“Seriously, dude, your entire being is one big, tortured scowl,” she shot back, trailing a soft hand down his arm. “Even your tats are broody. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. It definitely works.”
“You make it sound like it’s all an act. I’m not trying to be that guy.”
“Of course you aren’t. I know that.” She slipped past him and grabbed a piece of pizza out of the box before batting her eyes in his direction. “And so do the fans. It’s why they respond. Because you are that guy. You don’t have to try. And the fact that you have the second best ass in the band definitely doesn’t hurt.”
He still didn’t like the way she made it sound, still wanted to argue with her about her perception of him. But the more he argued, the more of an issue it became, and the last thing he wanted was to have to actually explain anything. And he definitely didn’t want to let the woman in charge of the band’s social media—and could he ask how the fuck that was even a real job—into his head even superficially.
He was trying to be subtle about his discomfort, trying not to let her or the others see just how freaked out this whole conversation was making him, but it must not have worked because the next thing he knew, Ryder was totally throwing himself in front of the bus for him.
“Second best ass?” he demanded, deflecting her attention off of Wyatt and back on to him. “Really? If his is second, where exactly does mine rank? I mean, at this rate you’re going to give me a complex.”
“Your ass is very nice,” she soothed. “In fact, if we’re ranking, I’d definitely put it—”
“Can we move away from the topic of who has the best and worst asses in the band, please?” Jared demanded, shaking his head grumpily.
“Aw, come on. You’re just afraid you’re going to come in last,” Ryder told him.
“How did you guess,” he deadpanned back. “That’s it, exactly. I lie awake every night afraid that my ass isn’t as good as the great Ryder Montgomery’s. How ever will I go on now that I know my fears are justified?”
“It will be hard,” Poppy told him. “But I’m sure you’ll find a way.”
“I don’t know. I could be traumatized.” He leaned forward, got in Poppy’s space. Focused on her all the intensity and charm he was known for. “Maybe you could help me get over the trauma?”
Poppy laughed, and before he even knew he was going to do it, Wyatt slammed his bottle down on the table between them. Hard. The others all turned to look at him in surprise. Except Jared, who smirked a little before backing off.
Not that Wyatt needed him to back off or anything. One quick encounter behind a club didn’t mean anything. Especially when Poppy hadn’t even bothered to stick around until the end of the gig so they could meet properly.
And still he found himself glaring at Jared. Still he found himself crowding closer to Poppy than he had any right to. Maybe the fact that he still wanted her was reason enough.
She must not think so, though, because she shot him a surprised glance, before turning back to Jared and pulling out her phone. “Go ahead and turn around. I’ll take shots of your ass and post them all over social media. I’m sure the comments we get will boost your self-esteem right back where it belongs.”
Jared couldn’t scoot back far or fast enough, even as he made sure to keep his ass planted firmly in the chair. “You know, I’m feeling better already.”
Poppy grinned. “Somehow I knew you would be.” Then she turned back to the others. “Can we please talk about your social media presence now?”
“Now?” Ryder looked surprised.
“Yes, now,” she huffed, exasperated. “I know you want to get down to work and that’s great. It’ll show really well on Snapchat and Tumblr. But I want to lay things out for you first so there are no surprises. At this point in time, my job is to get you on every important social media platform there is—and to document your time leading back to tour so we can show the world that you guys are in great shape and ready to rock. To do that, we need content. Lots and lots of content.”
“You want us to tweet more?” Quinn sounded aggrieved. “Fine, we’ll tweet more. But we have an album to finish writing and to record, a tour to plan for and a bassist to find. So excuse us if tweets aren’t our first priority.”
“That’s the point. Social media should always be one of your top priorities. And, for a while anyway, you don’t have to do anything. That’s what you have me for. I just need access and I’ll—”
“Exactly what kind of access are you talking about?” Wyatt interrupted, an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He already had his bandmates looking over his shoulder, watching his every move. The last thing he needed or wanted was Poppy doing the same thing. If he screwed up—which he wasn’t planning on doing, but still—he sure as shit didn’t want it to be documented on Twitter. Or Tumblr. Or whatever the hell other platforms she was talking about.
“I want access to your rehearsals. Your song writing sessions, like today. Your nights out, if you do anything as a band. I can Snapchat it or Vine it, get your Tumblr working for you, call the paparazzi and get some HQ photos of you circulating—”
“We don’t call the paps,” Ryder told her, looking incredulous. “We’re not some pop act. The last thing we want is that kind of attention.”
“That kind of attention, when focused properly, is what’s going to sell more records for you, to people who don’t necessarily listen to Shaken Dirty. It’s what’s going to help sell out the seats in this stadium tour you’ve got planned. You need exposure right now. Lots and lots of exposure, so it looks like y
ou guys are in high demand.” Poppy grabbed one of the unopened sodas and twisted the cap off before taking a long swig. “Which you are,” she continued. “But we want everyone to know just how popular you are so we can take you to the next level and make you guys a household name. And we want to reward your fans by giving them more access to you and your private times.”
“They aren’t exactly private if we give the world access to them,” Wyatt countered. “I don’t want to constantly have to worry about what’s going to get posted and what isn’t. I already have enough of that with the whole drug rehab scandal.”
Just the thought of that kind of publicity—that kind of access—made his skin crawl. He knew it was ridiculous to feel that way. After all, he’d spent the last few years working right along with the rest of them to ensure that Shaken Dirty was successful, was recognized. But being famous for making music was one thing, especially when he got to hide behind his drum kit at the back of the stage. It was another thing altogether to make his life front and center the way Poppy was suggesting.
“Yeah. We’re not reality TV stars,” Quinn said quietly, the unease in his voice echoing perfectly the concern Wyatt was feeling. “We’re musicians.”