"Uh, yeah ..." If she wants me to repeat the same story that we've always given all of our fans, then that's fine by me. Anyone who's followed us from the beginning knows this story, so it's not going to be my problem when she realizes she should have done her homework. Maybe it will speed up this process and get her the hell out of here.
"So what do you want to know? Do you want some story about how hard Weston and I struggled growing up? Maybe we can add in some fake juicy sexual abuse story that happened later in life?" I smart sarcastically. I have this chick pegged. She wants a story--any story. Lifestyle piece, my ass.
"Oh, yes. Tell me all about that." She's practically salivating with dreams of a story of a lifetime and completely misses the sarcasm.
"Sorry, sweetheart," I hiss. "If you're here thinking you're about to dig up some shit no one knows that will take you from the basement to the penthouse, you're sorely mistaken. Weston's and my history is just that ... history. The guys and I, we've always been very open with the media when it comes to our lives, but those details are ours, and you damn well know we've never entertained discussing them."
She narrows her eyes. "But you admit that you had a poverty-stricken childhood and you were mistreated by your parents?"
Do what? "Did you just grab that out of thin air and decide to roll with it? Sorry honey, you're going to have to try harder than that. I was being a smartass, and if you even think about printing some bullshit that isn't true, I'll make sure our lawyers tie you up in legal shit for years. Our parents are off the table. Always have been and always will be."
She blushes but doesn't speak to defend herself.
"Right. I'm sorry. How about more of the history to how Loaded Replay was formed? Where you all met and how you came up with your name?"
"Honey, did you even research us before showing up? We keep our personal lives private. What's already out there about our pasts is all you're ever going to get. You could just Google it and save me the breath, but since it's not that easy, I'll help you out. We grew up in a trailer park in the middle of nowhere, Tennessee. Weston and I met Jamison and Luke when we were six, and our parents moved us into their park. Our trailer was in the middle of theirs. We've been best friends since. We started performing at local places in high school for extra cash, and as soon as we graduated, we hit the road. We played wherever we could until we were discovered. As for our name, well"--I smirk--"life was just one loaded pile of shit on repeat for us--until we found each other, that is--and the rest, as they say, is history. We decided to take that loaded pile of shit on repeat and make our own version of it. One that feels and smells a whole lot better than the last one."
She opens her mouth, I'm assuming to ask another stupid question, but I hold my hand up. "I'm assuming you have a photographer here to take some pictures?" I ask, picking at the polish that I had been picking at earlier, determined to get the last of it off.
"Y-yes," she stammers.
"Right. How about you call him up and tell him he can stop sulking down in the lobby where you left him. We can grab some pictures while we finish up your questions, and you can try to get some shit written down that you can print--truthful shit--and then you can get the hell out of here?" I stand up, officially dismissing her, and move to the bar to pour myself a shot of whiskey.
It's going to be a long afternoon.
Her photographer is a short, fat, balding man who won't stop looking at my ass with his beady, creepy ass eyes. The guys instantly stopped what they were doing when he came up and have stuck close since. They've always been a little overprotective when it comes to me. Especially when strangers are in our space. And when strangers wear their creepiness like a badly tailored coat, well ... something animalistic in their protective ways takes over.
With every pose that Casey asks of me, you can see the photographer's breathing speed up. My guess is if I looked at his crotch, he would be working hard on a chubby, but no way in hell were my eyes going to wander down south. Thankfully, she stopped asking interview questions because every time he had to pause for me to answer, I could see him adjust his crotch. Talk about disgusting.
"So, Casey, tell me what you need after these pictures?" Weston asks, coming to lean against the couch opposite me with his hip resting against the armrest.
The stylist who came up with the photographer keeps moving my hair, straightening my top, and all-around fussing with just about anything. Wes's eyes never leave mine as I continue to pose next to the hotel room's window, and I can tell with one glance that he isn't happy with the fact that some stranger--equally as creepy as the photographer--keeps touching his baby sister.
He isn't alone in his feelings. I'm used to Dyllan, my stylist, but most importantly, my best friend. She isn't creepy, and she doesn't try to touch my boobs at any given opportunity. Had I known this little impromptu interview was going to happen, I wouldn't have sent her back to LA early.
"Oh, just a little of this and that," Casey answers his question, interrupting my thoughts. "Say, want to have a seat and chat while they finish up Wrenlee's pictures?" she asks him with a hopeful tone.
"Yeah, that won't be happening." He crosses his arms and continues to look on unhappily. I snort out a laugh when Casey gives a look that screams that his dismissal just crushed her every single dream.
Could she be any more transparent?
At the sound of my choked hilarity, her head snaps over in my direction quickly. "Wrenlee, would you mind if we pause for an outfit change? The magazine likes to have a few options. I'm sure you understand." She waves her hand, dismissing any objections I might have had in favor of my brother, preening like a cat in heat just hoping for some lovin'.
"Sure thing, Casey," I say with a sugary sweet voice.
"Maybe we could go for something a little more ... girly and wholesome this time?" she suggests, looking back at my flannel with distaste. I'm sure she--Miss Pearl and Silk--would have an issue with what I'm wearing.
