Chaos

But this night has been a little different, with a blonde twenty-something standing just offstage, watching us with her arms folded and a confident smile on her face. She showed up sometime around the third song, on Shawn’s side of the stage, and when we took a break just before the encore, she hugged the guys like they were old friends, and giggled condescendingly when I had to ask her name.

Victoria Hess.

Apparently, she’s some hot record exec’s daughter. And she thinks everyone must know this.

My guitar pick strums the final song to its end, and amidst the thunderous applause, my humming legs carry me back to her annoying smile. I busy myself with chugging down the contents of a water bottle next to Mike, and Adam ignores Victoria, clapping everyone on the back and congratulating them on another successful show.

My head is pointed toward Adam, but my eyes are focused on Victoria as she sidles up next to Shawn. She’s wearing an all-white skirt-and-top combo that might look professional if it wasn’t for all the skin she’s showing. The top is beyond tight, with a plunging neckline that’s about four buttons too low, and the skirt is high-waisted and mini, flaunting an ass that’s barely there. The outfit is complete with a super-skinny pleather belt that’s hardly necessary, considering the clothes are practically painted to her preteen-sized curves. She’s the exact kind of way-too-perfectly skinny that high school girls develop complexes over.

“So,” she says, pushing a strand of pale blonde hair away from her face and hooking her arm in Shawn’s, “who wants to pour me a drink?”

I glare daggers at the back of her silky blonde head the whole way down the backstage hallway to the greenroom. Victoria is front and center, squeezed between Shawn and Adam, and I’m in the back between Joel and Mike, trying to avoid getting smacked in the face every time she flicks her stupid hair over her stupid shoulder.

“I guess you know why I’m here,” she says, her white heels clicking loudly off the laminate floor. “Jonathan still really, really wants you to sign with him.”

She turns a snooty upturned nose over her shoulder when I interrupt with, “Who’s Jonathan?”

“Jonathan,” she repeats, like I’m an idiot for having to ask. “President of Mosh Records?”

“You mean your dad?”

Mike snickers when she turns away without answering me.

“So anyway,” she continues as if I’d said nothing at all, giving her attention back to Shawn and missing the look I share with Mike and Joel. They both stop walking with amused looks on their faces, hanging back as Victoria drags Shawn and Adam into the greenroom. She’s going on and on and on about how selling out would do wonders for our band, and the three of us wait until she’s gone.

“She hates being reminded that the only reason she has her job is because of who her dad is,” Mike explains, and Joel nods in agreement.

I remember Shawn mentioning Mosh Records—something about them being cannibals . . .

I don’t doubt Victoria would just love a taste of him.

“Is she in love with Shawn or something?” I ask, and Joel continues his vigorous nodding.

“She’s an opportunist,” Mike reasons. “So yeah, right now, she’s in love with Shawn.”

Joel stops nodding long enough to argue, “She had a thing for him way before we started getting big.”

I look to Mike for confirmation, but he simply shrugs, doing nothing to calm my nerves as we finish the short walk to the greenroom.

This past week and a half with Shawn, I’ve learned that he’s an early riser, that he never takes his coffee the same way two days in a row, that he usually wears chunky-framed glasses when he reads. I’ve seen the way his chest rises and falls when he sleeps, the way his hair looks when it’s wet from a shower, the way he twirls a guitar pick against his lip when he’s trying to brainstorm lyrics for a song.

Onstage, Adam is the frontman, but behind the scenes, it’s Shawn’s show. He books our performances, plans fun things to do on our days off, picks up our coffee orders every time we park within walking distance of a Starbucks. He’s organized, meticulous, and impossibly charismatic. Backstage, he’s always saying the right things to the right faces and shaking the right hands, and everyone in the industry loves him. They love him because in spite of it all—the spotlights, the fans, the attention—the music is still number one for him, always will be, and even the sellouts have to admire that. They see a genuine artist in him, and I see it too—along with a guy who smiles at me before my head hits the pillow, a guy who gives me butterflies along with my morning coffee.

I don’t know what I expect to see when I turn the corner into the greenroom, but it definitely isn’t Victoria curled on his lap with her twiggy arms coiled around his neck. The room is buzzing with people anxious to congratulate us on a great show, and the blonde-haired cannibal in white makes sure she’s right in the middle of it.

“Joel!” she shouts as soon as we step inside, ensuring that she’s the star of the show. Her voice is so annoying and whiny, I’m not sure how anyone could miss it. “I heard you got a girlfriend!”

Joel collapses next to Adam on the couch opposite Shawn, propping his feet on a coffee table and linking his fingers behind his head.

“So did Adam,” he says, and Victoria grins.

It’s like I’m not even here. It’s like I’m invisible, and if I wasn’t sure Shawn’s eyes were on me, I’d believe it. I feel them—those bottomless greens—staring at me even though I won’t meet his gaze. How can I, with her arms around him? It’s like he’s watching me to . . . to what? To see if I mind that he has a hot chick on his lap? ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">