Code Red by N.R. Walker

Chapter Fourteen

Hardwick stared at me.

“Hypothetically,” I repeated. “If a personal friend of mine was having some anxiety issues.”

“I can’t offer medical advice—”

“If they were having trouble breathing sometimes, hypothetically,” I added, speaking over him. “Is there some information I should know? Perhaps maybe something online I could read?”

He pursed his lips. “That would be a good start.”

I swallowed hard. We were treading a fine line here and I needed him to know how sincere I was. “I care about this person,” I admitted quietly. “A lot. And I worry about them.”

He nodded slowly, still not saying anything.

“I spend a lot of time with them and need to know what I should do if they have a panic attack when they’re with me. Hypothetically, of course.”

He still didn’t look like he was going to speak any time soon.

“Do I just sit with them, help them breathe, that kind of thing?”

Hardwick sighed quietly. “Reading some credible medical websites would be helpful, but yes, what you suggested is a good starting point.”

I nodded. “It’s hard because they don’t want anyone else to know. This hypothetical person. But asking them to reduce stress and not to argue with their boss is like pissing in the wind.”

Hardwick almost smiled. “Reducing stress and not arguing about anything would be recommended.”

Okay, so that’s about all I could say and about all he could answer. But now he knew. He knew that I knew, and he knew we were on the same page.

Hypothetically.

The cabin crew came through and noticed my empty seat. “You better go take your seat,” Hardwick said.

I gave the crew member a nod and stood up. We were taxiing out to the runway so the look she gave me was polite but curt. “Thank you, sir. I’ll need you to take your seat immediately.”

I turned back to Hardwick. “Thanks.”

He smiled and put his earbuds back in, and I went back to my seat. I searched up some medical websites and began to read.

Sao Paulo,Brazil, passed in a blur. The concert, the day of sightseeing, the media, the photos, the fans . . . it was over in a blink, and before we knew it, we were heading back to the States.

We had a sold-out show in Atlanta and then Nashville, intense rehearsals, stage checks, tightened security, screaming fans outside the hotel at all hours, a late show television interview, and a day doing an unplugged session at the Grand Old Opry, which would be released later in the year.

It was crazy.

But we stuck with Ambrose’s instructions: me with Wes and Jeremy, Maddox with Ryan. The trade-off was Maddox and I still shared a hotel room, and once that door was shut, the only two people in the world who mattered were us. We made love, we snuggled in bed, we showered together, we watched TV. We still ate breakfast and dinners together with everyone else, but any time we were in a common room or a dressing room, he basically stuck to me.

The concerts were flawless, the reviews were all outstanding. The TV interview was fun, and like they always were, the boys were fun and charming. Maddox was at the back, Jeremy did the most talking, and while they were all involved and joked and laughed, Maddox barely said two things.

Seeing him now, not wanting to be in the spotlight or the main focus all the time, hit me different knowing he was dealing with anxiety. I realized now, him asking to change the interview format so he wasn’t the center of attention was a sign I should have seen. And it was also incredibly brave of him to ask.

I was watching his every breath, waiting for that panicked glazed look in his eyes or for him to become breathless or pull at his collar.

But he didn’t. He didn’t seem to smile as much, though, and I often saw Doctor Hardwick lurking in the background, watching.

Washington DC and Philly passed in a blink, and then Chicago and Detroit. All concerts were sold out, media hype was huge, with fans lining up from before dawn the morning of the concert. Merch stalls were crowded. Fans cheered and sang loud enough that we could hear them in the dressing rooms.

By Detroit, Blake had his knee iced and taped every day, Wes had his shoulder taped up, and Maddox had to use the throat spray. “My throat’s scratchy,” he’d said, swallowing a few times. He’d tried drinking ice water, hot lemon water, but nothing worked. The doc gave a few squirts of the anti-inflammatory forte stuff and he got through the concert.

But when they came off the stage . . .

All five of them were on the floor in the dressing room, sweaty and exhausted. Blake had his knee up and iced, Julio was working on Wes’s shoulder . . . and Maddox could barely speak.