"Girly ..." I pause, pretending to ponder her request. I give Wes a smile, and his eyes crinkle, knowing I'm about to give her more than she asked for. "And wholesome, got it. Sure thing, Casey. Anything I can do to help you out, after all."
She doesn't look up. Instead, she continues to try desperately to get my brother to notice her, pissing me off even further.
Jamison saddles up to me on my way to my bedroom, throwing one beefy arm over my shoulders. He walks over to my closet and gives me one of his trademark killer smiles with his hand on the doorknob.
Yeah, it looks like Jamison's ready to have some fun at Casey's expense too.
"Strip, killer," he says over his shoulder.
"Oh, Jami, you just want to see my underwear, don't you? You perv."
I make quick work of pulling my flannel off, ripping the two tanks over my head, and pulling my leggings down my legs. By the time he tosses the gray and black striped long-sleeved crop top in my face, I was already standing there in my black lace thong and bra.
"Nice, Wren." He nods his head and licks his lips. "Maybe do a little spin for me?" he asks hopefully, twirling his finger in the air.
"Shut up, Jami." I giggle and yank the shirt over my head. Pulling my bright red hair to the side, I make sure the shaved part on the side next to my temple and just above my ear shows. "Give me those shorts." I point behind him at the shorts I had on top of my suitcase and wait for him to throw them over. I laugh at his groan of disappointment when I'm all covered up. The black shorts fit me like a second skin, looking more like sexy boy short underwear than an actual item of clothing one would wear out of the house.
"Turn now; let me see those sexy ass bows."
"Shut up, Jami, you horn dog." I laugh and slap him playfully when he tries to turn me forcibly by my shoulders. "I don't know why you waste your time. We've known each other for what? Over twenty years now? Have I ever once given you the impression that I would ever let you touch this?" I ask, waving my hand down my body.
"You wound me. Oh,
how you wound me."
"Yeah, yeah. Seriously, though, be honest ... will this get that bitch to stop her shit and hurry this crap up?"
"Pull them down some in the front, let those sexy little hipbones play peekaboo, sweetheart."
I start pulling down the waist of the shorts and laugh to myself when Jamison starts to groan again.
"You need to get some. Some that comes from anyone but me."
"I know. Oh, I know." I give him another shake of my head when he reaches down to adjust himself again.
"Seriously, Jami. We really have known each other for so long that it's beyond creepy that you still get a chubby for me."
Opening the door to my room, I step into the hallway and walk toward the living area where I hear my brother talking to Casey.
"Almost forgot these," Luke says from the doorway to Weston's room and hands me my red Doc Martens.
"Thanks, babe," I say with a smile and lean up on my toes to give him a kiss on the cheek.
After making sure my boots are on, and my shorts are still riding low on my waist and high on my ass, I step into the living room and smile when I see Casey's cocky ass attitude falter.
"Wholesome enough for you, darling?" I question, doing a little twirl.
Creepy photo dude almost drops his camera when I go and stand by the windows again, this time with my legs braced apart and my arms hanging loosely at my sides. He doesn't waste a second, pulling his camera up to his eye and snapping away. However, Casey doesn't have such luck because she's making some weird gagging noise. Wes starts laughing full out when Casey starts to fumble with her paperwork and stands up so quickly she almost trips face first.
"Well, that's not exactly what I had in mind," she stumbles.
"It's what you're getting, though. Start thinking about any more questions you might have, Casey. I've had enough for the day."
She doesn't respond, but then again, I wasn't waiting for her to. I spend the next fifteen minutes posing for the camera and making sure these pictures are the best I've ever taken.
"I'm going to go change, if you don't mind. I hope we can have this little interview wrapped up shortly?"
"Of course," she seethes through clamped teeth.
I rip off my shirt then pull some sweats over my shorts and a large tee shirt over my head--another stolen from Luke's stash--and mentally pep myself up to go back out and deal with Casey.
Casey, who I am sure is pissed that I took control of her day.
I should have known better than to let my attitude get the better of me. Lord knows she's probably going to print that I'm the biggest raging bitch ever. It wasn't until we were almost done with the pictures that I remembered the email from the label higher-ups, telling me they wanted to get some 'wholesome' images soon; something different--but also something that isn't me. They thought that new images would dissuade my 'crazy fans' by painting me in a less desirable picture. Of course, with my bitch fest and going all sexy badass, they're not getting wholesome.
What a joke. This whole day is a joke.
Honestly, the more I think about it, I'm glad I didn't bend to what they wanted. They can't backpedal now because they made this beast. They can't change what they've worked their asses off to capitalize on, and honestly, anything different from what I actually did wear would make me someone that I'm not. So, I might as well feed it. I give everyone what they want; at the same time, I keep a part of me without stripping another piece of my sanity away in the process.
On the way to the door, I look into the vertical mirror that hangs on the wall. If Dyllan saw me dressed like a hobo, she would kill me. Not just because she's my stylist and it's her job to make sure I always look good, but because she's my best friend. She personally makes it her mission always to be on the top of her game; therefore, she makes sure those connected to her don't make her look bad. After all, her image and those she styles might as well be a walking, talking business card.
