“Me too.” His tone is strangely light. “After your shower, want to just cuddle and complain about how bad that movie was until we can’t keep our eyes open?”
I smirk. “That sounds perfect, actually.”
He smiles back at me.
And that’s exactly what we do. Both of us freshly showered, I snuggle in bed with him while we crack each other up about how such bad movies get made and somehow find audiences who eat them up. Then we kiss. And kiss more. And somewhere between kisses and silence, we drift off to sleep in each other’s arms, feeling safe from the world.
It’s a different story in the morning.
TJ is no longer just the groupie who “got” me.
He’s the one who’s sucking me off in dressing rooms while I write all of this new material. That’s what “Down Bad For Him” isreallyabout, according to these “fans”.
He’s fucking the security too so he can sneak backstage at any show he wants.
He tells me what songs to play every show, writing my setlists for me. He’s the reason I don’t play my hit “Hate Me For a Reason” as much anymore, favoring the love songs.
He sits in the wings and sings along.
He loves the attention.
He’s the reason I’m not as close with my bandmates anymore, because he demands I take him out to eat after every show.
He’s also somehow the reason Cam left the band, even though that happened a literal year before we even met.
Suddenly it’s too much and I grab both our phones out of our hands and flip them face down on the bed, shutting my eyes. “This is my fault,” I mutter, voice shaking. “What kind ofmonstershave I created? These monsters … are my fans? This is what they do to someone I care about?”
TJ calmly responds, “I don’t think they’re monsters. They just don’t know you care about me.”
How is he so calm? “I can’t stand what they’re saying. I can’t take another fuckin’ second of it.”
“Austin …”
“Seriously. I need to call my people and demand that they let me post on my own damned account. All my social medias. I need to set them straight.”
“I don’t think it’ll be that easy,” he says, frowning down at his phone that I’ve turned on its face. “It’ll just be more noise.”
“You mean they won’t believe me?” I could almost laugh. “So, like, what you’re sayin’ is my own word means dog shit to ‘em? To hear an explanation from the horse’s mouth?”
“I’m not sure your fans will hear any explanations.” TJ meets my eyes. He has the audacity to give me the cutest smile right now while I’m fuming, like everything’s okay. “They only hear music.”
I throw my gaze to the floor, frustrated.
TJ scoots across the bed to me and hugs me from the side. We say nothing for a while.
If only I’d known this moment on this bed would be the last precious moment of peace we’d have.
Because the second we come down for breakfast, Cissy is upon us with her phone whipped out.
A photo on her screen of me feeding TJ a bite of grilled meat.
Below it, the meme’s caption: “FEED ME, DADDY HOLT.”
“Why in the ever-lovin’ monkey heck is this pic being shared all over the place,” she asks, “and why in the ever-lovin’ monkey heck are they calling you ‘Daddy Holt’?”
TJ and I look at each other.
It’s come time for the long-awaited sit-down.