Page 22 of If This Gets Out
Essentially, I’m doing my very best not to stare. And it’s, uh, hard.
He knocked on my hotel room about five minutes ago, asking to borrow something of mine to wear to Angel’s because he’s already sick of his own, Chorus-curated, shirt selection. And now I have to look anywhere but at him to avoid making shit weird—shockingly, it’s much easier to ignore a half-naked guy in a bustling room than in a one-on-one situation.
I settle for staring down at my phone with my back to him. I silently count to ten to give him enough time to get my shirt on, but when I look up he’s still freaking shirtless, standing in front of the mirror and picking at his hair. A small strip of his briefs is visible above the snug waistband of his skinny jeans, and his skin is smooth and pale from lack of sun.
The thing about Zach is, he’s quite beautiful. I’ve always thought that, even when it was a purely platonic opinion. He’s slight but tall, not quite lanky, with the sort of thick brown hair that makes you ache to run your fingers through it, just to find out if it’s as soft as it looks. Deep dimples, long lashes framing serious hazel eyes, a fine-boned oval face, arms that dip and curve with well-defined muscles. If today’s list had been based on looks instead of propaganda, he would’ve been on it, hands down. Higher than me, too.
A shuffling noise tells me he’s finally putting the shirt on. “Have you looked outside?” he asks. “There’s so many of them.”
I haven’t, actually. There was already a pretty decent group of fans congregating outside the hotel when we arrived back from tonight’s concert, though. I open the window and stick my head out, and a roar rises like a tidal wave as they spot me. It’s a swarm. A writhing crowd of heads and hands,dozens of people deep, mostly teen girls. They scream at me. For me.
I’m the only thing that exists to them right now, even if sometimes my mouth looks weird, or my vibrato wavers, or I forget to smile for the press. It doesn’t matter to them. It’s unconditional.
I never knew “unconditional” before Saturday.
I wave down at them, and Zach squeezes in beside me, and the screams somehow get even louder. Deafening.At least it’ll drown out any noise that comes from Angel’s room,I think idly.
I throw my arm around Zach’s shoulders, and he grabs my dangling hand to hold me there. “Bonne fin de soirée!” I shout, although I doubt anyone can hear me. Zach pulls me inside with a bear hug, laughing, and the crowd is muted again as he closes the window.
When we get to Angel’s room, there are already about fifteen people inside. Jon’s nowhere to be seen yet, even though we texted him when Zach got to my room.
The main lights are off, with only the lamps and the bathroom still lit. The music’s at a reasonable volume—for now—and most people are chilling on the bed, chairs, or simply on the floor, their faces cast in shadows. There’s a few people I recognize: Ella, Kellin, and Ted, of course, along with Daniel Crafers and Brianna Smith, both actors in their early twenties. I’ve interacted with both of them on Instagram a few times.
“Hey, you two,” Ella says as we approach her on the floor, rolling forward to pour some vodka into plastic cups. “Welcome toRépublique française.”
“Oh, do you live here, now?” I accept a cup.
“No, my love, we’re here for the four of you.”
I raise my drink in cheers. “Maybe we should be welcomingyouto France, then?”
Angel appears from thin air, swaying on his feet. “Ruben, are you being sassy to the guests?”
“Yes, he is.” Ella pouts, twirling a strand of dark brown hair around her finger.
Angel points at Zach and me. “Chug. It’ll make you nicer.”
“Speaking of the four of us,” Zach says, instead of drinking. “Where’s Jon?”
Angel pulls a face. “Hopefully staying away in protest.”
“All the wonderful flavors out there, and you choose salty,” Ella laughs. Someone turns the music up, and the vibe of the room changes. It’s less chill catch-up, more nightclub. The bass vibrates through the floor and up through my fingertips, pulsing in my blood.
“I’m not salty,” Angel says, plopping hard onto the floor between Brianna and me. He has to half-shout to be heard. “If I were, it’d involve Ruben, and I don’t have a thing against my little Ruby, bless his heart.”
“You’ll always be the sexiest man on earth to me,” Ella says to Angel, and Angel looks not-so-subtly pleased. She pours an extra few shots in his glass, as a “congratulations for being sexy” prize, I guess.
“I mean, we’re right here,” Zach jokes to me, but I have a feeling there’s truth hovering beneath his lighthearted tone.
“Yeah, you’re breaking our hearts, Ella,” I join in.
Ella laughs, tinkling and light. “From what I hear, I’m the last person who’d have a shot at breaking your heart, Ruben,” she says. “You might have more luck with Levi over there.” She nods over to an unfamiliar blond guy standing by the bathroom door with Ted. “Shall I introduce you?”
I can’t say I’m surprised she knows. Once someone’s out to their team, their sexuality tends to be a bit of an open secret in the music industry, but the unspoken agreement is that what insiders know stays on the inside. The amount of money that gets spent per year on bribes and lawsuits shutting down front-page outings is eye-watering. It keeps the media in line, more or less. At least, as far as photographic proof goes. And any other celebrity will swear up and down that you’re straight if they’re asked about you—not least because they generally have plenty of dirty secrets of their own. But it’s more than that. It’s a community thing. A morality thing. An us-versus-them thing.
Too bad I don’t actuallywantit to be a secret.
“Let’s see where the night goes,” I say, and she scrunches her nose at me cheekily.
