“There’s always an alpha wolf,” Jonathan said. “Sometimes creatives forget that. I’ve helped a lot of artists find their inner wolf.” He held a business card in between two of his fingers. Keith watched as Bobby took it carefully, like it might be electric.Wolf Management + Production, it said, with Jonathan’s name and numbers underneath in embossed black type.
“I just think, with everything…” Shawn said. This meant Corey getting into trouble. “It’s a good time for new ideas.” Keith’s stomach churned. Boy Talk was not known for their new ideas. It was both the best and worst thing about them, their predictability.
“I’m just here to support,” Jonathan said. “To help you all make thebest decisions possible and to make sure all the aspects of the organization are functioning the way they should. We’re gonna kick some tires, have some conversations. Maybe howl at the moon.” He smiled. “It’ll be fun.”
Shawn was nodding, which made everything Jonathan was saying feel worse. Keith felt sick. It was unfair for Shawn to spring this on them like this. To spring it onhim. They’d been together all morning, and Shawn hadn’t said a word. He wondered what else Shawn wasn’t telling him, who Shawn was calling instead. And anyway, Bobby was the one who kicked tires, who forced them to all get on the phone, who bought the plane tickets and negotiated the deals. The room was silent now. Everyone was waiting for Bobby to respond.
“Sure,” Bobby said. “Of course.”
Shawn exhaled. “Okay, party people,” he said, turning to face the rest of the group. “Let’s get this shitstarted.”
Scotty groaned. Terrence cupped his hand around his wife’s bottom. Bobby nodded his head, and Keith offered him up a small smile. It wasn’t the energy that Shawn wanted, Keith knew, and so he clapped his hands, too. He was a good little brother, always had been, ready to cheer.
6
Thursday, 2:29 p.m.
Deck 3
The team in the terminal radioed to say Corey West was there, ready to board, and so Sarah walkied her team on Deck 3 and had them set up some stanchions—everyone was on the ship, 2,172 guests and 1,535 staff, and the idea of letting Corey West just walk through the hordes on his own would not fly. Terrence could probably get away with it, but not Corey. The sail-away party would start at 4:30, and an hour later, the horns would honk and the black smoke would bellow and theAmerican Fantasywould finally be on the move. Corey was cutting it close, as usual.
Sarah had help—the guys had security, all enormous and dopey puppy dogs with intimidating game faces—plus a handful of the JackRabbit guys, not that that idiot Tyler would do any good. Sarah was pretty sure that Scotty had slept with one of the security guys, but that was none of her business. Lars was a freckly redhead with a body like a gladiator, and she understood. She didn’t need the beefcakes for this, though—it was broad daylight, and no one had had the time to get wasted. Sarah went alone to greet Corey.
“Send him over,” Sarah said. She stood on the deck and watched asa Cruise Terminal employee, blushing, hurried to keep pace with Corey West as he strode up the metal walkway. Sarah was surprised to think of him that way—first name, last name—even as he was walking toward her. Professionalism would have kept her from admitting it, but Corey was different than the other guys, even to Sarah. They dressed terribly, Boy Talk, like suburban dads or Miami club douches, depending on the time of day, and it was refreshing to see a middle-aged man who knew how to put clothing on his body. Corey West was tall, with long legs in a pair of faded blue jeans, and he looked good. More to the point, heknewthat he looked good. It wasn’t fair that someone who had done as many drugs as Corey West had no doubt done could make it to fifty looking this handsome. For about thirty seconds, Sarah was the only one on board who could see Corey, and she felt a tiny surge of adrenaline. It wasn’t brain surgery, what she did, or hostage negotiation, but this moment wasn’t nothing. Sometimes Sarah thought about all the logistics that had to fall into place to make this weekend happen—any of the trips they organized—and it felt like getting a man to the moon. At least astronauts always wanted to go.
