He was kidding, because obviously I did, but it still made me grin at his teasing.
“Hey!”
“What?” He laughed. “Sorry, that’s not fair… I’m glad you’ve been doing your research, and you’re correct. I’ll start looking into it so we aren’t scrambling at the last minute when the first of them goes to the military.”
“The first of them,” I repeated. “The oldest?”
“Lucas or Rae.” He sighed. “We’ll stagger it as most labels do so they can still produce, and it’s only two years.”
“Yeah.” My heart sank. “Only two years, plus they don’t have to go for another few years anyway.”
“It goes by fast, though.”
Okay, he needed to stop talking right now.
“Sure,” I agreed. “Oh, and you missed that call.” My voice fell a bit as I realized that no matter what happened, at some point, the group would be missing members, and at some point, Lucas would be gone.
I tried to keep my smile in place as the guys performed, and when they were finally finished, and the crowd was deafening, I waited by the dressing rooms as they got back into their street clothes.
“Hey!” Solia approached, staring down at her phone. “Lucas needs some babysitting. He was in a bad mood after the fan meet and greet. Some girl tried grabbing him again. This time security pulled them back, but then she spit in his face and started screaming. It scared the rest of the fans, and Lucas looked pretty shaken up. I have to make sure the rest of the guys are okay. Can you check on him?”
Shit. Would the guy ever catch a break?
“Yeah.” Panicked, I made my way toward his makeshift dressing room and knocked.
“Go away, Solia.” His voice was angry, even muffled through the door.
“It’s not Solia.” I pressed my palm against the door.
It opened immediately, almost making me fall against him as I stumbled inside. He shut it behind him and stared down at me, his expression unreadable. After a minute or so of silence, he went over to the black makeup chair and sat down in a huff in front of the mirror.
“I’m not going to ask if you’re okay.” I stepped toward him, arms crossed.
He snorted. “Probably a good idea.”
“But”—I stopped behind him, making eye contact through the mirror—“I’m here for whatever you need.”
His eyes were lined with dark liner, his lids a bright red, bringing out the blue contacts they’d given him. He quite honestly looked like a pissed off vampire, one it wasn’t clear if he should be run from… or run to.
His black shirt was nearly completely open, exposing a ton of smooth skin, and his fingernails were painted black.
The stage was exactly that, a stage where he played a part to entertain the masses. But this wasn’t him.
That guy doing all those dance moves and raps on stage, that was what he loved to do, but that wasn’t Lucas. Lucas was so much more than a part of a group. He was a friend, a son, a person with feelings who cared deeply about his fans, about his friends.
He was so much more than perfect makeup.
A perfect body.
A costume that played a role it looked like he didn’t even want to play.
I exhaled and pulled out a folding chair, setting it next to him. “Why aren’t you happy?”
“What?” His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I’m just curious—why aren’t you happy?”
“I’m happy,” he said lamely, then sighed. “It’s not that I’m not happy, Grace. I’m just tired of giving everything, bringing my all on stage only to never be enough.” He started pulling the rings off his fingers and dropping them onto the table in front of him. “It’s complete bullshit. I love the fans; I love the energy from performing. I love writing—I love all of it, but they’re always people who will hate you for loving what you do, for being ‘lucky,’ as they call it. And no matter what I do, I’m under this microscope. When we first started, it just felt like I was getting watched; now I feel like I’m getting burned alive by the very people that worship me, almost like they control every aspect of my career. Without our fans, we’re nothing. They control what trends on Twitter, Insta, all of it… Hell, you saw last year what happened even with American politics. They control everything. I’m happy, but maybe I’m just tired of being controlled.”
“So walk away.” I shrugged. “That’s your answer, right? You give up? You mope around, complaining about people controlling you, so let them have the final say and quit. Isn’t that what people want? The people who hate you? They want you to mess up, mess up so big that you quit, and then you can live a nice quiet life; I hear the ocean’s nice this time of year…”