“Bodhi. Bodhi.”
The chanting and pounding were getting louder and more insistent.
“Just go away,” I pleaded quietly, knocking the back of my head against the door. A few months ago, I would have handled this fan encounter very differently, but I wasn’t the same golly-gee popstar I was back then. My dear ol’not-deadmother had taken care of that.
Twisting the cap off the Smirnoff, I took a long pull, wincing at the burn. You’d think I’d be stealthier when it came to pounding down the liquor seeing as I’d become well versed in the bottle of late. In fact, before making my Uber-led booze run, I’d been pregaming it quite effectively with the mini bottles I’d acquired on my last flight.
Honestly, you’d never know that up until a few months ago, drinking hadn’t been my thing. Back then, I’d viewed alcohol as wasted calories, not worthy of the extra time in the gym it would take me to work them off. But that was before letter-gate … before I discovered that deception really wasn’t my thing either. It’s not every day you find out the man you thought was your father really may not actually be, and the woman you thought was your deceased mother had been alive and kicking your whole damn life.
I mean, where does one even begin with bombshell information like that? I’ll tell you where—with the bottle! And although I’d once been a vocal opponent of the evils of excessive alcohol consumption, I could now objectively say the benefits clearly outweighed the harm. How else was I going to numb my mind to the realities of what I now knew?
It was almost comical the way the bosses initially brushed my destructive behaviors under the rug. When they’d first discovered my burgeoning appetite for liquor, they’d reacted with surprised indifference. So what if their Golden Boy was blowing off a little steam? It wasn’t like their mild-mannered Clark Kent was going to suddenly morph into an unrecognizable badass flying machine. But then I did. And they were left dazed and confused in my wake.
Once they understood this would not be a passing phase, the bolts were tightened on my freedom. Babysitters, disguised as security guards, reported on my every move. Mini fridges were emptied long before I ever stepped foot into my hotel rooms. And access to the outside world became a privilege I had to earn. I was twenty-four-years-old, for god’s sake. When had I suddenly become a hostage to my own life? Or maybe it had always been this way and I’d just been blind to the restraints securely wrapped around my wrists.
Now that my eyes were opened wide, I didn’t like what I was seeing. Not one bit. My team, the people who claimed to care about my well-being and who were supposedly committed to making my hectic life easier, had really just been prison guards milking me for every last dime I could give them. And that team included my father, Tucker Beckett, the man who made me call him by his first name in mixed company because he didn’t want others to think he was playing favorites. He was my father, for god’s sake, hadn’t I earned the right to call him Dad? I suppose it didn’t matter either way because it didn’t change the fact that he was the worst of them all. Under the guise of fatherly love, he’d kept me shackled to his side since I was a child. Not because he wanted what was best for me but because he wanted what was best forhim.
I shuddered to think of how long it would have taken me to uncover the truth had my mother not delivered her drop-the-mic message when she had. Would I have wasted even more of my life being danced around on strings by the puppet masters who controlled my every move?
That’s not to say my so-called mother was some heroine coming to save the day. She had her own agenda, one I hadn’t figured out yet. But I wasn’t naïve enough to believe her intentions were pure. Who was to say the woe-is-me tale she’d woven was even the truth? Judging by her abandonment, it’s not like the woman had my best interests at heart either.
The question wasn’t who was lying— it was pretty clear they both had their secrets— but who had the most to hide. Maybe I should have hunted down the security guard and demanded he deliver my newly resurrected mother to me on the spot, but I’d been too shocked to react in any coherent manner. Instead, I’d let her go and have since been lingering in this uncomfortable state of uncertainty. Who was she? Why had she left me? And most of all, who the hell was the man I’d been living with all these years?
Confronting my father with the accusations seemed the most straightforward way to get answers, but he’d been lying to me my whole life so who was to say he’d tell me the truth anyway?
So I’d made the guys promise not to tell a soul about Carter’s interruption and the unexpected message he’d delivered. I would deal with this information on my own terms but, for now, I was content to just let the man suffer, wondering what had happened to his perfectly obedient son.
Asshole! If my father thought I would continue playing by his rules, he had another think coming. How could I have been such a wuss for so damn long? My sheer lack of gumption was embarrassing. I’d allowed myself to be led around like a mindless wooden puppet. Fuck that. I wasn’t some toy to be molded and manipulated. This was my life and that wake-up call was what I’d needed to finally take control. Pinocchio was going back in the drawer.
Or…okay… so maybe I was over-stating my newfound supremacy. After all, Iwascurrently sitting on a bathroom floor after fleeing from The Children of the Corn, and that certainly wasn’t the manly representation I wanted to project. Although, to be fair, I was in a boy band. It’s not like people hadn’t already formed their own opinions about my masculinity. Hell, there were blogs dedicated to it.
