Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88218 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88218 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
We only had to get through a few more VIP appearances, and then we were out of there in time for our label to announce Eleven was over.
“What’ll it be for our send-off?” I asked. “Party? Club?”
“I’m out,” Ryder said. “Gotta get home to Kaylee.”
If Ryder had been anti-partying before, that was nothing compared to when he became a dad.
“Won’t she be asleep? She’s a baby,” I argued.
“She’s three, dude.”
“Since when?” How had the last three years gone that quickly?
“Since you didn’t come to her birthday party two months ago?”
Oops. Kids and I were not a great mix.
When you get engaged at nineteen with plans to immediately have a big family and love and happiness, it kind of puts a sour taste in your mouth when you find out your future wife was in it for the fame.
The Eleven fandom killed her budding career when they found out she cheated on me. Especially when they found out it was with a One Directioner.
Oh, the blasphemy!
That’s what the tabloids said, anyway. It was all alleged. I might not have known for sure if she fucked a 1D guy, but I did know I walked in on her in my house with some random producer who’d promised to cut her album seeing as my label refused to sign her because she couldn’t sing. Even me asking for a favor didn’t get her a deal with them.
After that, I said fuck relationships. Fuck marriage. And fuck having kids. That ties your life to someone else forever, and after that kind of heartbreak, I wasn’t looking for more.
Temporary and casual. That had been my motto since she who shall not be named moved out.
“All right, Ryder’s a no,” I said. “What about Harley?”
“Harley’s probably going to go home and record his first solo. We all know he’s been planning this for months,” Blake said.
“Okay, so it’s us three.”
Blake shook his head. “Nah, I’d rather not be out when all the shit goes down. Plus, what am I supposed to do now? I need to make a plan.”
“A plan? You keep recording. It’s what we do. It’s what we love.”
Blake ran a hand through his blond hair. “You guys maybe. I get the feeling this is the end of music for me.”
“Damn, brother. That’s heavy,” I said.
He moved toward the bathroom. “I’m gonna kick Harley out of there. I need … I need to not be in here.”
I turned to Denver. “You and me, then. What do you say to bottle service at … wait, what city are we in?”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather go back to the hotel and chill.”
I slumped. “You all are no fun in your old age.”
Denver grinned. “I’m only twenty-two.”
“And you’ve been in this industry for seven years already. In Hollywood years, you’re at least forty.”
“Oh, so your age?” he quipped.
I jabbed him in the ribs. “You’re a funny fucker, aren’t ya?”
“You’re welcome to join me,” Denver said. “But I’m out. I don’t feel like being on. Don’t you want to be the real Mason?”
“That’s the whole point of ending this, remember? But it’s our last night.”
Denver reached for a bottle of whiskey. “I think we’ve all been checked out a while, though.”
“Fine. We’ll chill in your hotel room.”
It was always better with just me and Denver anyway. I loved the other guys, but Denver and I had something real. It wasn’t a manufactured by proximity friendship.
I thought we’d all at least be together when the announcement of our end would come out, but after smiling for fans and being vague about our next nonexistent album, it was me and Denver, more whiskey, and Netflix on his hotel suite couch.
The notifications started pouring in a short time later.
“Here we go.” I looked at my phone.
“I turned mine off.” Denver was on the couch next to me, glass in hand, his shirt unbuttoned with a mess of loose curls falling into his eyes.
Then I noticed how utterly exhausted he looked.
Denver had a baby face, so it was like he couldn’t seem to ever age, but in that moment, he looked almost thirty. It was the first time I’d really seen him haggard, and after countless nine-month-long sold-out tours, I’d seen him at his worst.
“Hey, are you okay?”
He sipped his drink and looked contemplative. Over the years, I’d seen Denver in many different stages of drunk. From happy to sloppy and everything in between. He’d done it all.
This moment was his philosophical what is life? phase.
“I’ll be fine,” he said dismissively. “It’s just surreal at the moment.”
“But exciting. We get to do our own thing. Aren’t you ready for it?”
“I am, but …” He bit his lip. “I’m … scared.”
I loved that he wasn’t afraid to admit the emotional stuff to me. If I could help him, I would, and when he confided in me often, it made me feel needed. “What are you scared of?”