The next morning, he couldn’t speak at all.

His voice was nothing but a hoarse, abrasive bark. He sat on the couch in the common room while everyone else ate their breakfast, miserably sipping honey tea, hoodie pulled up, leaning heavily against me, and I had my arm around him.

This was probably our first public display of affection in front of everyone. But it wasn’t cute or romantic. Maddox was miserable.

Hardwick worked around him, checking his throat and ears, taking his temperature, his blood pressure, all while Maddox never moved. He stayed against me the whole time. “Fever, pharyngitis, and laryngitis. Your throat looks like the Eye of Mordor,” he mumbled. Maddox nodded because he’d expected as much. “It’s been sore for a few days, hasn’t it?”

Maddox nodded again.

Goddammit.

“Maddox,” I whispered. “You should have said something.”

The doc patted Maddox’s knee, stood up, and tossed the little plastic cover from the thermometer. Everyone waited for his verdict . . .

“Next rehearsal?” he asked.

“Four days,” I answered. “Toronto concert is five days.”

Hardwick frowned. “Absolute voice rest for four days. Silence. No singing, no talking, no whispering. Tylenol, corticosteroids, vitamin C, fluids, bed rest when you can. Steamy bathrooms will help your respiratory. Flying today won’t help, but we can’t do much about that.”

“Will he be able to sing in Toronto?” Jeremy asked, concerned.

“We won’t know for two or three days,” the doc replied. “Everyone needs to wear a mask in communal areas, on the plane, in a car. Sitting here. Roscoe, you especially. He’s not contagious right now, but that could change. I’ll just go grab my bag and I’ll be back.”

Jeremy leaned in from a distance and patted Maddox’s shoulder. “On the bright side, we get four days silence from Maddox! Roscoe, you gotta be relieved.”

He was joking, clearly, but Maddox pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to Jeremy, which I could read.

Fuck you

Jeremy’s phone pinged. He read the screen and laughed, but then he crouched down to be on eye level with him. “Want more tea? Or a Sprite? Mom used to always give me flat Sprite when I was sick. I can get you some.”

Maddox shook his head but he still didn’t move from his spot. I felt his forehead, which was still clammy, like it was both hot and cold at the same time. Poor thing. I gave him a squeeze and he sagged against me, his head on my chest.

Jeremy took Maddox’s cup of tea before it could spill, and stood up. “Aaaaand he’s out.”

“Is he asleep?” I whispered.

Jeremy nodded. “He looks terrible,” Blake mumbled. “I mean, terrible for him. He still looks better than any of us.”

Luke came over and inspected Maddox’s face. “We could shave his eyebrow. Just one.”

“He’d kill you,” Jeremy said. “But we could totally draw a dick on his face.”

“No one’s touching him,” I growled, tightening my arm around him.

Wes sighed. “Oh, Roscoe. Don’t be such a party-pooper.”

Hardwick and Ambrose came walking in together. The doc had his bag with him. Ambrose had an iPad, a look of concern on his face, and two assistants on his heel. “He’s on total vocal rest for four days,” Hardwick explained. “We’ll see how he’s feeling before rehearsals.”

Jeremy and Blake both put their fingers to their lips at the same time. “Shh. He’s asleep,” Jeremy whispered.

The doctor knelt in front of Maddox and pulled his hood back. “Some Tylenol should help with his fever. Maddox, wake up for me.” He gave his shoulder a bit of a shake.

Maddox stirred but put his head back on me, so I shuffled him to a seated position. “Hey, baby, you need to take some medicine.”

Maddox opened his eyes, barely, and gave me a filthy glare. The guys all laughed so he shot them the same look, and when the doctor held up a paper cup of pills, Maddox bestowed the same look on him.

“You want to go to the hospital to have these administered?” Hardwick said, no nonsense.

Maddox pouted, rather cutely, and took the cup. The guys all laughed again and Maddox summoned the energy to give them a middle finger. Hardwick handed over a bottle of water but looked at me. “He needs to stay hydrated.” Then, he stood up and turned to Wes, Luke, Blake, and Jeremy, holding up a bottle of pills. “All of you, vitamin C and zinc. Now.”

