The interviewer is clearly thrilled by this display. The poor, poor man. He obviously has no idea that he won’t be allowed to write about any of this. Chorus would never have agreed to the interview if they didn’t have that kind of power in writing. He thinks he’s going to do a big splashy piece right now about how we’re treated like children, but that’s not how this story is going to go.
“So, boys,” he says, barely able to hide his grin. “Are you enjoying Copenhagen?”
“So much,” says Ruben. “It’s such a wonderful city, and we’re so happy to have the opportunity to see it for ourselves.”
Outside, through the glass doors, I see a small crowd of fans has assembled. Holy shit, already? That was fast. I know they’re all connected on Twitter, but damn. A few of them press their faces to the glass, and I’m not sure I’ve ever felt this much like a zoo animal.
The interviewer hits all the familiar beats, asking about our clothes, how we’re handling our schedule, and how we’re hoping fans feel when they see us live. He doesn’t seem to be aware that the questions they come up with are always the same. Or maybe because our team has so many topics that are off-limits, he’s only asking what he can.
As Jon is reciting his response to “So what’s next for Saturday?” I see the guy with dark hair stand up. He crosses the café, and goes into the bathroom. I look across, and see the girl with him. She’s drumming her perfectly done fingernails against her white leather handbag. She catches me looking, and her stare is dark, like it won’t end well for me if I keep looking.
I return my focus to the interview.
“Zach, I’ve heard you have a songwriting credit on the new album? That’s so exciting! Can you tell me a little about that process?”
I spout out the line Geoff told me to say when asked this question.
“Um, well, I wrote a song, and I showed it to our team, and they were into it. The rest is history. It’s called “End of Everything” and I’m really proud of it.”
We started recording the song last week, without any of my tweaks put in. I’m trying not to think about it.
“That’s so exciting! I know fans are dying to hear it.”
“Well, I hope they aren’t dying, no song is worth that. But I’m excited for them to hear it. I think it’s good, and I think it’s something a little different for Saturday. Plus, it’s nice to have a song that’s a little more personal, you know? I want our listeners to get to know this side of me.”
“Excuse me,” says Angel, and he stands up, and goes toward the bathroom, leaving his untouched Pepsi. A guard follows him across the café, but he goes into the bathroom alone. A few seconds later, the model guy I noticed walks out.
It could just be a coincidence.
But my instincts are telling me Angel is up to something.
NINETEEN
RUBEN
The night our whole world falls apart, I spend most of our concert lost in thought.
It starts with Zach. Since watching him that night in the hotel room, I’ve tried to catch more glimpses of him onstage. I have to do it with a measure of subtlety, though, in case it gets too obvious and someone from Chorus reprimands us.
So, as surreptitiously as possible, I steal glances at him, marveling at the way he bites his lip unconsciously when the tempo picks up and the choreo speeds with it. His little smiles at the audience. The damp strands of hair he pushes back from his head with spread fingers.
And while I’m doing it, a black ball of bitterness coils in my stomach. Because I shouldn’t have to train my eyes to look anywhere but him, when they simply want to trail back to him and his magnetic pull.
I try to picture how Chorus will announce our relationship.
I try to picture us holding hands on this very stage.
But I can’t.
Then I turn my attention to Jon. The way he bites his lip on purpose, seducing the crowd like he’s been taught to. His lust-ridden, crooked smiles, directed at whichever lucky girl he can find in the nosebleed section. The way he spreads his fingers apart as he runs his hand over his thighs, sending a ripple of charged electricity through the audience.
And the bitterness grows. Because he’s an unwilling puppet.
Then I look to Angel. The way his lips are parted as he drags in labored, exhausted breaths—he’s not high tonight, but he looks like he had a hell of a time last night. The way his smiles resemble smirks, like he can’t quite commit to them. The way he balls his hands into fists whenever we stop dancing, like he’s laden with tension he can’t get out any other way.