Squaring my shoulders, I storm toward the bus, my hands clenched into fists. A small part of me knows I’m being nonsensical, but the tiny voice is buried by roars of chaos.
I haven’t seen Samantha in two fucking months, and the whole goddamn time, he’s been speaking with her.
As I approach the stairs, I hear Prince shout, “No-fucking-way.”
I glance over to see that he’s looking at his phone. Armando hovers over his shoulder, his brow lifting when he sees what’s on the screen. “That goddamn cockroach.”
Curiosity replaces anger, and I go over to investigate.
On the screen, a video is playing. It’s grainy and hard to follow, but after a few moments, I realize that it’s from when Carl beat Priest.
Three other Hunks come over, and we watch the scene unfold on a loop three more times.
Clint breaks away and paces in a circle as he nervously smooths his hair back. “What does this mean?”
“It means that we’re not out of the fucking woods yet,” Slay snarls.
“Until we know more, it’s not worth getting upset over,” Prince says.
“That’s easy for you to say.” Slay pokes Prince in the chest. “You’re a goddamn prince with a penthouse to run back to. This is all Natasha and I have.”
Prince leans into Slay’s finger, glowering. “I get it, but worrying now is only going to make it worse.”
Armando muscles his way between the two, glaring from one to the other. “Put your goddamn differences aside and stop acting like children. We’re under attack, and all your petty bullshit bickering is doing is helping the other side.”
Slay and Prince step back, each looking away, which is the closest thing to an apology they’ll muster.
I may not be a fancy PR person like Samantha, but I’m well aware that these types of scandals can cost you everything, and Carl being at the helm of the incident only makes things worse.
We could lose everything.
Everyone talks about what they’re going to do once they leave the Hunks, but the truth is, no one actually leaves unless it’s by force, and they rarely bode well. Slay is right to worry, because what fucking jobs are there for us to transition to? Sure, Prince could work for his father, and I could maybe scrape out a life playing poker, but Kilo’s been dancing his whole fucking life, ever since he turned eighteen.
Carl changes down the bus stairs, positioning himself a few feet in front of us.
“I can see by the stupid looks on y’all’s faces that you already know about the latest bullshit accusation.”
Knowing the state Carl is in, none of us says a damn word.
“All I have to say about it is keep your goddamn mouths shut.”
With that, he storms off toward the venue, leaving us to wonder if we’ll have a job in a month.
Clint is the first one to break away, saying he’s going to get a workout in. Kilo grabs a car magazine and heads to the lounge.
“Seeing as how I still have the car keys, I guess I’ll pick up some barbecue,” Armando says.
Once he drives off, Slay approaches, scratching the back of his head. “Hey, ah, I was hoping to ask you something.”
He’s typically not shy, so I know whatever it is he’s about to ask me isn’t going to be easy.
“Shoot.”
“I know you’re scheduled to go on tonight, but I was kind of hoping that I could go on in your place.”
It’s not lost on me that just a few months ago, I was in his position. With the negative press we’re getting, he’s probably anxious, and I see no reason to deny his request, especially with my mother’s debt being wiped clean.
“Go on, but make sure Carl knows I didn’t try to weasel my way out of dancing tonight.”
