“Hello, may I help you?” the redhead asked, glancing up from her computer.
I traversed the mile of lush silvery carpet streaked with sunshine to Trish’s enormous desk. “Hi, again. I was here yesterday and—”
“I remember.”
“Great, um…I need to see Sebastian. Is he in?”
“No, I’m sorry. Mr. Rourke is in a meeting. I can leave a message for you if you’d like,” she replied kindly.
“Uh…no, I can wait.”
Trish smiled. “He’s not in the building, Mr. Mackay. Is there something I can help you with?”
“No, thanks. Mind if I hang out here?”
“I’m not sure how long he’ll be,” she hedged.
“It’s cool. I don’t mind.”
She eyed me warily but didn’t seem overly concerned. She’d probably text Seb or security, which meant my time here was limited for sure. Hmm. I obviously hadn’t thought this out.
The only other options were to leave a note or lurk in the parking lot. I figured I’d bide my time till I got kicked out. I strolled toward the wall of artfully hung photos of friends and family, studying them mindlessly.
I stopped at a batch of pics featuring a much younger Charlie and a hunky man with Seb. Charlie’s other dad? This had to be Gray. And damn, he was hot.
Seb and Gray made a striking couple. They were both tall, dark, and handsome, though Seb was leaner and had more angular features while Gray was built like a linebacker. At least he was in the newer photos.
I pored over pictures of the two men and a small blond boy taken at Disneyland or at a swimming pool or a park. There were a few with older family members and friends, but they were more of an afterthought. The kind you put up to appease someone you knew might notice being excluded from the wall of memories.
The photos evolved to include Oliver with Charlie and a woman I assumed was Oliver’s mom. She was a pretty brunette with a heart-shaped face and a sweet smile. Oliver looked more like his dad, I mused, moving past pictures of Hollywood stars and vaguely familiar faces I assumed were actors who hadn’t quite made the big time.
I continued on to a collage in the farthest corner of the room where one large group photo was surrounded by a series of smaller ones. I homed in on the main one when I spotted Charlie front and center with his arms around a Cali surfer dude with longish hair covered in tats with a bass in his hand, gazing adoringly at Charlie. I studied the pic closer and noted that other than Charlie, Oliver, and a couple of kids, the other men in the photo were—oh.
This was Zero…the world-renowned, mega-hit sensation.
Their one-word moniker was already legendary. Zero had skyrocketed to international fame a few years ago out of fucking nowhere. But they deserved the accolades. They were fantastic—great music, soulful lyrics, and they were all easy on the eyes. I squinted at the picture of the four tattooed, sexy dudes posed with guitars, basses, and drumsticks striking a hammy pose in front of a pool with the LA city skyline glittering behind them. It was a family and friends kind of photo. Honestly, if I hadn’t known a few of the faces were famous, I might have missed it.
I spotted Gray with his arm around Justin Cuevas, a sexy younger man with olive skin and a wicked glint in his eyes. They leaned into each other like bookends…joined at the hip, arms entwined. They looked good together. And not because they were both extremely handsome. They just…fit.
But the most telling thing about this snapshot was that Seb wasn’t in it. I didn’t like the fact that I’d noticed or that I wondered if it was intentional. Then again, maybe he’d taken the photo?
I shrugged as I sank into the nearest leather chair, pulling my phone out for entertainment purposes while I waited.
And waited.
Ten minutes, twenty minutes…
I played a word scramble game till my brain hurt, then switched to Pac-Man. After an epic losing streak, I checked emails I’d ignored for a week or more. What I didn’t do was go on social media. I hated it.
All that mindless scrolling just depressed me or made me anxious. Every idiot on the planet had an opinion and mistakenly assumed a few “likes” legitimized their asshattery. Or they fabricated some bullshit phony perfect world with their beautiful friends on their extravagant vacations. Fuckin’ ridiculous.
My former agent had assured me that my ambivalence was willful recklessness to my career. Whatever. I’d sold out in so many other ways. Hell, I was doing it now—waiting like a punk-ass kid with too much time on his hands for the big-shot producer to show up so I could…what? Give him a piece of my mind? Like he’d give a shit.
Hey, I had a couple of valid concerns and no one to talk to. I didn’t want to drag my friends into anything sketchy, and there were confidentiality clauses all over Charlie’s contract. For a hot second, I thought about hiring a lawyer, but I didn’t have that kind of money. As a reasonably intelligent man with an impressive degree, I figured I could wade through this on my own. And maybe turn it to my advantage.