"I'm serious, Wrenlee."
"I know you are. I just don't get why you keep trying. It's obvious that, regardless of which apes you have standing around me at all times, it will never end. There is always going to be someone--somewhere--who wants a piece of me. Pretty soon, the novelty of it will wear off, and the focus will move on to you or one of the guys. We've been dealing with the same damn thing for years, Wes. I don't see you interviewing private security for yourself or one of the guys!"
He jumps from the seat he had just taken on the couch and rounds on the lamp sitting on the end table. When he lifts it and tosses it against the far wall with enough force that the little pieces of glass and porcelain come flying toward me, I know I've pushed him too far.
"Why do I keep trying? Jesus! I keep trying because no matter what you say, stalkers and threats against your life aren't just something I can sweep under the rug of reality. Wake up, Wren. Death threats in Atlanta? Pictures of you inside our last hotel suite in Tennessee? What will it take for you to finally take it seriously? None of this shit has ever focused on the rest of us. It's always you, and I'm not going to sit by and laugh about it or sweep it under the rug like you keep doing. Not when your life could be at stake."
I sigh and feel my lip quirk, not in humor--no, far from that--but in frustration. "It's just some overzealous fans, Wes."
"Damn, you can be stupid," I hear rumbled from behind me and turn to see Jamison, our drummer, stroll into the living room area, scratching his dark blond hair and shaking his head. "Stop being a stubborn brat," he grunts with a smile.
"It's not anything new, you guys. We've had this crap for years. You guys have had the same type of shit, and I don't see you sporting a trail of testosterone-driven, egotistical goons." I know I'm grasping at straws now. They aren't wrong, and I know it. The gravity of the recent events has me worried too. I'm just not sure if I can muster up enough fucks to give. They might have some overexcited fans, but it's nothing like what I have to put up with. I used to think it was because I was the face of the band or the woman, but now, a little part of me does think Wes has a point.
"Please, Wren. Just take it a little more seriously. For me."
And just like that ... Wes plays his trump card.
Predictably, the morning we interviewed security firms was a hot mess. It seemed like the boys had not done their homework; the majority of men representing their companies only had lust-filled eyes for what having clients like us could do for their business. Not to mention the few who very clearly just wanted to take the job to be closer to me. That's not my ego talking--it's the fact that they showed up, interviewed, and left with erections. When you spend more time talking to my tits than you do breathing, there's an issue.
We only got through half of them before we had to cut it short, finding not one promising one out of the bunch. Not that I'm kissing a gift horse in the mouth for the unexpected interruption, but I would have rather it been for something else. My phone calendar alert went off halfway through our morning list of hopefuls, reminding me about an interview I had for Modern Rock magazine at noon. Dix, our manager from hell, conveniently forgot to remind us he had booked the interview. I hate when he does this crap. Singles me out from the guys to make it less about the band and more about me--the sex symbol men crave and women want to become.
Don't get me wrong; he works the guys just as hard as he does me--cashing in on the fact that they're three of the hottest bachelors in the music industry. Let me talk about my music, my band, any day. Let me pretend that the world doesn't see right through that and just craves us--our images with no care to anything that makes us tick. What happened to the good old days when the music industry was about the feelings a song could evoke and less about the sex symbol who was singing it?
The guys, though, eat up the attention. I'm apparently the only one who hates it. Then again, they're guys, and pretty much every guy I've ever known has always wanted one thing from a woman, and that damn sure wasn't a relationship. It's because of that sex god status we have pinned to our foreheads that women flock to lay at their feet. Or under them. Same thing.
I stopped trying. Stopped entertaining even one night of fun with a man between my legs. I want someone to want me, not all that other crap. I want someone who can't stand to be away from me, not because of the fame he might gain, but because just being near me brings him happiness. Until I find a man who cares more about me as a person than the celebrity, I'm happy to lock myself away.
