reason,” he muses, stepping over Leon’s yoga mat.
“She has a name,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Sure,” Tarek agrees easily. “Most spies do. Shall we call her Q?”
I roll my eyes and pedal away my frustrations. “You’re deluded.”
Tarek grabs the handlebars of my bike and peers into my face. “We have been threatened by MCM not to be around women, or risk our contracts. And she comes on board, courtesy of MCM?” He shakes his head. “Nah, man. I’m not the deluded one.”
“She’s just a normal girl,” I tell him, straight into his eyes. “She’s our age. What spying’s she gonna do?”
“If you’re sticking up for her, there must be a reason.” He cocks an eyebrow at me and I thank the Lord my face is already flushed from exercise, because my brain automatically shoots back to the dream I had about her this morning.
But Tarek clearly has another meaning in mind.
“Oh yeah, sure, now I’m a spy,” I drawl, thoroughly done with his paranoia.
“You know what MCM wouldn’t expect?” Adam says, his face upside-down from the handstand he’s doing. He arches upright and walks across to Tarek. “You to go after her.”
Tarek does some kind of double take, frowning at Adam. Leon and Conor join us, Conor perking up now that no one’s exercising any more.
“You said so yourself, MCM put her there as a test. They’d want you to sweat a bit, not actually go for her. They’d think you’re smarter than that.”
Tarek scoffs, but Adam’s words are clearly getting to him. “I’d never fuck her. Not my type. Too ugly.”
“Oh, I forgot your nickname is model-banger,” Adam says with a wry smile.
“She is not ugly,” I say, sick of them putting her down. She’s not even in the room. This is not how you talk about women.
Adam grins at me. “Seth’s right. She’s a nice normal girl surrounded by us. And if we want to show MCM who’s boss, we can start with our supposed spy.”
And then he says two words to Tarek — two words that are a flag to a bull to those who must be louder, angrier, and better than everyone else.
Adam’s lips curl as he quietly says, “Dare you.”
5. TAREK
THERE ARE THREE THINGS I do before every gig:
1. Brush my teeth. There’s something about the mundane act of thoroughly deep-cleaning your teeth that makes it almost meditative. I can get lost in thought easily, brushing for long minutes until my mouth is burning from all the foam. The mint isn’t too bad either, and my teeth are always impeccable.
2. Text my mom. I tell her I’m good, even when I’m not, and send her a bunch of her favorite emojis. She used to use the ballerina one with totally no context, so I make sure to add it to the end of all my messages to make her smile. She never texts back now, not after the sex tape. But I still love my mom — she’s my role model, and she looked after all my brothers and sisters when Dad died. I don’t know how she did it, but now she’s the mother of a lawyer, two doctors, a literature professor... and the hottest pop star in the world, if I do say so myself. Those Arab genes, I guess.
3. Sit. Leon taught me this thing he does in yoga, where he’ll sit on his knees with his eyes shut and back straight. He kept harping on about the sense of clarity and peace he felt. Honestly, I thought he was mocking me at first. He didn’t understand what I meant, so I laughed at him and told him it’s a basic prayer movement.
I’m not really religious. Culturally religious, maybe, as there are some rules I choose to follow. But sometimes when things get kinda intense I’ll create a little zone for myself, away from the others, where all I do is sit and breathe. People often see me as the hot-head of the group... and yeah, I guess it’s not without reason. I try to be a better person, and the act of prayer — even if I’m not exactly praying — centers me in a way nothing else does.
Usually I’m more focused on my breath, but I’ve got Adam’s words from earlier going round my head. “They’d think you’re smarter than that.” What’s that meant to mean? That Adam thinks I’m stupid? Man... I don’t get him at times. He’s starting to think so highly of himself, swanning around with his classic literature and listening to music from five hundred years ago. Not even joking. He started out as eager and fun-loving as the rest of us, but seems to have morphed into a total hipster. I miss the guy I used to have late-night chats with, when we were thick as thieves, both new to this world and scared.
I think we all need a break. But if you go on a break these days, you might as well strike up the funeral march. Music is a cutthroat business and there’s always someone looking to topple its kings.
Then there’s this girl. Who knows what she’s about? I wasn’t that impressed when I first met her, but she’s all anyone seems to be talking about now... including me. I don’t know why. She can’t even make a slice of toast. Hopeless. It just shows you how desperate we are, having been alienated from women.
I lean forward, placing my forehead on the ground and my palms beside it. Air kisses the bare skin of my back while the ground soothes the tension in my head — tension I didn’t realize I’d been carrying. In fact, I was pretty sure my tension had been in other, more valuable parts of my body than my head...
Taking a deep breath, calm washes over me. There is no me. There is no self. There is only being.
And then the door snicks open, and the sound of the crowd drags me crashing into this dreamworld reality. A riot of teenage girls, their voices pitched halfway between terror and desire — and thousands of them, all screaming at once and as one.
The door closes, as though I’d briefly imagined it all.
Slowly, I raise my head.
It’s Kat.
“Sorry,” she says, almost stammering. Her eyes are wide as she takes in my praying stance. “I didn’t mean to—”
Her camera is poised in her hands, immobile. Its red light glares at me.
“Switch it off,” I tell her in a low voice.
But she looks utterly captivated, as though she’s stumbled into a room filled with diamonds. The camera is still recording.
“Switch it off,” I growl, refusing to leave my hunkered-down position.
I turn my head to the side to meet her eyes.
“No,” she whispers.
Who the hell does she think she is? With a growl, I leap to my feet and stalk toward her. She shrinks back slightly against the door but raises her head, adamant about whatever idea she’s got rattling inside it.