Break It Up (12 page)

“I’m wasting people’s time.”

“It’s a nice zoo.”

“I’ve been here at least a dozen times already, and they know that.”

Without thinking, I step forward and give him a hug. Those split seconds with my body cradled against his make the blood roar in my ears, and it’s all I can do not to fan myself when he lets go.

He’s oblivious as he flashes me a grin. “Thanks.”

“Sure. Anytime.”

“I’m lucky to have a friend like you.” He moves past me to the men’s room.

I take a few deep breaths before I go rejoin the others.

That afternoon,
just before it’s time to head over to the concert venue, Aidan summons me to his room, where several of the rest of the crew stand around his laptop. “Kyra,” he says, “I want you to see this first to make sure you’re okay with it.” He turns his computer so that the screen faces me and I see that he’s on YouTube. “This isn’t public yet,” he assures me. “But we’re releasing teaser videos, and given how today went…this is the only one I’ve got.”

The video starts up and it’s Zach. He’s petting the dolphins and joking with the trainer, who introduces himself as Bernardo. Then Zach turns and calls out to me offscreen. The sun is bright enough that everyone’s squinting, too polite to put on sunglasses while talking to each other.

Then I walk into the frame, my face blurred out, my body showing that I’m shy in this situation. I pet one of the dolphins and Zach asks me, “Have you ever petted a dolphin before?”

I watch, mortified, and see that my response is a mumble. Subtitles appear at the bottom of the frame, and while I suppose it would be normal to feel embarrassed to find out I’m that bad on camera, I’m relieved. No one can even hear my voice. Friends of mine could watch this and have no idea that it’s me. Even better, the subtitles are wrong. It has me saying, “Sorry?” rather than “Which dolphin?”

“Are we okay to make this public?” Aidan asks. “You’re identity is concealed. I just want to get a good clip out there, and this is classic Triple Cross publicity. Them taking the time to give a fan some individual attention.”

I really wish I knew offhand whether he has to ask me for permission or not. Is he doing me a courtesy when he could go ahead and post it anyway? Or if I say yes, am I waiving some right not to be featured?

“I don’t want to be in this documentary.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s not what I’m trying to do. His fans will love it. We can blur you more if you want?”

“This needs to be the only time I ever appear on camera then. Ever.”

“I know. I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t a little desperate.”

“Pity to blur out such a pretty face,” says Brent.

Whatever.

“The press has picked up on the fight this morning,” says Aidan. “It’s kind of a mess out there right now.”

Given that, I really shouldn’t stand in the way of this sweet, positive clip he has. “Yeah, okay, put it up.”

“You any good at social media?” Aidan asks.

“I pay attention to it a lot.”

“Know how to get this clip some exposure? We’ve got Twitter, a Facebook page, all that stuff, but I don’t know the first thing about it.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I can do all that.”

Everyone else heads over to the concert while I go back to my room to compose Facebook posts and tweets, and go through all the YouTube messages and comments. It’s just as well that I don’t see Zach in all his hotness striding around the stage.

There aren’t a ton of YouTube comments yet since this documentary hasn’t been publicized much at all, but I can already tell that soon the landslide will begin. Triple Cross fans are a ravenous group with all kinds of access to social media. One tweet from us gets retweeted forty-seven times the first minute just because I used the #triplex hashtag. Wow.

I go back to view my YouTube video again, now with the image of fans circling like ravenous sharks online, ready to rip me to shreds. A second viewing eases my nerves. My own father would have a hard time recognizing me.

There are a smattering of comments that say, “That girl is soooo lucky,” and such, but mostly they are all about how hot Zach is and how sweet he seems. Most people see him calling me over as a sign of his wonderfully charitable nature, not of any special interest in this anonymous, mumbling girl.

I imagine him performing on stage right now, one fist in the air as he belts out his lyrics, sweeping his gaze over the audience of shrieking fans.

He meets and sees hundreds, if not thousands, of people a day. The girl in this video is no one special at all. It’s stupid of me to think anyone would even care to know my name.

While I’m checking comments, a tweet pops up on the concert movie feed.

@TriplexMovie Check out this fight!

There’s a bit.ly link at the end of the tweet. My stomach sinks as I click it, and sure enough, up pops a window with a picture of Logan holding the vase while Ben argues with him.

