If This Gets Out(86)

If they’re telling the truth, that is. We can’t know for sure, because all we have is their word; we aren’t allowed to be with him. Apparently that will cause a scene and will draw even more attention to what’s happened, which Chorus wants to avoid at all costs. Footage of Angel’s accident has spread around the Internet as fast as anything involving us does, but Chorus is really trying to make sure this only lasts one news cycle. That means no visits until it’s all blown over.

Normally, I somewhat get why they keep us out of the loop of big stuff, and I trust that they know how to handle whatever situation is going on best. This is so far from being normal, though.

He’s our friend, and he’s hurt. We should be with him. Being here feels wrong.

Ruben and Jon are in Ruben’s room, waiting for more news, but I left about an hour ago to try to get some sleep. “Try” being the operative word. I can’t get comfortable, as everything feels cloying and too hot.

I get out of bed, and start pacing. The clock on the bedside table says it’s just past four a.m., which makes me think sleep at this point is going to be impossible.

The accident replays in my mind. It’s vivid, down to every minute detail. I can still hear the dull thud of him hitting the hood and tumbling over, before finally hitting the road facedown.

And then the silence.

Until the screaming started, anyway.

He was so still, his body bent awkwardly with his arm jutting out. In that moment, everyone who was there thought he was dead. I know it. I could smell blood. His blood. I saw it, stark red, on his face before the guards dragged the three of us away. Jon tried to fight them, to stay with Angel, but he wasn’t strong enough. I just went with them. I didn’t have the energy to fight back. Maybe I should’ve. Maybe then I wouldn’t feel like this, and Angel wouldn’t be alone.

I press my fingertips into the corners of my eyes, to stop the tears. I’m not ashamed of crying, I’m just sick of it. But I just can’t help but think I should’ve been more aware. I should’ve seen this coming. I should’ve been there for Angel, and stopped this.

I go into the bathroom and lean against the sink. My reflection doesn’t really look like me. Not lately, anyway. My eyes are red, and I have puffy bags under them. I splash some water on my face, then go out and see the empty room. It’s dark and messy.

I feel an ache. I need to be with the others now. Maybe I can’t see Angel, but I can see Ruben and Jon.

In the hallway, there is a whole squadron of Chase guards, more than I’ve ever seen, blocking each end. The stares the guards give me are cold, utterly devoid of emotion. I’m sure they have orders to stop us by any means necessary if we try to leave.

I knock on Ruben’s door, and Jon lets me in.

“Can’t sleep?” asks Ruben.

“Nope.” I sit down beside him on the end of the bed. He puts his hand on my leg, his touch reassuring. “Any news?”

He shakes his head.

“I can’t get ahold of Dad,” says Jon. “I think he’s ignoring me.”

I grimace. Jon has just seen one of his best friends get in a horrific accident, and Geoff’s ignoring him.

I wonder if he even cares about Angel. Or any of us, beyond our value to his company.

I wish I could tell myself that he does.

But I don’t think I can anymore.



* * *



It takes five more hours for Geoff to call us to a meeting for an update on Angel. Eight hours, since Angel’s accident.

Eight. Freaking. Hours.

Honestly, during this time I’ve started to feel as if the four of us are the least important members of Saturday. We’re just pretty props that the Chorus bigwigs can move around however they like. They can dress us up, or strip us shirtless if they want, to satisfy the public’s desires. We’re sold as dream boys. Anything human about us only makes us more difficult in their eyes. Anything real is ugly and breaks the illusion.

We file into Erin’s room.

A laptop is on her desk, showing Geoff, in his office at Chorus HQ. A board of suits is already in the room, mostly publicists and other people like that I don’t generally have much to do with.

“Well,” says Geoff. Clearly, we’ve walked in on him mid-conversation, and he just glances at us, then continues. “We don’t know when he’s going to be able to go back onstage yet, but there are options. We can change the choreo to accommodate his injuries.”

“Hold on,” says Jon, before we even sit down. His chest puffs up. “You’re not considering going ahead with Angel on the tour, are you?”

That finally gets his full attention. “Respectfully, Jon, this isn’t your decision to make. Just focus on helping each other through this trying time and leave the logistics to us. Now take a seat.”

Jon huffs, his eyes on fire. He moves toward an empty seat, but then stops, standing his ground.

“You know what? No. Angel needs help. You do know he’s been high almost every day, right? He’s not coping. Dad, he almost died!”

“We are well aware of the grievous nature of his accident, but we’ve been assured it is safe for him to perform once he has recovered—”

“What is it going to take for you to care? This tour can’t continue. Angel only needs to be one place now, and that’s getting the best help money can buy. Otherwise there won’t even be a Saturday for you to pick at much longer.”