The minute I’d signed my name on the dotted line and become a bona fide member ofAnyDayNow, I’d lost the respect of nearly every red-blooded male on the planet. And for any guys still on the fence about whether I was a spineless wimp, this little grocery store stunt should seal the deal. Not that I really cared what other people thought of me. That was a luxury I didn’t have time for. Besides, growing up as a child star, you either developed a tough hide or you died young in a puddle of your own urine.
My knee-jerk reaction after receiving the letter was to quit the band and run off into the night. But I was loyal to the guys and couldn’t just up and flee in the middle of a tour. They were like brothers to me. Not to mention the mountain of trouble I’d leave behind in terms of broken contracts, binding agreements, and lawsuits.
So professionally, I still showed up for every appearance, giving the most I could to my performances. But something had dimmed in me and, try as I might, I couldn’t muster more than a half-assed rendition of my former self. Gone were the corny endearments and the playful stage antics with RJ. Pants me in front of a live audience now? Dude, I dare you.
The ‘truth’ bomb my mother had detonated had robbed me of my sense of humor as well as my pride. When fans chanted for me now, I felt nothing. Their love and devotion rang hollow. I wasn’t who they thought I was. Hell, Bodhi Beckett wasn’t even my real goddamn name!
The phone in my pocket buzzed non-stop, leaving no doubt that my grocery store debacle was trending on social media. Dammit, if I’d just stayed in the liquor aisle none of this would have happened. That’s what I’d come to the store for in the first place so why hadn’t I just stuck to the plan? I’ll tell you why, because of my father and his insane rules against sugar—the one food group I’d been denied since childhood. And since my current strategy was to stick it to the man, it only seemed right to stuff my face with as much processed sugar as possible. And maybe, with a steady stream of the stuff, I could grow some fairly impressive love handles, which would surely give the man a heart attack. Win-win.
Unfortunately, the ski cap and dark glasses I’d used to disguise myself didn’t fool the gaggle of preteen girls. Moments after I’d arrived in the Hostess aisle, slinking around like some pervert in the kink section of a sex shop, the girls materialized, crowding around me in their quest for sweets. I’d grabbed the first thing I saw, a box of Twinkies, and then quickly retreated. Seconds from a clean getaway, a girl with side braids and freckles had made eye contact and I was done for.
“Oh my god! It’s Bodhi Beckett,” she’d screamed, and all her friends joined in the hysteria. That’s how it usually played out. All it took was for one baby bird to chirp and the others began squawking. The soccer team had descended like a swarm of vultures ready and willing to rip the flesh from my bones, leaving me no choice but to flee the aisle clutching my Vodka and the box of sugary delight.
As I’d raced to the front of the store with a trail of screamers in my wake, I faced a crucial decision – die, go to jail, or give up my Twinkies. If I stopped at the cash register, I died. If I ran out of the store clutching stolen contraband, I went to jail. But if I gave up my Twinkies, my asshole father won.
I chose the Twinkies.
And that’s how I ended up here, barricaded in a gender-friendly bathroom and praying for the girls’ bedtime to roll around sooner rather than later. Remembering I still hadn’t laid waste to my Twinkies, I grabbed the box and tore it open. Ten individually wrapped pieces of heaven called my name. For maximum effect, I tore open the plastic on the first spongy cream-filled cake with my teeth and shoved the whole thing into my mouth. Instantly my jaws tingled from the goodness and as the sugar hit my system, I groaned with pleasure.
Heads up, people. This was the shit that happened when parents deprived their offspring of sweets. Their children grew into adults with Twinkie issues. Had my dad just allowed a sampling of sweets once in a while, maybe I wouldn’t be sitting on this nasty-ass floor with cream filling smudged on my lips, all while attempting to ward off a bunch of teeny-boppers in training bras.
“Bodhi! Bodhi!”
Damn. Kids this age never tired. What were these girls doing out so late anyway, and why were they stocking up on cookies and candy? It was half past midnight, for god’s sake! Shouldn’t they be all tucked in bed wrapped up in their favorite Bodhi Beckett blankets? Why didn’t they have parents who enforced the no Twinkie rule? How was that fair to me?
The phone chirped again. My father’s ringtone. Shit. That was quick. I wondered who’d tipped him off to my freedom flight. Probably the guard who I’d tricked into leaving his post with a pornographic video of my Barbie doll taking it up the butt by Buzz Lightyear. He’d laughed hysterically while I slipped out the back door to summon the Uber. Oh shit! The Uber. I wondered if he was still waiting for me. How committed was he to my cause?