Part of me thinks that if we didn't have a manager like Dix, maybe we could get back to the important things--like our music. You would think that with as popular as we are, we could get some decent help, but our label doesn't give one shit about Dix being a terrible manager. To them, he gets shit done--or at least, it appears that way--and we continue to produce chart-topping hits. As long as we continue to reign in the music industry, they will continue to believe it is because of them and Dix. Of course, it couldn't be because we work our asses off to make sure we produce and perform music that is as addicting to the world's ears as drugs are to a junky.
And one of the things they--the fans and the label both--love is crap like this type of shit they have set up for me. The lifestyle pieces that give our fans a window into our lives or, in this case, me. It makes them delirious with jealousy to have what we have. Painting the picture that the grass is greener on our side.
What a pile of shit.
The grass hardened and browned a long damn time ago. Weeds sprung from the ground, and insects started to eat away at anything that used to make me love this.
I miss the green grass. The lush feel of it against your skin, the appealing sight of it glowing in the sun, and the smell that makes you wish for a cold beer and a cold pool.
I know I probably would sound like an ungrateful brat--if I were even able to voice this freely without worrying that our PR reps would have to clean up my mouth's mess. People never realize what might look perfect from the outside could really be a prison without bars. We have no freedom to live our lives. The press constantly hounds us, cameras are in our faces day in and day out, and we have to field rumors emerging from the smallest grain of truth. I can't even go buy my own tampons without someone chasing me.
Even with all of that, though, my little black jaded heart keeps searching.
Searching for what I'm beginning to think is impossible to find.
Someone who isn't trying to gain something just by knowing us.
Someone who can be my gain in life ... the tangible thing that can anchor me to the ground and prove that everything we've overcome hasn't been for nothing.
Someone who reminds me I'm more than just a pretty face.
Someone who makes me want to believe the lyrics we write.
Until then, we're just little fish circling the fishbowl, praying to see the ocean again.
Round and round.
Until we're so dizzy that we can't tell the shit from the stars.
I sigh, leaning back and picking at the leftover nail polish on my fingernails, and think back to before all of this. Back to when we were just happy to perform anywhere. As long as we had each other and our music, we didn't need anything else.
When Wes and I met Jamison and Luke, we were just little kids who would bang on old storage bins and dream of performing for thousands. We never imagined our lives would end up like this. We just wanted an escape and to play the music we loved. Music brought us together, creating a safe haven from our personal hells. At least, that was true until we were signed. Then the friends we thought we had quickly turned on us when the money rolled in. Everyone wanting something. Their greed made them hungry for the fame we quickly gained, and they couldn't see past it. But despite it all, we remained humble, and each of us still just wanted to live our dream and make the music we love.
"Casey Brookes will be here in five, Wren; the front desk just called and said she was on her way up."
I smile at Jamison, letting him know
without words that I heard him, and get up to head over to what I hope is a clean pile of laundry in the middle of the living room area. I rifle through a few tops before settling on one. I take off the oversized hoodie I had been lounging in and pull a tank over my head. The gray material falls lightly against my thin frame, tight around my chest, and flowing down over my flat stomach. I might be short, just over five-foot-two and thin, but at least I was blessed with great boobs.
Brushing out the wrinkles over my chest, I call out through the hotel suite. "Jamison! Do you know where that red flannel shirt that Luke had on the other night is?"
"Probably somewhere in his room rolled into a dirty ball." He walks by the doorway, stuffing a Pop-Tart in his mouth. "That would be my guess, at least. You know he won't do laundry until you do it for him, and you only do it for him because you like to steal his shit," he says around his mouthful of food.
"You eat like a pig," I grumble when large chunks of his snack fall from his mouth and onto the floor. Stepping over them, I walk toward Luke's room.
He's right; I'm guilty of coddling them. I don't just do it because I love to steal their clothes. I do it because I feel like I owe them for always being there for me. If doing their laundry helps make their lives a little easier, then so be it; it isn't like I don't have to wash my own anyway.
I know, logically, I don't owe them anything, but they're my family--regardless of only being blood-related to Weston--and without them, I know our lives would be a lot different than they are now. Even if we hadn't hit it big in the music industry, we would have each other, and that's all that matters.
