If This Gets Out(13)
“What are you doing?” Zach asks, panting and propping himself up on his elbows.
“Mom sent me a helpful video,” I say lightly, showing him the screen.
“Oh my god, absolutely not.” All traces of mirth vanish as he wrenches the phone from my hands. I try to retrieve it, and he shoves it in his back pocket, pressing a hand on my chest to ward me away. He’s straight, I remind the butterflies that flutter to life in my stomach. “No. Stop. You’re perfect, and you’re the best singer I’ve ever heard in, just, my whole fucking life, and screw your mom. Sorry, I didn’t mean that. But also, kind of?”
“She didn’t make the video. She just wants to make sure I—”
“Shh. No.” Zach presses his palm across my mouth, cutting me off. I lick him, and he recoils in disgust. “I’m throwing your phone away,” he announces, climbing to his feet. “No more phone for the rest of the night. Your mom will get over it.”
I grab Zach’s upper arm and pull him backward and we tumble down together, landing in a tangle of limbs and giggling breathlessly. Someone’s amped the music volume outside, and the thudding bass combined with the smell of beer and spirits has it feeling like an inflatable nightclub. “Oh shit,” I gasp, a little breathless. “I think I’m drunk already. How much whiskey was in those drinks?”
Jon bounces over and lands next to us on his knees. “You two are gonna need some serious water if you wanna survive tomorrow.”
“Water’s for rookies,” Angel says. His white suit is marred by dirt and grime already.
“Water’s not gonna help you at this point anyway, man,” Jon says. “Good luck.”
“Luck? I don’t need luck. I am eighteen, I am a man of the world, and I will be transported to England through a rainbow portal.” Angel drops heavily, causing the floor beneath us to lurch up.
“I’ve got motion sickness,” Zach moans, and I help him upright.
“You think it’s bad now,” Jon says, smirking.
“Let’s get you onto solid ground,” I say to Zach, scooping him up under his arms. “Come on.”
We tumble out of the castle and onto the grass. Zach sags, resting his back against the inflatable wall. I join him there, but it’s jolting so violently I shuffle forward and sit up straight. Zach lets his head fall heavily onto my shoulder. Wise move.
“Are you happier now?” he asks, closing his eyes.
The warmth of his cheek seeps through my thin sweater. I smile down at him, then rest my own head on top of his, and pretend for a moment that this is something it’s not. “Yeah. Much.”
Jon and Angel have left the castle now, and Angel waves to catch my attention. “I’m going to get some more drinks for us,” he calls, “because apparently I have to do everything for myself around here.”
“Thank you, Angel,” I say sweetly.
I would offer him a hand with the drinks, but for now, Zach needs a second to regain his balance. And as long as he’s leaning on me like this, soft and warm, with the sweet, heady scent of his cologne drifting around us, I’m in no rush at all.
FOUR
ZACH
I’m the only one trying to work on this flight.
I think the other members of Saturday, save for a very smug Jon, have accepted that they’re massively hungover and they aren’t going to be productive. The four of us are sprawled on white leather seats, spaced out across the private jet. It’s over-the-top luxurious; each little thing, from the huge screens each of us have, to the fully stocked minibar at the back, feels almost unnecessarily decadent. We just had a dinner of rigatoni all’arrabbiata, which is basically just pasta in tomato sauce with sausage, only expensive, and ciabatta bread with truffles and garlic oil. Dessert was supposed to be foglie di fico, but we all declined. For our abs, I’m guessing.
Jon and Angel are dozing, and Ruben has his headphones on, presumably listening to music. Actually, there’s a good chance he’s working as well—he often puts on career advice podcasts that his mom makes him listen to. It’s either that, or some old musical he’s listened to a million times already. Erin is sitting on a three-seat lounge, reading something on her iPad. Our security team leaders and principal bodyguards are both asleep at the back of the plane, but we’re the only passengers.
I have my notebook open in front of me, and I’m trying to write a song, even though I’m queasy and it feels like my brain is being stepped on.
I bring my pen to the page, and write: You’re like a hangover.
That’s hardly fun, though. Plus I could get in trouble for referencing alcohol, given our target audience.
What Galactic Records wants is a pop smash. It needs to be sweet and easy to listen to, but can’t be too much of anything. The lyrics need to be good, but vague enough that masses of people can apply the story to their own lives. People are always so dismissive of pop, but actually writing a hit pop song? It’s way easier said than done.
I’m stuck because, as much as I want to be a renowned songwriter, I’m not really a pop smash kind of person. I never was, and even though I’m in a world-famous pop band now, I have my doubts that I ever will be. While Ruben was raised on musicals, I was raised on alt-rock. I like songs that are emotive and personal and honestly, a little weird. There’s a reason loner kids like I once was gravitate toward that kind of music. I want to be that for someone, one day. To give them the lifeline music gave me.