Which is bullshit because Brix isn’t even my target demographic. Twenty-something females? Sure. The queer community? Definitely. Hardass ex-military tough guys who look like they could break a person in half with their bare hands? Not so much.
“You shouldn’t be offended,” Brix says.
“I’m not.” Okay, that came out defensively.
“When you first became famous, I was doing my first tour overseas. Music was the last thing on my mind. Not dying was the first.”
Wow. Perspective.
“When did you get out of the military? Let me guess. You were a Marine.” For some reason, he screams Marine.
“Army. Wanted to become a Ranger.”
“What happened?”
“Enlisted right after high school and did six years. I was about to be promoted to staff sergeant, was almost ready mentally and physically to apply for Ranger School, and then …” He pauses as if stuck in a memory. “Then I got offered a job at Mike Bravo, so I didn’t re-up. But my point is, after six years in the army and another four working for Trav, my whole life has centered around that. My pop culture references are all from when I was a teenager.”
I can’t hold back the jab. “And the Beatles were from when you were a teenager?”
Brix laughs. “Fuck off.”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to say that to your boss.”
“Are you my boss, or is Gideon my boss?”
“I pay you. That means I’m your boss.”
“But can you fire me without going through Gideon first?”
I hesitate because I don’t know. Sure, if I was adamant and told Gideon he had to get rid of Brix, he’d do it, but I’d have to be firm and give an appropriate reason. Saying “because he told me to fuck off” would get laughed at.
“You don’t know for sure, do you?” Brix taunts.
“I can’t decide if I hate you more now or when you tackled me yesterday.”
“I’m gonna go with yesterday. Because now you feel sorry for me. How am I supposed to get my protein intake?”
“If you don’t hit your daily limit, do your biceps deflate like a balloon overnight?”
“That’s exactly how it works.”
I hold up my phone. “Mind if I get things done the famous-person way now?”
“By all means.”
One traffic jam and an hour later, we pull into my driveway to find my assistant unloading bags of liquid egg whites from her trunk.
“I think I might like the famous way better,” Brix says.
“Yeah, well, don’t become accustomed to this lifestyle or you’ll never want to leave.”
Brix laughs. “Oh, there’s no danger of that ever happening. I may have to do my own grocery shopping in my real life, but at least I get to blow shit up.”
“Okay, seriously. What kind of ‘security firm’ does Gideon’s cousin run?”
I’m met with more laughter.
Chapter Six
Brix
This job is the easiest money I’ve ever made. I may have underestimated the kind of fandom that follows Harley around, but with him about to cut a new album, his time has been spent at home either writing, doing vocal exercises with his coach, or working out with his personal trainer.
I’ve vetted each and every one of his entourage even though Gideon would have already done the same, but I know how to dig deeper than basic background checks.
Take Harley’s trainer, Cooper, for instance. The biggest crime in his life is his porn subscriptions. Every time he walks into the house, I have to bite back the urge to tell him he can do better than the cheap, amateur stuff he pays for. Especially when you can find that amateur crap for free.
Words of advice: never skimp on good porn. It’s what gets you through long and lonely months.
While snooping around on the internet, I might have discovered a very interesting fan theory out there about Harley.
Rumor has it, before he was engaged to Evah, he was involved with a guy named Jay from some band called Radioactive. I’ve never heard of them, but as we’ve already established, I’ve lived under a rock for ten years.
The song “Confusion,” a song they wrote together, is totally a breakup song if I’ve ever heard one. I also remember Harley saying the love of his life left him while on tour, and Eleven and Radioactive did two world tours together.
I’ve fallen down an internet rabbit hole of Eleven fandom, and I’ve barely come up for air in a week.
Today’s string of sites went from the Radioactive fan website where videos of the band from concerts all over the world are posted, to clicking a link a fan shared where it was a video of Harley and this Jay guy singing a duet of “Tennessee Whiskey,” to finding more links to more fan blogs where there are photos of Harley and Jay eyeing each other or being in the background during interviews. Always together. Always giving each other knowing smirks.
Apparently.
I dunno. All I see is two musicians in the same space as one another. It’s not really a coincidence or breaking news considering Radioactive was Eleven’s opening act for two years.
People see what they want to, which is probably why I’ve been scouring the internet trying to figure out what’s truth and what’s complete bullshit.
There’s only speculation in the media about Harley’s sexuality, but there is an endless supply of die-hard fans who are certain Harley’s gay. Or bi or pan.
With him and Evah not sharing a bed, I have to assume it’s the former.
Or maybe I’m reading into it because I want to believe it.
Harley’s playing with the melody of a song he’s trying to write on his piano right now. I watch him as if his face holds all the answers. As if the scrunch of his brow can tell me something.
He lets out a frustrated “Gah” and bangs his head on the keys, making an awful clanging noise. “I give up.”
“Maybe try a different song?”
He lifts his head and glares.
I keep my mouth shut and go back to my phone where there’s a photo of Harley and Jay smiling at each other onstage.
If it is true, his ex is gorgeous. Just like him.
There’s only one thing holding me back from putting it in the truth column, and that’s why it’s a secret.
It’s not like there haven’t been gay musicians before—there have been countless. Some of them legends. Granted, back when Freddie Mercury came out, times were not great for acceptance, but it’s different now.
I don’t understand why Harley wouldn’t come out or confirm the rumors that he’s bi.
My gaze flits between what I’m seeing on my screen and the Harley in front of me.
A balled-up piece of paper hits my head from Harley’s direction. It seems he’s picked up a new favorite hobby: taking out his writing frustrations on me. His aim is getting better, I’ll give him that. I’ll have to start swatting them away soon.
“You’re staring at me again,” he complains. “You know, we’re inside the house. I don’t think you have to be this close to me all the time. Take a break. Go make sure no one’s lurking in the backyard. Or I dunno … just stop looking at me like that.”