“Trouble in Paradise?” the news story begins. “Members of the popular band Triple Cross appeared to have a falling out today in their hotel in Madrid.”

Did the guys have to pick a fight in the
lobby
of all places? Why couldn’t they just trash their rooms like normal celebrities with issues?

“Witnesses on the scene say the fight appeared to be quite serious and not just the guys horsing around, as their publicist insists.”

I wonder if said publicist is going to fly out and join the tour. If he or she knows what’s good for the band, they should.

I pull up Google and do a quick search, only to pull up 3,000 hits for “Triple Cross fight in Madrid.” Is this bad? Or is this a small number of hits, given how famous the band is?

“Ben Roland seen out drinking before concert,” proclaims one news headline.
Great
.
Way to go, Ben.
I check, and sure enough, there are pictures of Ben at a bar with a pint of beer in one hand.

Anger flickers in me. Anger and fear. It feels somewhat like when one of my boyfriends angered a rival gang leader and very nearly got shot. Only Zach isn’t my boyfriend, and his life isn’t in danger. Unless a rabid fan goes postal or something. Now, though, just like back then, I feel helpless and that’s what I hate. The knowledge that bad things are happening and there’s nothing I can do to stop them. I think of Chloe and Jason with the media dogging their heels.

Ben’s an idiot. He doesn’t know what kind of hornets’ nest he’s stirred up here. A glance at the clock on my computer shows me it’s nearly midnight, and I realize that the concert is over and I didn’t eat dinner. I’m
starving
. When I get up to go scout for a vending machine or some other food source, I notice someone’s pushed a note under the door.

“Come up?” says the handwritten scrawl, and tucked into the fold of the paper is a room key.

With the usual mix of happiness and misery, I make straight for the elevator. This time, when I arrive on the band’s floor, it’s hard to go unnoticed. In the hall, there are quite a few people of the female variety wearing short skirts and teetering around on their high heels as if they’ve been drinking, which they probably have.

Rather than shy away, I just smooth my hair and walk on through as if I’ve got a reason to be there. Let them think I have a room on this floor. The important thing is not to look too memorable. I reach Zach’s door and slide the room key into the slot with a click. The light flashes red, so I try again. Still red. A third time with the same result and I realize this isn’t Zach’s room key.

“Kyra!” hollers a voice behind me.

I turn to see Ben leaning out of his room with two groupies, who stare daggers at me, pasted to his sides. With his door open, the sounds of chatter and thudding music spill out into the hallway.

“You need something?” I ask. I keep my posture impassive.

“I need to know why you think I’m in that room.” He grins.

I look down at the room key and shove it into my back pocket. The more I talk, the more of an impression I’ll make on the others. “What do you need, Mr. Roland?”

He barks a laugh at that name and says, “I need you, baby.”

Behind me, I hear the door open and the air whooshes past me because Zach yanks it so fast. “What’s going on?”

I turn to see that Zach is wearing a towel, his hair dripping wet. I avert my eyes. “Um…”

“Come on, Kyra,” says Ben.

“Hey, what’s your problem?” Zach glares at his cousin.

“Just come hang out. Party.”

“Parties aren’t her thing,” snaps Zach.

There’s enough of a possessive tone in his words to make my heart flutter. At the same time, what he says is a total lie. Parties are my thing—or they used to be. I’ve spent tons of time drinking beer on random people’s couches while a social maelstrom swarmed around me. It’s situations like this, standing in front of a half-dressed guy and playing it cool, that are not my thing.

I’ve gotta get out of this situation. “Mr. Wechsler,” I say, “I have some media materials for you.”

“Oh? Great. Yeah. Come on in. I’ll go get decent.”

“Can I see?” shouts Ben.

“You want to see your cousin naked?” I call back. “Can I just say that’s a little messed up?” Oops. I really shouldn’t shoot off at the mouth right now.

“Nobody ‘gets to see!’” adds Zach. He pulls me inside. The door shuts behind me, and we’re safe.

“Good evening, Ms. Armijo,” says Zach with an amused smile.

“How in the heck did you hear me from the shower?”

“I didn’t. I was out of the shower and I heard you talking on the other side of the door.”

“Oh.”

“You have media materials?”

“Back in my room, but here’s an imaginary USB drive of them.”

He grins. “Gimme a sec to get dressed.”