Moving to the middle of the large suite, I look around, hoping that the shirt might jump out and bite me. My time before the reporter gets up here is slowly ticking down. I hear the guys tinkering around; none of them are willing to stop working on the new songs we've been writing to help, not that I blame them.
It's always like this when we travel. If we aren't on our tour bus, we always request a hotel large enough to have a suite with four bedrooms, a large living space, and a kitchen. It helps us have some sort of normalcy. We've only been here for two days and it already looks like a tornado blew through. I guess when you live on a bus, and all of your personal space is basically one small bunk for the majority of your years, it makes sense that when you can spread out, you really go for broke. And we sure do.
"Where is that damn shirt," I grumble to myself, bending over to check another pile of laundry near the kitchen.
"Nice ass, Wren." Luke laughs from behind me, causing me to jump up and lose my balance before I fall ass first into a pile of his dirty laundry. "You know, you could put pants on before you start wagging that ass around in the air. Not that I'm complaining." He ducks when I toss some jeans at his head.
"I'm not naked, you pervert."
"Close enough," yells Jamison from the living room. "She's been parading around in just a hoodie with her little bows out all morning. I just let her think that bag she calls a hoodie was covering them up so that I could enjoy the show. It's been way too long since I've gotten some, Wren. You're killing me here."
I look over just in time to see him grab his crotch and thrust his hips toward a laughing Luke.
"You guys are gross."
"But those bows," Jamison says, walking further into the room and wagging his eyebrows suggestively at me. "Those. Damn. Bows."
Ever since I got two delicate black and gray bows tattooed on the back of my thighs, Jamison has been going on and on about them. I'll admit they're hot as hell, which is part of the reason I got them. Plus, they look freaking awesome when I'm wearing a short miniskirt on stage. Each of the bows hit my just under my ass and take up almost the whole width of the back of my thigh.
The guy who tattooed them had used his hand to measure the size, so they weren't too big for my leg. They're beautiful. The tattoo artist did a kickass job making each of them looking like real black lace. It was my way of celebrating the new album, and now that they're finally healing, I've started showing them off more. But--that also means my going pantless around the guys is going to end soon, thank God. Those two animals never miss a chance to comment on them, and even though it would have been easier just to cover them up, I hated the feeling of the healing tattoo against the fabric. It's already itchy enough when it's in that peeling stage without the added aggravation of clothing, so I just went pantless as much as possible.
"Stop looking at them!" I laugh when Jamison goes to nip at my leg with his fingers. "Pinch me again, and I'll kick you in the nuts."
He draws back and with a dramatic sigh puts his hand over his heart. "How could you talk about hurting my manhood, Wrenlee Davenport!? I'll have you know that my nuts would be deeply saddened if you were to hurt them. They're sensitive and need lots of loving. If you want to come over and pet them, I won't stop you. Just in case you were wondering."
Ugh! I roll my eyes, flip him off, and turn back to look for Luke's red flannel shirt.
"It's in there," Weston says, pointing through Luke's open bedroom door toward his bed, before smacking Jamison on the head and moving into the room.
I follow his direction, ignoring the three men who follow behind me.
"Since when is my room party central," Luke asks, flopping down on his unmade bed.
"Since you keep stealing my clothes," I joke with a wink.
"That," he says, pointing at the shirt I'm slipping my arms in, "is most definitely not your shirt. You stole it and keep trying to keep it. I like that shirt."
"I didn't steal it from you!" I laugh. "It was mine first!"
Really, it was mine. The stylist from our last music video originally bought it for me, but Luke's a clothing whore and likes to steal the shit I grab first. It doesn't help that I have a small obsession with men's flannel shirts. I could give you a ton of reasons why, but it probably boils down to daddy issues. Craving a stupid safety blanket is a need I can't seem to shake.
"Oly brings those for me, and your sticky fingers grab them every time!" he exclaims. "Why would she buy dude's shit for you? You swim in them."