The screams—high-pitched and sharp, like an ambulance—began the second Corey’s foot hit the deck. Sarah ducked at first, unsure what was happening, but Corey looked up and smiled. A crowd had gathered on either side of the roped-off corridor. Talkers in matching T-shirts; Talkers with cameras held aloft, selfie-ready; Talkers with frozen, wide eyes, unable to believe what they were seeing. The luck! The timing! They were stuck on a ship together—he wasn’t running onto a waiting airplane or out a back door; he was joining them for four entire days and nights, but that didn’t stop the screaming. Sarah watched as Corey turned to wave, his Louis Vuitton duffel in one hand and his cell phone in the other. He was wearing sunglasses too, most of the guys did, a thin layer of self-protection, one small screen between them and the fans, like a cat’s extra eyelid. There would be women onboard who didn’t love him the way they used to, because they’d believed him when he said he was getting sober, or because they thought the woman he’d been seen with was too young for him, or because they’d had enough of his shenanigans, but those women were not standing on Deck 3.
Sarah stuck out her hand. “Hi, Corey—Sarah, from JackRabbit.” They’d met half a dozen times before, on this exact ship, but Sarah knew better than to expect him to remember her name. She’d been an assistant when they first met, and Corey hadn’t looked her straight in the eye until the third cruise. Speaking of assistants, where was Tyler? He was supposed to be behind her, but she’d lost him somewhere en route. “If you need anything, it’s me. Let’s get you to your room.”
Corey stuck out a pinkie from the hand holding the phone, and Sarah shook it with two fingers as they moved quickly toward the closest elevator bank. She had one waiting for her and closed the door behind them. The screams stopped, and they were alone.
“How was your flight?” Sarah asked.
“Fine,” Corey said, and then offered a small puff of air, as if already exhausted. Sarah excused a lot of behavior like this from the acts—they were performing, and it was tiring. Sarah understood. She didn’t want to make them feel like they had to beonany more than they actually had to be. That was fair enough.
“Well, glad you made it,” Sarah said. “Shawn and Bobby can go over pretty much everything with you, and in your room there’s a list of numbers to call for food, drinks, anything you might need. My number’s on there too. Here we are.” The elevator slowed and then stopped on Deck 7, and Sarah held out her hand, indicating for Corey to exit first.
“After you,” he said, pointing with his long arm toward the door, and so Sarah walked out before he did, which was good, because there were a few Talkers waiting outside the Sanctuary door, their bodiesvisibly vibrating with excitement, and one stone-faced security guard who was issuing them back toward the staircase.
“Oh, it’s fine,” Corey said. He approached the women, who each held out something for him to sign—a baseball hat’s brim, a piece of paper, an arm. “I can’t sign your arm,” he said to the last one, a small brunette who looked like she might burst into tears.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” the woman said, the words choking out of her throat, and then she did burst into tears. Corey spread his arms and gave her a quick hug, and by the time he was done, the Sanctuary door was open, and he hurried inside, Sarah behind him, blocking the way.
“Sorry about that,” Sarah said once the door was shut behind them. “The guards are supposed to make sure no one lingers. That shouldn’t happen every time you open that door, we’ll make sure. They must have just gotten there.” She expected Corey to be pissed off—this was part of the deal that theAmerican Fantasyoffered bands: privacy, space, safety. Instead, he turned and looked at her with the first genuine smile he’d given her and said, “They don’t give a shit, do they?”
The company had talked about this. Bobby and Sarah had talked about this. It had been discussed repeatedly, all up and down the food chain. The Talkers were probably talking about it too, and the gossip accounts and theDaily Mail. The official line was that there was no official line. Corey had posted an apology on his Instagram, and everyone else had been instructed not to comment. The insurers were probably the most worried, but it wasn’t like Corey was driving the boat. Sarah honestly didn’t think it was such a big deal—if anything, expecting perfection from human beings was more of a stretch. Marriage was a tool of the patriarchy.
“No,” Sarah said. “I don’t think they do.”
“Ha!” Corey said. “It’s the fucking twilight zone. I love it.”
Sarah watched as Corey brightened, as if a tiny light bulb had beenswitched on inside his body. If the Talkers had seen him then, they would have burst into flame.
There was a knock on the door, and Sarah pulled it open. Tyler stood on the other side, panting. He held up his key card as if it were a police badge. “Sorry,” he said. “I missed the elevator, so I just ran up the stairs.”
“Let’s go,” Sarah said, and waved to Corey as she zipped back to the other side of the door and pulled it shut behind her. As soon as the door closed, she gave Tyler a gentle flick on the arm. “Next time, keep up.”
7
