“You got on the list, Jon. Why aren’t you happy?” Erin asks.
Jon scrunches the caramel wrapper in his fist, but won’t look Erin in the eye. “Wouldn’t you be weirded out if your dad submitted shirtless photos of you to a magazine?”
“I’m yet to take shirtless photos,” Erin says. I think she means it as a weak joke, but no one laughs. She sighs. “That’s what you get when your dad’s your manager, I guess. Try to see the bright side. It’s positive publicity.”
“At least you’re in it,” Angel says. There’s an edge to his voice.
Zach, who hates confrontation more than anything in the world, wilts beside me.
“It’s not your brand, Angel,” Erin says in exasperation. “But I get that you’re disappointed.”
“I’m not disappointed,” he snaps. “I’m pissed off.”
“Come on. Don’t shoot the messenger.”
“I’m fucking ripped, and I’m ten times the dancer Ruben is, and I’ve hooked up with more girls than Jon’s mustered the courage to say hi to, but Chorus just happened to coincidentally decide that I’m the sweet virgin.”
“Okay,” Erin says, her smile looking strained now. “Noted. I thought the group of you might be happy about this exceptional promotional opportunity that will elevate the band as a whole. As always, I’m more than happy to pass on your feedback to Geoff.”
Jon’s suddenly interested in looking at the ground, and even Angel shakes his head noncommittally. The only thing complaining to Geoff does is get you stripped down. Nothing changes. Not even if it’s his own son complaining.
“If it helps,” Keegan calls from the front of the bus. “I didn’t get on the list, either.”
Zach clears his throat. “Congratulations,” he says weakly, smiling at me, then Jon.
“See, that’s the team-player attitude I was looking for,” Erin chirps.
Jon glowers at her, then seems to give up. “So, who’s excited to climb the Eiffel Tower?” he asks in a strained voice.
“Oh, we won’t have time to go to the top,” Erin says. “Just a photo, then we have to get you all to another interview at M6 Music.”
From the looks on everyone’s faces, no one’s particularly surprised to hear it.
When Erin makes her way back to the front, Angel folds his arms. “You know they didn’t submit me because they think an Asian guy can’t be sexy,” he mutters. “Fucking unbelievable.”
Jon’s smile is acidic. “Dad thinks he can’t be racist because he married a Black woman. He’s never gotten it, man. Doubt he ever will.”
Angel gives a snort of disgust and turns his attention to his phone. Jon watches him, looking lost in thought, then, finally, slumps back in his seat and squeezes his eyes shut.
Zach glances at me, and his expression is as dark as I’m sure mine is.
* * *
Zach’s shirtless in my hotel room, which is both amazing and a travesty on multiple levels.
Essentially, I’m doing my very best not to stare. And it’s, uh, hard.
He knocked on my hotel room about five minutes ago, asking to borrow something of mine to wear to Angel’s because he’s already sick of his own, Chorus-curated, shirt selection. And now I have to look anywhere but at him to avoid making shit weird—shockingly, it’s much easier to ignore a half-naked guy in a bustling room than in a one-on-one situation.
I settle for staring down at my phone with my back to him. I silently count to ten to give him enough time to get my shirt on, but when I look up he’s still freaking shirtless, standing in front of the mirror and picking at his hair. A small strip of his briefs is visible above the snug waistband of his skinny jeans, and his skin is smooth and pale from lack of sun.
The thing about Zach is, he’s quite beautiful. I’ve always thought that, even when it was a purely platonic opinion. He’s slight but tall, not quite lanky, with the sort of thick brown hair that makes you ache to run your fingers through it, just to find out if it’s as soft as it looks. Deep dimples, long lashes framing serious hazel eyes, a fine-boned oval face, arms that dip and curve with well-defined muscles. If today’s list had been based on looks instead of propaganda, he would’ve been on it, hands down. Higher than me, too.
A shuffling noise tells me he’s finally putting the shirt on. “Have you looked outside?” he asks. “There’s so many of them.”
I haven’t, actually. There was already a pretty decent group of fans congregating outside the hotel when we arrived back from tonight’s concert, though. I open the window and stick my head out, and a roar rises like a tidal wave as they spot me. It’s a swarm. A writhing crowd of heads and hands, dozens of people deep, mostly teen girls. They scream at me. For me.
I’m the only thing that exists to them right now, even if sometimes my mouth looks weird, or my vibrato wavers, or I forget to smile for the press. It doesn’t matter to them. It’s unconditional.
I never knew “unconditional” before Saturday.
I wave down at them, and Zach squeezes in beside me, and the screams somehow get even louder. Deafening. At least it’ll drown out any noise that comes from Angel’s room, I think idly.
I throw my arm around Zach’s shoulders, and he grabs my dangling hand to hold me there. “Bonne fin de soirée!” I shout, although I doubt anyone can hear me. Zach pulls me inside with a bear hug, laughing, and the crowd is muted again as he closes the window.
When we get to Angel’s room, there are already about fifteen people inside. Jon’s nowhere to be seen yet, even though we texted him when Zach got to my room.
The main lights are off, with only the lamps and the bathroom still lit. The music’s at a reasonable volume—for now—and most people are chilling on the bed, chairs, or simply on the floor, their faces cast in shadows. There’s a few people I recognize: Ella, Kellin, and Ted, of course, along with Daniel Crafers and Brianna Smith, both actors in their early twenties. I’ve interacted with both of them on Instagram a few times.