Without “getting in their way,” I guess. I’m happy to do that. Stay in the background, record footage, get money, profit. Theoretically, it’s win-win.
And at the same time, it could be interesting. This goes beyond anything I’ve imagined. If I do this right, I could even sustain a career in the film industry. All I’ve ever wanted is to make documentaries. I didn’t think that was ever an option — film school sure drummed that into me.
“You know, most girls would love this opportunity,” Carla says with a wry twist to her lips.
I get the impression she’s implying most girls would leap at the chance to be in the same room as five of the biggest fuckboys in the entertainment business. If that’s the case, I’m not most girls. I’m doing this for nobler pursuits, like career advancement and cash.
Shit.
There is still the ever-present fear that I’m being set up here. That there’s something they’re not telling me.
Nevertheless, I take a deep breath and weigh my options. Two months. It’s only for two months.
So, bought and sold, I raise my chin and tell them, “I’ll do it.”
2. ADAM
“THIS IS SHIT,” TAREK snaps after about an hour of silence. I roll my eyes and reexamine the position of my hand on the fretboard.
Here we go again...
Conor glances up from his phone, its bright glow painting his face in the dark of his bunk. It’s a surprise he’s physically able to tear his eyes away from it. Who knows what he does on that thing; he spends so much time on it, vegetating with the occasional laugh.
“Your hair? I agree.” He stretches in that lazy, chilled-out way of his. Tarek tosses a pillow at him, landing it square on Conor’s stomach.
“This fucking curfew, asshat.” He slides out of his bunk and drops onto the seated area beside me. “It’s, what, nine o’clock? Look. Seth’s already asleep—”
“Yeah, so shut up,” Seth mumbles, jamming a pillow over his head as he turns to face the wall.
“Why the hell are we in bed?”
Conor raises an eyebrow and asks in that dry Oklahoma drawl, “Why, what else would you be doing?”
“Sure as hell wouldn’t be sleeping in bed alone.”
In an upset voice, Conor says, “Dude, if you wanted a hug, you could have just asked.”
Seth laughs from beneath his pillow. I hide my own smile. Conor has always had a way of getting under people’s skins.
Tarek growls in pure frustration. “This isn’t how it’s meant to be!”
Leon strolls over from the kitchen, holding a bagel as he leans against the bunks. “And whose fault is that?” His voice is pointed as he stares at Tarek. As the eldest, he seems to automatically command the most respect in our odd circumstance-put-us-together hierarchy.
“Oh sure, Mr. Sensible. Like you weren’t balls-deep in those chicks, too.”
“Yeah, but I wasn’t the one fucking swinging my dick around on camera, you clown.”
He takes an angry bite of his bagel and storms up to his bunk on top, drawing the curtains shut.
“Uh-oh, Daddy’s angry,” Conor says mockingly in a loud half-whisper.
Tarek flops deeper into the plush leather seats. “MCM are a bag of dicks,” he mutters, drawing his arms around his knees, the picture of a perfect sulk.
I ignore them, scribbling down a potential chord progression. I think I could have the bare bones of... something. I’ve been listening to a lot of older stuff lately — Led Zep, The Clash, The Who. Their music is so rich compared to the three-chord crap we sing over.
Tarek’s eyes glance toward my notebook. I don’t keep it hidden. I also know he won’t understand it — he plays by ear, describing musical annotation as an affectation of the bourgeoisie to hinder the common man from succeeding. Though, to be fair, I think he was high when he went on that rant — that, and he’d probably been listening too much to me.
“You’re a good boy, Adam, doing homework.” He leans into me, trying to decipher my handwriting. “Smarter than us.”
“I dunno, you haven’t heard it yet.” I frown at an instruction for random modulation and score it out. Seemed like a good idea at the time.
“Who cares what it sounds like when you look like you?”
I try not to bristle at the implication. He gets like this sometimes. Paranoid. Fearful. That this whole empire we’ve built — that others have built for us — could come crashing overnight. I get that. When you’ve been plucked from obscurity and propelled into celebrity like we all have, we already have intimate knowledge of how rapidly things can change. None of us know how long this will last, the length of our musical futures. It’s like we’re squatting in some castle made of glass, and at any moment it could shatter.
There’s already speculation that we’re too old to be called a boy band; there are clones of us who are younger, prettier, and better emerging on the pop scene every year. All we can do is be ourselves and try not to go stir-crazy from media attention.
My arm wraps around Tarek’s shoulders, sensing he needs comfort from somewhere. All he’s done all evening is lash out. I never thought I was a touchy-feely sort until Royal Element. Being around these guys day and night, sharing the same ups and downs, some kind of psychic energy develops between you whether you want it to or not.
Rain streams against the large, blackened windows, the lights along the highway merging into a dreamy painting, like colors slicked on an artist’s palette. Tarek’s head drops to my shoulder and I realize, for all his protesting, he’s finally fallen asleep.
I put in my earbuds and zone out to Dark Side of the Moon. Along with the familiar twangy guitar, the gentle rocking motion of the tour bus almost lulls me to sleep. Minutes — hours? — later, I wake with a short, sharp shock during the talking bit in “Us and Them.” Tarek rouses beside me.
“Why did we stop?” he mumbles, eyes bleary.
It’s then I notice we’ve ground to a halt and the engine is silent. I yank my earbuds free and peer out the window. It’s pitch black outside and we may as well be in the middle of nowhere.
Tarek stares at me through wide eyes. “Shit, is this it? The zombie apocalypse?”
I raise an eyebrow. “If zombies want brains, they won’t be coming after you.”
“Nah, man. This is how it ends, not with a whimper but with a broken-down tour bus.” Tarek pretends to blow into a paper bag, his breath quick and uneven.
Such a drama queen.
Outside, I can discern a figure. A lumpen shadowy figure that would look almost human-like if it weren’t for the odd boxy attachments stuck to them.
I frown. I know logically that it’s not an evil alien monster, but it sure does look like that through the darkness.
There’s a thunk as the front door slides open, then a series of additional thunks and dragging noises. It sounds like our tour bus is being ransacked.
“Fuck’s going on?” It’s Leon’s voice. He tears open his curtain and pops his head out to see.
“Yeah, I’ll just put it there.” That’s Gary, our driver. He makes a noise that sounds like he’s stretching and hauling stuff into the upper storage racks. He’s beyond the kitchen area, so we can’t see him. “Your bed is here. The guys are through the back there — probably catching up on their beauty sleep. I’ll make you a brew.”