While they all whined and carried on, Ambrose stood watching Maddox and me. Maddox was leaning on me again, his feet tucked up underneath him, his head on my shoulder, my arm around him. He looked small and he was still miserable, and if Ambrose didn’t like that he was laying all over me, I did not care.

“Will he be all right to fly?” Ambrose asked quietly.

I nodded. “Of course.” I was going to add that he’d never let anyone down yet but decided to keep that to myself. “I’ll sit with him on the plane. He shouldn’t be with the band in case he becomes contagious.”

“It’s not likely to be,” the doc said. “Unless his throat becomes infected, then yes, he’ll need to be isolated. It’s better to be safe than sorry though.” He looked at Ambrose. “Whatever you have planned in Toronto for the next three days won’t include Maddox.”

Maddox lifted his head and groaned his dissent. It was more of a croaky whine. They were supposed to be doing a morning TV show interview and song in Toronto.

“Complete vocal rest means no groaning,” Hardwick said, pointing a hard glare at Maddox.

Wes laughed. “No groaning? Well, shit, no sex either. Roscoe—”

Jeremy shoved him, and I pretended not to notice Ambrose’s reaction. Meanwhile Maddox found his phone and sent a quick text. Wes’s phone beeped and he read the message and laughed some more. “Maddox, oh my. That’s very explicit. I’m telling your mom you used that word.”

Maddox began texting something else and I took his phone. “Pills now. Tell him to fuck off later.”

Thankfully Amber intervened. “Guys, go finish packing. We’re leaving here in one hour. And Blake, you’re supposed to be resting that knee. At least you’re wearing the brace.” Then she gave Maddox a sad smile. “I’ll get you some vitamin water. There was some in the vending machine.”

Maddox nodded and reluctantly took his pills, grimacing as he swallowed them. He frowned at me, the most pitifully sad face. He clearly didn’t handle being sick very well at all.

“You’ll feel better soon,” I said gently. “How about you lie in bed while I pack up our room?”

He nodded again and I helped him to his feet, but he was quick to grab ahold of me. I took his arm and led him toward the door. “Text me if you need anything,” I said to Ryan. “And thanks, Doc.”

Amber caught us in the hall. She handed me the vitamin water. “Thank you so much,” I said. “Let me know if you need me or if anything changes.”

“Will do.”

I finally got Maddox back into bed and he let out a low groan. “You’re not supposed to make any noises,” I said, sitting beside him and brushing his hair off his forehead. “The Tylenol will kick in soon and bring your temperature down. Close your eyes and rest, baby.”

He smiled, kind of. Then he signaled with his hands that he wanted to write something. I grabbed the hotel notepad and pen.

Thank you.

“You’re welcome,” I replied.

He scribbled something else. Never had anyone to look after me before.

I leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Well, now you do.”

He smiled, and his blink was slow. I took the notepad and wrote something down for him.

I love you.

He read it and smiled, but he hugged the notepad to his chest and closed his eyes.

The flightto Toronto was short, thankfully. Maddox’s temperature had come down, and as soon as we got to the hotel, Hardwick knocked on our door to give him more meds. It was only Tylenol and whatever that steroid was, but he was looking a little brighter. Still tired though, and he was happy to lie in bed and watch TV or doze off to music.

And I’d be lying if three days in isolation with Maddox was a bad thing. Even if he was sick. I fed him honey and lemon tea and made sure he drank lots of water. On the second day, he wanted a bowl of mashed potatoes and more vitamin water, and on the third day, he wanted KFC mashed potatoes and gravy, fries, and nuggets. For breakfast.

He was clearly feeling much better.

He still hadn’t used his voice, and we found writing notes to each other was a lot of fun and flirty. Or just downright dirty.

He handed me his notepad and I read his scrawl. Blowjob?

I quickly wrote out my reply. Not good for your throat.

Good for yours.

I laughed. “Think you can get through it without groaning? Or whimpering?”

Nodding, he pulled the front of his sweatpants down and gripped his half-hard dick. He stroked himself nice and slow.