I half hoped I would get to watch some of it, but I’m not surprised I don’t. I wonder if it’s my turn to tuck him in tonight. I sit on his couch, kick off my sandals, and tuck my feet up under me, all in an attempt to get comfortable.

A few minutes later, Zach returns in sweats and a t-shirt.

“You copied my look,” I say.

“A designer would pay good money for the right to say that.” He sits down on the couch. Despite his smile, I sense he’s stressed.

“How’d the show go?” I ask.

“Um… you know. Fine. I don’t think the fans noticed anything off.”

“But?”

“But the other guys aren’t as tight as they were before. When my mom ran stuff, everything went like clockwork and they were always on their game. I mean, they claimed they weren’t. When they wanted to fire her, that was what they said. She was stifling them. They could do better with some more freedom.”

I think about the fight that morning and, by association, the news stories blowing up the airwaves. He will likely hear about them sooner or later, unless he still obeys his mother’s rule of not reading his own publicity. I sense his new management team won’t shield him, though. “They should’ve come to the zoo with me,” says Zach.

“Even though your new manager was against the zoo trip?”

“He doesn’t get the PR game like my mom did. He’s all about preserving our creative energy and stuff and looking out for the artist.”

“That a bad thing?”

Zach scratches his chest. “It is if you aren’t much of an artist.”

Now’s the time to pat him on the arm and assure him that he is, but I’m just not wired that way. “Do you think Logan and Ben aren’t artists either?”

He looks up at me and considers this. “I know they think they are. Ben, he just doesn’t like our target audience anymore. Feels like he’s too old for them. Logan… I dunno. To hear him talk, you’d think our mother used to beat him or something, but the thing is, he had it pretty easy. I mean, comparatively. He’s always been overdramatic.” He looks over at me, and although his gaze is still intense, it’s not as intimidating. “I’m really glad you’re here. You’re the only person I can talk to about this stuff.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. I guess I should be sorry. That probably puts a lot of pressure on you.”

I shrug that off. That is the least of the stress I feel when I’m around him.

“Why me?” I ask.

“Hmmm?”

“You could talk to anyone. Why me?”

He shrugs. “Why not?”

“Because you could have anyone.”

“Whatever that means.” He shrugs it off.

“It means that right now you could walk about ten feet that direction”—I point to his door and the hallway beyond it—“and take your pick from dozens of hot girls who’d hang on your every word.”

He looks disgusted at that. “I’m not interested in the type Ben goes for. I want nothing to do with them.”

“What type is that?”

“Girls who sleep around. Who let themselves get used. Pass.”

I should let this drop right now, but my mouth keeps on going. “Um…what if you found a reformed girl who did that?”

“Hmm?” He looks up at me. “Like if I went over there and said, ‘Really, you can do better,’ and helped her see the light?”

“Sure.”

He laughs. “Yeah, I don’t think so. A girl like that isn’t going to be able to have a real relationship. She’s wired all wrong.”

What if she rewired?
That’s what I want to ask, but I can’t. He probably thinks this conversation is weird enough already. Still, his comments hurt. I don’t like the feeling that I’m damaged goods in his eyes.

“Everything all right?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I force a smile I hope looks genuine.

No dice. He lifts his eyebrow.

“No, I’m fine,” I insist.

“I’m just stressing you out with all my issues, aren’t I?”

“No.”

“Kyra, relax, okay? Forget about my whining.”

“I am relaxed.”

“Turn around?”

Huh?
I obey, though, and turn my back to him.

He grasps my shoulders on either side of my neck and digs his fingers in.

I gasp as he kneads my muscles, forcing the tension out. He gets up on his knees to get more leverage and his fingers dig in even more. Is he trying to kill me? I’m about to lose it here.

“Relax,” he says. “Relax, relax, relax.”

More and more tension gives way under his hands. This is all wrong. I shouldn’t let him touch me like this.

He pins me firmly in place. “You trust me?” he asks.

“Trust isn’t the issue. It’s just that if you keep doing that, I’ll…probably fall asleep.”

“Well, sure. It’s one a.m.”

It’s the perfect excuse to leave, but I’m a masochist. I let him work my muscles until I feel like putty in his hands. Each breath I breathe in is deeper than the one before and my limbs go rag-doll limp.

Zach eases up the pressure and the massage is over. I don’t know whether to bolt out of the room, cry, or turn around and profess my undying love. I manage to mumble, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. You want me to walk you to your room?”