The Mixtape

“Oliver! Oliver! Over here! You came with Cam! Is there trouble in paradise?”

“Why isn’t Cam leaving with you?”

“Is it true you two have been secretly dating for years?”

“Why lie about your relationship? Were you ashamed of her?”

And that was exactly why I didn’t want those assholes in my business.

Instead of engaging with them, I turned to my right, where another barricade was set up. Behind the barricade were the people I truly cared about. The fans.

Even though I was exhausted and had mentally checked out, I headed over to them and smiled. I’d spend as much time as I could taking pictures with the fans, because without them, Alex and I wouldn’t even have an album-release party to be celebrating.

“Hey there, how’s it going?” I asked, smirking toward a young girl. She couldn’t have been over eighteen, and she held a sign up that said OLIVE4LIFE.

“Oh my gosh,” she muttered, her colorful braces spreading into a wide-toothed grin. Her eyes flooded with tears as her body trembled. I placed my hand against her shaky hand.

If it weren’t for her friends holding her up, I was sure she was going to collapse to the ground.

“Y-you’re my h-h-h-ero,” she spat out, making me smile.

“You’re mine too. What’s your name?”

“Adya.” The tears began flowing down her cheeks, and I wiped them away for her. “You d-don’t understand,” she stuttered, shaking her head. “Your music helped me through my depression. I w-was bullied a lot and wanted to e-end my life, but your music was there for me. You saved me.”

Fucking A.

Don’t cry, Oliver. Don’t you dare fucking cry.

I squeezed her hand and leaned in close. “If only you knew how much you’ve saved me, too, Adya.”

She was why I did it. Her along with all the others who showed up and showed out for Alex & Oliver. Fuck the paparazzi. I showed up for the fans, because they always showed up for me.

“Taking photos without me?” Alex chimed in, patting me on the back. He had his jacket in his hand, as if he was leaving too.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“I got tired.” Alex glanced down at his watch.

“That’s a lie.” Alex was always one of the last ones to leave a party.

He smirked. “Kelly texted me saying she was hungry. I figured I’d bring her some chicken noodle soup, since she wasn’t feeling good.”

Now, that made sense. Kelly was my assistant, and Alex was like a lovesick puppy about her. She was currently staying in my coach house while her loft was being renovated. Therefore, it seemed that Alex was around my place a lot more than normal—and he definitely wasn’t visiting me. “Figured I could catch a ride with you,” he said, nudging me. “After a few more pics with these guys.”

I always had a feeling that the two of them had a connection, and it wasn’t shocking that they’d begun talking. Honestly, they were a perfect match. For a while, Kelly suffered from an eating disorder, trying to keep up with Hollywood’s beauty standards. Alex was the main one who helped her through her hardships. He would sit with her and eat meals every single day without fail, making sure she knew she wasn’t alone in her struggles. What started as friendship slowly began to transform into something with more meaning.

We took a few more photographs with the fans while ignoring the vultures on the other side asking us insane questions, then climbed into the back of the black Audi that was waiting for us.

“Hey, Ralph, you all right with me smoking in here?” Alex asked as he leaned forward toward the driver.

“Whatever you want to do is fine by me, Mr. Smith,” Ralph replied, being the laid-back driver he’d always been. Alex always found the need to ask him about the smoking thing, even though Ralph always said it was fine.

Alex sat back as he lit up a joint. He wasn’t a big smoker or anything, but he always had a joint after some kind of event. Maybe that was his way of unwinding from social gatherings. I would’ve taken up the habit if I thought it would’ve helped with my social anxiety. Instead, pot made me more paranoid of what people were thinking of me.

Hard pass for me.

“You hear this song?” Alex asked, pulling out his phone and hitting play. “‘Godspeed,’ by James Blake. Shit. His voice is so fucking dope, man. Smooth as whiskey. Reminds me of our old stuff, before the record deal.” He plopped back in his seat and closed his eyes. “Whenever I hear music like this, I feel like a sellout. This is the music we wanted to make, you know? Music that fucked with your soul in a good way. That made you feel alive.”

The song was powerful in such a chill way, which wasn’t shocking for James Blake. He made me feel to the depths of my being. Alex wasn’t wrong—our music used to feel like that too. Like it mattered. When we signed with our record label, they changed our direction a lot, which brought us fame and millions of fans along with millions of dollars. Sometimes we wondered at what expense, though. How much money and fame was enough to sell one’s soul?