Page 5 of If This Gets Out

Angel’s the kind of person who has no business being called Angel. In fact, his legal name is actually Reece, but no one’s called him that since we formed the band. In our initial publicity meeting David got all paranoid about the media confusing “Ruben” and “Reece,” and Angel happened to come with a long-established nickname already. He got it from his dad as a toddler, because Mrs. Phan took offense to the original, more accurate nickname of “devil child,” and Mr. Phan had a well-developed sense of ironic humor.

Beside me, Zach slumps back to close his eyes, and his arm presses against mine with the shift in posture.

I don’t think I breathe again for the rest of the drive.

TWO

ZACH

I’m pretty sure my driver is a fan of Saturday.

He keeps glancing up at me through the rearview mirror, making eye contact and smiling before looking away.

He does it again, making the hair on the back of my neck rise. He’s supposed to be taking me to Mom’s place, but I’m all too aware he could take me anywhere he wants to, and my gut is telling me he might have a basement covered in Saturday posters.

I run a hand through my hair and focus on the streets outside. I should think about this logically. Erin organized this driver for me, so he has to be trustworthy, if only because I know her career would take a pretty major nosedive if I got kidnapped and murdered on her watch. Deep down, I know nothing suspicious is happening.

So why is he smiling at me like he’s up to something?

I hear a familiar guitar riff. Oh, no.

He lifts his eyebrows and grins at me likeOh, yes.

The driver turns the volume up just as my voice comes through the car’s speakers. I almost wish he were a murderer now. It’s not that I don’t like “Guilty”; it’s fun, one of my favorite Saturday songs, actually, mostly because of thatsugary-as-hell guitar riff and Ruben’s career-best vocals. Seriously, he sounds so freaking good on this song.

I rest my head against the glass as the chorus starts. It’s one of our earlier songs, before I’d fully shaken off my punk style of singing, the one Geoff kindly described as whiny and uncommercial, so my tone is shaky and the auto-tune is unmissable. I’d do it differently if I got a do-over, but when you’re famous, everything you do follows you forever.

I check the mirror and yep, the driver is still watching me. It’s fucking creepy.

I bob my head along to the beat, pretending I’m having a good time. Like,“Guilty,” yes, love it.

“My daughter is obsessed with you, Zach,” he says, making eye contact through the mirror. “All of you, but especially you. She says she’s a ‘stan.’”

I wince and force a smile. “Oh wow, thanks, that’s really nice of you to say.”

He chuckles. “You’re welcome. You know, I’m more of a rock guy, but some of your songs are pretty catchy. Just don’t tell anyone I said that, okay?”

I’m pretty much used to this now. Basically, no guy will compliment Saturday without an asterisk of some sort.You kind of suck, but…

“I won’t.” I pause, then decide to go for it. “I’m more of a rock guy, too.” It’s the first honest thing I’ve said to him.

I pick at my leather bracelet, which my stylist makes me wear.

For the record, I do love our songs. It’s just they aren’t my favorite thing to listen to during my downtime, nor is it what I’d choose to sing if I had control over that sort of thing.

Which I don’t. So it doesn’t matter.

Approximately half our discography later, in which I find out just how much one boy can cringe, I’m finally home. Islide open the door, step out into the midmorning sunshine, and crack my back as a cover to look down the street. There’s nobody around, though, and more importantly no paparazzi, at least that I can see. One of the weirdest things about being famous is seeing photos of yourself in magazines when you don’t even remember paparazzi being there. It doesn’t help that they’re getting sneakier, with cameras that can take pictures from miles away. I’m in magazines all the time now, so I always feel like someone, somewhere, is staring at me. For all I know, they are.

I check my reflection and start preening, because Chorus Management would lose their shit if a photo of me gets out where I look like trash. My hair is messier than it should be, with a few strands sticking out. Under Geoff’s direction, I’ve grown it long instead of my usual zero-maintenance short spikes, and I’m still not used to it. It keeps getting in my eyes or tickling my neck. It’s a major pain in the ass, and I’m not sure it even looks good enough to warrant the effort.

The driver retrieves my suitcase, catching me in the act.

“Thanks,” I say, as I tip him a fifty-dollar bill.

“No worries.” He keeps watching me. “Would you mind if I got a photo? My daughter would kill me if I didn’t.”

I make sure my smile is extra cheery. “Go ahead!”

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