But I’ve stopped breathing. Seth gazes between Tarek and me, ignoring Adam.
“You’ve just woken up, Princess,” Seth says hastily. “Don’t worry about it.”
Adam looks at him as though he’s grown another head. “Princess? You’re really just gonna drop that into casual conversation?”
But nothing about this could feel less like casual conversation. “No, really,” I tell them. “I want to help. Whatever I can do.”
Tarek looks at me curiously. Something about his expression draws my gaze toward him. “Kiss me.”
It’s like someone’s sucked the oxygen out the room and opened an oven door.
There is a long moment’s silence at this instruction, and then Adam and Seth start talking at once:
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, hold up!” Adam’s staring at Tarek like he can’t believe his ears — but so too is Seth, who says, “Bro, that is not how you go about it.”
But I’m looking at Tarek, at his dark eyes and toned body, thinking of the innocent sincerity of his request and the challenge in his tone. Before Seth and Adam notice, I’m already sitting up, curling a hand around the nape of Tarek’s neck and pressing our mouths together.
Tarek makes a soft whimpering noise — and so, to my right, does Seth.
“Holy shit,” I hear Seth murmur, and the thought of him avidly watching Tarek and me kiss gets me inexplicably aroused.
But it’s the thought of doing it in front of Adam that’s enough to make me want more. Propelled by a burst of lust, I deepen the kiss with my tongue. Tarek’s hand is cupping my jaw, holding me safe and secure in his arms.
When we part, our faces remain close together, our noses nudging one another. My eyes flutter open, dazed. Tarek is still holding my head upright in his supportive hands. His fingers wrap around the back of my head and he kisses the tip of my nose. “Thank you,” he whispers, his lips caressing my skin.
Adam remains silent, as though trying to wrap his head around what he’s just witnessed. And then he stands without comment, his chair scraping backward, and returns to his room. Seth watches him leave. Tarek doesn’t, his nose busy nuzzling my hair.
“You’re amazing,” Seth says slowly. “You know that?”
I’m not sure which of us he’s talking to, but Tarek’s lips stretch into a smile against my cheek. “I agree,” he whispers, voice husky. I kiss Tarek’s forehead, wrapping one of my arms around his back.
I reach out and take Seth’s hand in mine.
There are two men in my arms, and this feels... like hope.
16. LEON
THE GOOD THING ABOUT being managed by MCM is that my literary horizons have expanded in new and unexpected directions. Instead of those Boy Wizard books people my age love to talk about, my e-reader is jam-packed with interestingly titled tomes such as, Sticking It to the Men: An Advanced Guide to Boardroom Ethics and Psychology, Corporate Shark Tanks and How To Survive Them; and The Art of the Steal: Prepare For War. Anything business-related, I’ll add it to my cart without even reading the blurb.
I read these books for one simple reason: know thine enemy.
So I suppose I have MCM to thank for it. Because of them, I have a working knowledge of core marketing strategy, operating leverage, and net worth. It’s like someone who left school at sixteen undertaking a crash course in Ivy League business and economics.
When there’s a quiet knock on my door, I quickly slip my wire-rimmed glasses off my nose and into the drawer on my bedside table. The information presented on my e-reader becomes fuzzier, like reading through a foggy window, but I can still sorta make it out. It’s just harder. Still, I’d rather be half-blind than caught dead wearing glasses.
Of all the people, I guess I don’t expect Conor to pop his head around the door. His expression is grim beneath his amber-bright hair. “Can I come in?”
Snapping the case of my e-reader shut, I gesture to my room. He sits on one of the minimalist white bucket chairs — strange contraptions that remind me of being in elementary school. I’m not sure what vibe the interior designer was wanting for this luxury suite, but hospital chic is quite an apt description.
“You can sit on my bed if you like. I won’t bite.” Instantly, Conor leaves the chair and flops backward onto my bed, a golden-brown envelope clutched in his outstretched hand.
It feels like I have to be careful around Conor these days. He’s been so quiet, so unlike himself. He’s meant to be the funnyman, the one who’ll snigger for days over random bits of innuendo, the one who’ll tell dirty jokes and dad jokes in the same conversation. He just hasn’t been the same lately.
“You okay, li’l one?”
He rolls his eyes, staring up at the ceiling. Although he’s the youngest of us, he probably doesn’t like being reminded of it every time I talk to him, the same way I don’t appreciate being sarcastically called Daddy whenever I’m snippy with someone, just because I’m the eldest. But it’s habit — he’s always been the li’l one, and I guess I’ve always been Dad. It’s the roles we were born to play in this band.
I peer down at his prone body, giving his leg a firm shake. “Yo. Talk to me, dude. I can’t help if you don’t talk.”
He slides his eyes to meet mine. “I know I’m hot stuff, but take your hands off my leg before I kick you in the nuts.”
I laugh but do so. “Sorry. Redheads are my weakness.”
His sigh is world-weary as he lowers the brown envelope to his chest. I have a burning desire to know what’s inside it.
“Can I open it?” I ask, pointing to it.
Slowly, Conor rocks on his hips so that he’s sitting on the edge of the bed instead. With quiet deliberation, he turns the envelope around in his hands and, closing his eyes, holds it out to me.
It’s addressed to Conor’s home in Oklahoma, which means he’s had this for at least a month. Since before the tour, anyway. I look inside and pull out the one single, simple sheet of paper.
It’s a contract, but nothing like the fifty-page bricks MCM sends us to sign. It’s direct and to the point.
I scan its contents slowly, realization dawning with each new line.
“Where did you get this?” I ask quietly.
Conor looks resigned. “Got it drawn up in secret. By a lawyer who isn’t affiliated with MCM.”
“When?”
He chews his lip. “Months ago.” He ducks his head and looks me in the eye. “Well? What do you think?”
It’s a contract requesting Conor’s departure from the band. What am I supposed to think?
I open and close my mouth several times, a variety of thoughts flying through my head. How could I not have noticed how desperately unhappy he was? How selfish is he to pull this now — how selfish to even do this at all, midtour, to leave all our fans in the lurch? And, unbidden: how fucking jealous am I, to not have had the balls to have done this myself?
Countless daydreams about packing my bags and storming out of this life forever... Not one solid, actionable plan came from them.
Conor’s three years younger than me and already has an escape.
I scan the contract again. “It’s straightforward, professional...” But the words catch in my throat. I turn my gaze to him, asking the only word I can think: “Why?”