Somewhere Only We Know(6)

At thirteen years old, after I auditioned at the LA satellite studio of my current K-pop management label, I moved from Los Angeles to Seoul, alone and six thousand miles away from my family, and was put into a training camp immediately. My managers waited a couple years until the plastic surgery—giving me natural-looking ssangkkeopul, the double eyelids that had become so commonplace in South Korea that it was strange for any pop star not to have them. Then a discreet lil’ nose sculpting. What people called the “K-pop combo.”

It took about two years in a girl group, Hard Candy, before I shot to stardom. My managers plucked me out from the group to groom me into a solo artist. In the blink of an eye, I toppled every record, sold out every show, won every award you could win. And one of the keys to my success was that I had zero scandals. Not one photo of me drinking. Of a boyfriend. Of bad manners.

I was always humble, gracious, and contained.

Perfect.

And the media loved me for it. I was treated like some princess, protected fiercely by my public. The stories about me were always focused on my good deeds and success. In that order. Because my music wasn’t particularly different—instead, it was the best version of what was always popular: catchy, upbeat dance tunes paired with sweet, soulful ballads.

“See that?” Joseph said, pointing at old Lucky. “You messed up that step there. You’d never do that now. You should be pleased with how much you’ve improved.”

I didn’t feel pleased. I felt unsettled. I remembered old Lucky. The joy I felt in my performances. How excited I was before every show, every photo shoot, every single release. Back then, I had felt like an actual artist from the sheer joy of loving what I did. For being able to do it at all.

I thought I still felt that joy when onstage. But watching old Lucky side-by-side with current Lucky made the contrast crystal clear. Goodness.

There was just no comparison to old Lucky.





CHAPTER FOUR


JACK


Balancing the Saint Bernard–sized flower arrangement in one arm, I pulled out my phone as I walked down the hallway, the sound of my footsteps completely swallowed by the plush carpeting.

A quick search on Teddy Slade: The movie he was shooting here in Hong Kong was called Endless Night. I dodged a fancy credenza in the hallway as I scrolled through the list of cast and crew. I locked in on one name.

Okay, there were two rooms on this floor. I had a fifty-fifty chance. If it wasn’t one room, I’d try the other. I stood outside the first door and took a deep breath. I set the flowers down and shrugged off my suit jacket, rolling it into a ball and tossing it down the hall. Then I tucked my phone deep into the foliage until it was shrouded by the colorful leaves and flowers.

My white button-down was wrinkled and sloppy, but I tucked it into my black pants and hoped that this mutant flower arrangement would hide me. My black sneakers couldn’t be helped.

I hoisted the flowers back into my arms with a groan, then knocked on the door—three strong, assured raps. The blood rushed to my head, the familiar adrenaline kicking in.

Four months ago, I had snuck into a VIP party to impress the girl I had a crush on, Courtney. We were at a restaurant and spotted a few celebrities being ushered upstairs. “Oh my God, I would die to go up there,” Courtney had said breathlessly, clutching my arm. Some caveman part of me puffed up, and I had taken the challenge.

Using some phony contact names that didn’t exist, combined with dickish entitlement, I got us upstairs. And then managed to get Courtney close enough to her favorite actors to sneak a few photos.

A hand had grabbed me mid-photo. When I turned around, completely freaked out, a long-haired Asian guy was looking at me with a shrewd expression. “Hey kid, how did you get in here?”

I was ready to lie my ass off and run, but I hesitated when he grinned and said, “I know you snuck in.”

Something about that smile made me relax. “Oh, yeah?”

He nodded. “What if I paid you for those photos?”

Since then, I picked up freelance work for Trevor now and again. And lately, the assignments were more frequent. I was gaining his trust. It wasn’t my dream job or anything, but I knew that the more I did it, the better the money would get. And it used, in some marginal way, my actual photography skills. Had to compose those shots of celebrities getting into cars just right and all.

A few seconds after I knocked on the hotel-room door, I heard some shuffling on the other side. “What is it?” a gruff male voice called out from the other side.

“Flower delivery from Matthew Diaz.” The executive producer of Endless Night, according to the Internet. I spoke in the heavy nondescript Asian accent used by racist stereotype movie characters since forever. The less we were able to communicate, the better.

There was a low-voiced exchange. My arms started to tire from holding this monstrosity in a basket. Come on, be trusting and slightly stupid, Teddy.

The door opened and there was Teddy Slade in all his affair-having glory. Red hair disheveled with a furry chest peeking out from a loosely tied robe. He was shorter than me, but sturdy, like a man who often had to be on-screen intimidating criminals.

“Flowers from Matt?” he asked, one hand on the doorknob, obscuring my view of the penthouse. I could hear some music. Music with saxophones. Really?

I was hoping for a quick shot of some kind of physical evidence—women’s shoes that I could later trace to a photo from an event earlier today, anything. But first I had to get inside.