Page 8 of Grip Me Tight
Don frowns. “Are you sure? That’s a pretty secure line to get a wrong number on.”
“It’s still just a phone. Probably a fluke.”
“Well, did they say anything?”
I pause. “No, maybe they expected a girl to answer or something and just froze.”
Don starts unloading the wood. “Maybe you should mention it to Serge?”
The head of our security team has shit like this on lockdown. If he thought for one second, there could be a repeat of stalker-fest we’d all be sitting in hotel rooms sucking our thumbs with big, burly guys babysitting us. No thank you.
Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate our security team, and I’ve seen some insane stuff when we’re out, but I need my alone time after a show. The other guys might get off on the adoration, a revolving line of women sitting in their laps, the drugs and booze flowing, but most of the time, that scene reminds me too much of the parties my mother used to throw when I was little. I’ll stick around for a bit to bond with the guys and do my bit for the photos and the fans, but when it gets too much I need to cut out.
Sometimes I take a couple of the girls along so no one bitches at me for leaving, but when I get to my room, security reminds them of their NDAs, hands them a parting gift and escorts them out. So far, it’s been a win-win for everyone. The girls don’t want to admit they didn’t get the score, and it doesn’t bother me if they tell their friends I was so impressed by them, they got jewelry or swag or whatever when they left. They get the story of being picked to leave the party with Tanner Steele and a party favor to boot.
I get peace and quiet and a bed to myself to remind me I’m no longer a kid hiding in the closet with my hands over my ears hoping I won’t find too many strangers when I grab my cheerios in the morning.
And on many of those nights, I lose myself in the online presence of Sterling Whitlock. Photos of her at university, posing with friends at a football game. Fun photos where she’s all dressed up, blowing kisses at the camera. Sterling in sweatpants, iced coffee in hand while she studies for exams. Sterling on a walk through brightly colored leaves#fallvibes. I follow her with a fake account, and she has so many followers she doesn’t notice one more double-tap anyway.
I feel like I’ve gone to university with her. Sometimes I switch over to her YouTube, where I see her bring attention to organ donation on her channel. Her kindness and compassion shines on camera where she’s by turns funny, charming, and heartbreakingly earnest.
I even follow the accounts she manages, obsessively watching her invent stories for Gordon’s Insta, sew little costumes for him and generally give a Bearded Dragon the kind of fantasy life anyone would love to lead.
I’m an online stalker. Now that’s a story. How pathetic.
“Tanner? You’ll talk to Serge?” Don cuts into my self-recriminations.
I nod, knowing if I don’t agree, Don’s going to bring it up with Laird and then it will become a whole thing. “I will if it happens again. I’m certain it’s just a wrong number.”
“Good.” He gives me a look I suspect he’s perfected in boardrooms when some of his clients fail to follow his recommendations. “We worry about you boys.” He holds up a hand. “I know you’re not boys anymore, but that’s not going to stop Emma and I from loving you. We’re so proud of what you and Noah have done.”
My heart clenches. The Whitlocks are such goddamn good people who are open and unselfconscious with affection. Being around them is a complete contrast to what my relationship was with my mother. I’ve never been comfortable with showing how I feel about them, even though I do love and appreciate them. It’s just weird. I once froze when Emma told me she loved me, kissing me on the cheek like a real mom would, and I felt like shit not being able to say it back. To thank her for everything she’s done to save my life.
It’s not an exaggeration, by the way. I have no doubt that if I didn’t have the Whitlocks in my life, I’d be dead or near to it by now. Homeless at fifteen, with drug dealers cornering me in an alleyway to pay my mom’s debts out of my pocket. If I didn’t have the money, they’d tell me I needed to work it off by selling shit for them or stealing or whatever. I was in a bad place. Instead, the Whitlocks took me in, at first making it seem like nothing had changed. Just a few sleepovers with my best friend, until they sat me down with a case worker and made it clear to me I didn’t have to go back there.
They never ever made me feel like anything other than a treasured son, but I never stopped feeling like a charity case. An ungrateful one too, because while they fed and clothed me, sent me to the same music lessons as Noah, encouraged my love for song-writing and singing, played board games with us like a proper goddamn family, I was sitting there, tortured by the filthy dreams I had about their precious princess. Her long, beautiful hair brushing my hand when she passed me my monopoly money, her sparkling eyes meeting mine across the table, and her lips curving in a beautiful smile as she excitedly told me how many laps she could swim now that she’d had her surgery.
