“Actually…”
“What now?” The lightbulb goes on. “You’ve already booked it, haven’t you?”
He has the decency to look sheepish as he shrugs. “I’m just doing my job. Sometimes I have to make the tough decisions and you may not like them, but I’ve only got your best interests at heart. Or at least the best interests for your career. It’s only ten days, and you never know, you might actually enjoy yourself. At least it’s a change and that can only be a good thing.”
I give a long exhale, resigned to my fate. “Okay, if there’s no other choice, I’ll do it.”
Nigel’s face lights up. “Excellent! I’ll start ironing out the finer details. This is going to be great for you, just wait and see.”
I nod. No going back now. For better or worse, I’m headed on a Pride cruise.
Despite my agreement, unease brews in my gut. My post-show high—if it can even be called that—has well and truly faded and all I want to go is get out of here. I push up from the table. “I’m heading back to the hotel. I’ll shower there.”
“Sounds good. You deserve some rest, maybe kick back with some room service. Get an early night. The car’s outside and I’ll get someone to deliver your things.”
I take a deep breath, grab my bag, and follow Nigel down the hallway toward the exit where Brian, my security guy dressed in a dark suit, stands by the exit. He nods and pulls the door open.
There’s a small group of fans gathered at the back of the building who come to life when they see us. They push forward but security outside holds them back. The noise escalates as they try to reach me, and my anxiety ratchets up a level.
“Right this way, the car is waiting,” Nigel says, guiding me firmly past the fans trying to get my attention. I keep my head down, avoiding eye contact. The less interaction, the better.
We make it to the kerb and I slide gratefully into the back seat of the discreet black car, letting out a sigh of relief as Nigel slams the door shut behind us. Brian will follow.
“Fuck, I’m glad that’s over,” I say, leaning back against the headrest and closing my eyes.
Nigel chuckles. “I know you hate the attention, but it’s a package deal with being a star.”
I give a small smile but don’t respond. Nigel knows me well enough by now to understand my post-show moods. I love the music and the joy of performing—it’s like nothing else on earth, but as my career has skyrocketed, so too has the anxiety that’s dogged me all my life. There’s something about crowds that freaks me out, especially away from the stage.
As the car pulls away, my mind drifts to the cruise gig. Anxiety bubbles up as I imagine being trapped on a ship with no escape from the crowds. But Nigel’s words about getting back to the music ring true. Maybe this is the fresh start I need. Perhaps I can take a real holiday soon too. A few months away from the spotlight could do wonders, and is something my therapist has been advocating for a while now, but it’s something easier said than done.
“Try not to stress too much,” Nigel says gently, noticing my furrowed brow. “I really think this could be great for you.”
I nod and take a deep breath. “I hope you’re right.”
“I know you struggle with the crowds and fame,” Nigel says. “But this cruise will be different—smaller venues and chances to really connect with fans, not like the giant stadium shows. This is the right move, Axel. A chance to remind people why they fell in love with your music in the first place.”
He’s right, and he definitely has a point about needing to fix my reputation after the incident with Rick. Plus, helping Rick get his life on track is my top priority. If this gig helps repair the damage from his mistakes and gets the press off my back, I can handle a little discomfort.
“Fuck, Nige, this better be worth it, but just promise me one thing,” I say. “While I’m onboard, you’ve got to keep an eye on Rick.”
Nigel nods and launches into a spiel about revamping my public image. He’s always been a master of PR with a knack for spinning scandals into sympathetic storylines and this latest with Rick has been a doozy.
My younger brother has gone off the rails. I’ve rescued his butt one too many times. Last year he was booted from his high school just when he should have been focused on achieving good results in his final exams. I sent him to the one of the best schools money can buy, an exclusive private school, but now he’s gone and fucked that up. Well, actually, that’s not entirely accurate. Healmostfucked it up when I came riding in on my white horse again.When will I ever learn?
I’d collected Rick from a party and we were pulled over by the cops on the way home, probably to be expected in my Porsche 911. It shouldn’t have been a problem—I’d spent the night at home at my harbourside apartment, and hadn’t had a drop to drink. But when they saw it was me, Axel Zelman, famous rockstar, and then drunk Rick mouthed-off, they decided to search the car. Turns out alcohol wasn’t all Rick had been doing that night, and the cops found a bag of weed shoved under the passenger seat.Thanks, Rick.
Instead of dobbing Rick in, I’d given in to his pleading eyes, and taken the blame. I just wanted to get him through this final year of high school without being expelled again. I figured a therapist and another few weeks in a clinic were better than him facing charges and expulsion.
Unfortunately I hadn’t considered the ramifications. After Rick’s first brush with the law, he got off with a warning. The second time he had to undertake mandated drug counselling. I’d become a voice warning of the dangers of drugs and now I was the one receiving a formal warning for possession.Fuck my life!
“Here’s what I’m thinking,” Nigel says. “We focus on your devotion to your family. Spin the narrative that you’ve been shielding your troubled little brother, taking the heat for his mistakes.”
I shift uncomfortably. “I don’t want this to become some sob story and I’m not going to throw him under the bus. Yes, I should have made him take responsibility for his own mistakes, but it’s too late now. Now I want to focus on getting him the right support and treatment.”
“I know,” Nigel reassures me. “We’ll keep the details vague. Just enough to garner some public sympathy.”
“I don’t want sympathy,” I say.