He isn't wrong. Oliver, one of the record label's stylists in charge of outfitting us for all video shoots, has a small crush on him and always loads up Luke's options. Maybe if I started letting Oliver dress me, I could get my own shit like Luke gets.
"But Wren looks hot while she's doing it, so you probably should just let her." Jamison laughs and grabs my hips now that I'm standing and thrusts his body toward me. Given that his six-foot-one puts him almost a foot taller than I am, the lump of his junk grinds against the middle of my back.
"Get off me, you brute!" I playfully shove him, laughing right along with him. I hear the suite's bell chime right when I get free, making me scramble to look for my leggings--the last thing I need is for this chick and whatever crew she has with her showing up when I'm half-naked.
I hear her enter, greeting whoever answered the door, as I pull my leggings up. Taking one last check in the mirror to make sure I look decent; I duck as Jamison and Luke almost plow me over in a mad dash to the living room--each shoving the other and trying to be the first to leave the back hallway where my and Weston's rooms are. I'm sure they're both hoping that this Casey Brookes chick is willing to stick around later for a little off-the-record fun with them. I don't even want to think about the last time I walked in on those two sharing their fun. No, thank you.
I give the gray shirt a tug, so the black tank under it shows, adjust the flannel so it hangs off me in an effortless messy-yet-put-together look, and then check my makeup in the mirror. It gives me a few much-needed seconds to put aside the Wren that the public doesn't get and slip on the Wrenlee mask on that everyone outside our close-knit group knows. After all, she's who the public cares to see. The side of me that I always hide ... the side that wishes she could just enjoy the peace and quiet and let the public persona that wears sex and sin like a second skin come out and play when it's time and enjoy it. I used to be l
ike that, but lately, I can't seem to get back to that. The disconnect I feel inside grows bigger and bigger with each day. I can't find the something I'm looking for. If only I knew what that something was.
I want to kill her.
Casey Brookes is as ambitious as it comes. I wouldn't be surprised if you looked the word up and right there next to it was her face. All perfectly put together, she doesn't have a single blond hair out of place, and her makeup is impeccable. She's nauseatingly beautiful, but what makes her the ugliest person I've met in a while is the greed in her eyes. She's thirsty to make it to the top. You can practically feel her pulsing with the knowledge of what this interview will bring to her career. That, you can tell, is all she cares about--not actually getting to know me or giving me a platform to talk about our music. She doesn't want to ensure we're seen as real people ... nope, she wants to use us while feeding the masses something juicy, even if that juice is drained from just a fraction of the truth.
The second she walked in the room, I could tell she was going to be trouble. She took in every inch of the room in seconds and the four of us in lightning speed, her mind ticking and spinning away with each angle she could attempt to draw. Even though she shot Jamison down with a good-natured laugh, I could see behind the fake smile. She was going to get a story here if it killed her, and if my interview didn't garner that for her, she would use Jamison's offer to get it. Luke lost interest easily, retreating to his room where you can hear him and Weston plucking away at their guitars. Luckily, I don't have to worry about it, but I make a mental note to pull all three of them aside to warn them before she can sink her claws in.
"So Wrenlee ... it's okay that I call you Wrenlee, right?"
Seriously, she's been here for the past fifteen minutes, asking question after question to Jamison, and she's just now focused on me--the person she's supposed to be interviewing. I open my mouth to respond, but she cuts me off instantly.
"I know you're aware that we're looking for a day in the life piece, but I was wondering if you wouldn't mind giving me a little of the history of Loaded Replay before we get started. I was thinking a little rags-to-riches type of thing, so to speak, would be amazing for your fans. Our readers absolutely love that kind of stuff, and it will give them, along with your loyal fans, a level of reality that would help them relate to you--feel closer--and in turn, they get a taste of what it's like to go from nothing to everything. What everyone dreams of, I'm sure." She looks up from her huge purse--or maybe it's really a suitcase--after pulling out a recording device. She gives me just a brief glance before returning to her bag and digging again.