It just goes to show that blood will tell. It’s what my mom used to always say. She claimed I was just like her. I never want to be like her, but since she died, I’m afraid it might be true.
“How are things going with the business?”
We chat for a bit and I’m grateful to have him as a sounding board. The music, Kingmaker, the whole scene is just another type of business and Don reminds us of that fact as often as he can. I think it’s his way of normalizing what we do, guiding us to make business decisions ourselves and not fall into the trap of always leaving it up to other people whose primary interest is to make money off us. I don’t know how many times we’ve heard Don warn us about people who will try to take more money from us than they’re entitled to. He’s not wrong. There’s a steady flow of people whose primary job is to keep the talent happy and so many stars are only looking for their next high. If we’re too drunk or stoned or sleeping off an orgy with a bunch of models, we’re not looking at our bank accounts and many people will take advantage of that.
The lifestyle catches up with you quick. I mean, I’ve been doing this for a few years now and it’s still a pretty heady feeling to have people screaming your name, crying and fainting because you gave them a hug. No doors are closed to you and everyone says ‘yes’ no matter what the crazy thing is you’ve asked for. Everything in the world seems like it’s yours for the taking. But the side effects of the fame are no joke. The drugs and booze aren’t a myth. It’s hard to get on stage night after night, in cities you can’t remember the name of, surrounded by people who just want more and more and more from you. Close quarters means sometimes fighting with your best friends, trying to sleep on the road in between shows and partying all night after the shows. Soon you’re taking something to keep yourself going and taking something else to shut it down when the party ends.
Some people never want the party to end.
In many ways it reminds me of the parties my mom threw when I was a kid. Some parties were frenetic, the music loud, the bodies hot and horny, spilling drinks and brightly colored pills in little bowls like candy. I remember going to brush my teeth one night and walking into the bathroom where three people were having sex in the shower. Honestly, the crazy shit I’ve seen after gigs is not really all that different to what I saw growing up. The only difference is the drugs are more expensive and the people more attractive.
Maybe that’s why the whole scene makes me uncomfortable. I don’t want any reminders of how I grew up. I saw too many sloppy assholes do stupid things to ever want to be out of control because of some shit I put in my body. Which is why it’s hard watching the guys sometimes. How do I know whether it’s a downward spiral or just blowing off some steam? I glance over at the pool deck where Ajax is stretched out on a lounge chair, sunglasses over his face. That guy is a fucking talent. And the last few months have been rough, seeing him drift between shows and parties, a bottle always in his hand not caring about a fucking thing.
I stepped in to do something because he was clearly sliding. Recommending a solo project to Ajax was the only thing I could think of to push him out whatever dark comfort zone he’d been sinking in. I know he thought I was giving him an out from the band, but it wasn’t what I wanted at all. Kingmaker is the most important thing in the world to me, but it’s nothing without the guys. I just wanted to see Jax’s passion for something again instead of the zombie he was becoming. Seeing him so excited in the studio, the guys coming together to help on something new, it felt almost like when he first joined us and slowly, I can see him coming back to himself.
He’s not there yet, but next week, after our show in Chicago, Laird talked to us about Jax doing a little unplugged session at one of the clubs hosting our after parties to showcase his solo project and I think it’s a great idea.
I hear giggles as I wipe the sweat off my face with the back of my hand and look back to where Jax is. Sterling and Claire are heading for the lounges. For a second I wonder if Jax is dead, because he doesn’t so much as turn his head to watch as Sterling struts past him in a red and white old-fashioned style one-piece, and if he was conscious there’s no way any man would be able to resist watching the show.
I’m certain Sterling thinks she’s just walking but all the bits and pieces of her move together in a way that reminds me of one of those hypnotic kaleidoscope swirls you can’t look away from. The world narrows to the light shining on her silver blonde hair, like ribbons streaming down her back. She pulls it into a ponytail as she walks, twisting it up and securing it with a tie she’s taken from her wrist. The swimsuit dips low in the back, and there’s a pale X in between the straps, highlighting her golden tan. I want to run my tongue over those marks. That suit should look cute and innocent, but it highlights all the dangerous curves of her body, with a little bow at the front, tempting me to drag it loose with my teeth.
