If This Gets Out(20)
“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.
“Hey, you two,” Ella says as we approach her on the floor, rolling forward to pour some vodka into plastic cups. “Welcome to République fran?aise.”
“Oh, do you live here, now?” I accept a cup.
“No, my love, we’re here for the four of you.”
I raise my drink in cheers. “Maybe we should be welcoming you to France, then?”
Angel appears from thin air, swaying on his feet. “Ruben, are you being sassy to the guests?”
“Yes, he is.” Ella pouts, twirling a strand of dark brown hair around her finger.
Angel points at Zach and me. “Chug. It’ll make you nicer.”
“Speaking of the four of us,” Zach says, instead of drinking. “Where’s Jon?”
Angel pulls a face. “Hopefully staying away in protest.”
“All the wonderful flavors out there, and you choose salty,” Ella laughs. Someone turns the music up, and the vibe of the room changes. It’s less chill catch-up, more nightclub. The bass vibrates through the floor and up through my fingertips, pulsing in my blood.
“I’m not salty,” Angel says, plopping hard onto the floor between Brianna and me. He has to half-shout to be heard. “If I were, it’d involve Ruben, and I don’t have a thing against my little Ruby, bless his heart.”