Turning back, I grab my phone and take a picture of myself in the mirror, flipping off my reflection in the process. I fire off a quick text to her, knowing that she's busy spending time with her sister to help her plan her upcoming wedding. I get a little kick out of knowing she will be fuming in her seat and can't do anything about it with bridezilla around.
With a smile, I open the door and duck just in time to miss my brother's fist poised to knock.
"What the hell, Wes?" I gasp, standing up and facing his ire.
"Get out here and finish this interview. That bitch just tried to grab my dick!"
Rolling my eyes, I walk around him and down the hall into the living room where I left everyone. Casey is doing her best to play the uninterested party, but I can tell by the slight blush on her face that she's either embarrassed or planning to make a move again.
"Okay, let's finish this interview," I droll, not even having to fake my annoyance.
She looks up, around me, and searches the room. Even if I couldn't hear my brother enter behind me, I would be able to tell by the slight flare in her eyes that she is tracking his movements.
Snapping my fingers in her face, I finally get her attention. "If you could stop and focus on me, that would be fantastic. My brother isn't interested, and even if he was, he isn't stupid enough to sleep with someone who's a part of the media. If you don't have any questions, I have better things to do with myself."
Her eyes narrow. Her nostrils flare. But damn, she's good at holding back because after she visibly pulls in the sides of her cheeks and bites down, she seems to collect herself.
The next hour passes by with her asking a million questions about the past four months we've been on tour, my relationship with the guys, and any romantic relationships I have. She tries her hardest to get some gossip, but I know how to play the game. By the time I tell her for the tenth time that I'm--happily--single, I'm not only bored but also fed up with her.
"Right. Please, Wrenlee, can you tell me a little more about the last leg of Loaded Replay's tour? Now that the new album is about to drop, do you guys plan to add anything extra to the shows?"
"We have plans to add a few extra things to our set, but it will still be a good mix of the old stuff as well as our new songs. The guys have been working their asses off to get the next album done, so you never know, fans might even get some stuff that no one has even heard before."
"How awesome! I bet the fans will love that. Will you be adding any more surprise venues like you guys did for the first leg?"
"They wouldn't be surprises if I answered that, now would they?" I laugh, lacking humor.
"They were more of a spontaneous thing anyway," Luke adds, relaxing on the couch next to me where he had been sitting since we started the questions again.
I hear a knock on the door but ignore it. I continue to focus on Casey and her creepy photographer.
"From everything we've been hearing, the fans loved the intimacy of those spontaneous shows. I know, as a fan myself, I would love to attend one."
"We love doing that kind of stuff, to be honest," Jamison says. "It reminds us of where we started."
"We're hoping that when this tour ends, we might be able to do something smaller, a bar hop tour of sorts," I tell Casey. "We still have a lot of details to iron out, but I'm sure your readers would love to hear that smaller, intimate shows are in the works."
"Wow! That would be something else. No other performers of your popularity are leaving the big arena shows. From what I understand, that's where the money is." She doesn't look up, furiously scribbling on her notepad.
"Money doesn't mean everything. We want people to experience our music. Make new memories that are wrapped up in each beat of Jamison's drums, strum and riff that Luke and Wes's guitars create, and every word I sing. It's important to us that we are able to give others the gift of our music."
"Right, I'm sorry--I didn't mean to imply anything differently. So, in conclusion, I have one more question for you all. Rumors are going around right now that you guys hav
e been dealing with some stalkers. Can you elaborate on that?"
"No." My answer is instant and emphatic. Not just because I don't want her to know, but also, aside from the basics, Weston has been keeping many of the details of our latest incidences from me. As much as it drives me nuts, I know he does it because he wants to protect me. To be honest, I'm still not convinced it's not just some harmless, overzealous fan.
"Oh, come on, you have to give me something." She snickers awkwardly.
"I think what Ms. Davenport is trying to tell you is that it is none of your business, and the last thing she plans to do is feed your need to break a story over her safety."
Spinning around at the deep rasp of the stranger's voice, I'm shocked but impressed that someone who doesn't even know us or the situation has effectively shut this bitch down.
"And you are?" she inquires, apparently not sensing the intimidating vibes dancing off this guy.
"None of your business."
She straightens in her seat, resting the notepad she had been taking notes on her lap before focusing her attention completely on the stranger. My eyes move back to his; the power coming from him, even in his relaxed stance, makes me wonder what he would look like if he were really trying to intimidate.
He's hot.
Like really hot.
Tall, he's at least six-foot-four--seeing as he stands taller than my brother--with a trim runner's body. Good God, he's beautiful. He's built, that's for sure, but without looking like he spends hours upon hours working on it. I bet I could pinch him and wouldn't be able to find an ounce of fat on him.
My gaze continues to roam over his chest, admiring how the solid black fabric of his shirt stretches across his broad shoulders. A light dusting of dark hair peppers his jaw. Clearly, he doesn't shave completely, but it's apparent he also works hard to avoid a full-on beard. It makes him look mysterious, dangerous almost, but doesn't mask the strong angles of his jaw. His nose is straight, lips are full, and his dark hair is about a week past the need for a trim.