Damn.

When I didn’t move fast enough, apparently, he pushed me down on the bed, straddled my chest and tapped my lips with the head of his cock. Oh hell, yes. I flattened my tongue and opened wide, and he leaned forward, slipping into my mouth.

The only sound he made was a low growl that rumbled low in his chest as he came. I finished him off, without mercy, and left him a boneless, sated, and sleepy lump in bed.

I went in search of Amber and Ryan, asking if there was anything I needed to do to help, but not before I left a message in Maddox’s notepad. I love all of you, Mr. Kershaw.

On the third morning,the boys did the morning show interview without him. They had to leave the hotel at 6:00 am, and Maddox wanted to see them off. It was the first time he’d seen them since we arrived in Canada. He wore his black hoodie, gray sweats and socks, and a face mask, which did little to hide how hard he found it to watch them get ready without him.

“You sure you’re okay?” Jeremy asked.

Maddox nodded, barely. He took out his notepad. I should be going with you.

Jeremy gave him a sad face. “How are you feeling?”

Maddox shrugged.

Jeremy gave him a hug. “We need you better for tomorrow and the day after. Don’t worry about this interview. We got you.”

Luke joined in on the hug, then Blake and Wes, and it made my heart full to see it. They’d missed him, and seeing him now, I realized just how much he’d missed them. When they let him go, he wrote in his notepad for them. Don’t have too much fun without me.

Wes took his notepad and drew a huge dick on it with a smiley face. Maddox chuckled, reached into his hoodie, and pulled out his middle finger.

And then it was time for us to go.

Yes, I’d be leaving Maddox at the hotel. Doctor Hardwick was staying, other staff were around, and even some security would stay behind. If Maddox needed anything, anything at all, all he had to do was text. The boys doing a media event in the city was a priority, and so it was all managers on deck. Which was fine, it was my job, but it didn’t make leaving Maddox any easier.

“You sure you’re okay?” I asked, both hands on the sides of his neck. We were in the common room but I didn’t care.

He nodded.

“You text me if you need me,” I whispered. “We’ll be right back, okay?”

Once upon a time, Maddox having alone time was the norm. Now he looked a little panicked at the thought.

“Get some rest,” I murmured, then pulled him in for a hug and whispered in his ear so only he could hear. “If the doc gives you the all-clear, I’m working you over tonight.”

I left him smiling and joined the others on our way to the waiting vans. It felt odd to leave him.

“Feels wrong,” Jeremy said. “To leave him.”

Wes nodded. “Not having the five of us. Feels weird.”

It pulled at my heartstrings, though I tried to smile. “Was just thinking that.”

The interview went well. Of course, the big news was that Maddox wasn’t there. “He’s on voice rest before the concert,” Blake had said. The interviewers were excited because this was news, and they got to ask a line of questions that would no doubt be replayed all over the internet, and it was good for ratings.

Kinda pissed me off, to be honest.

But the boys handled it like pros. They made a few jokes about how nice it was that Maddox wasn’t allowed to speak, and it was the quietest he’d ever been in his life, and how they didn’t have to hear his lame jokes, and the interviewers laughed. The guys all looked at the camera then, told Maddox they loved him, and they quickly moved on talking about the tour and the album.

And then it was time to perform.

Without Maddox.

“So we’re gonna do things a little differently today,” Jeremy said into a mic as they took their seats. Four stools stood in front of a guitarist and a pianist, microphones in the front. “We were going to do our normal performance for this song but it didn’t look right with it just being the four of us.” He looked at the camera. “Maddox, I know you’re watching, brother.”

And then they did a totally stripped-down version of “Fly.”

They each took turns singing Maddox’s lines. It was beautiful and it hit so different when it was slowed right down and sung like that.

I knew it would have broken Maddox’s heart. His guilt at not being there, his guilt at letting the boys down, at letting his fans down. I could just imagine him lying in bed, the covers all pulled up over his head, feeling like utter shit.

I really wanted to get back to him. Like right now.

I took out my phone and shot him a text. You okay?

No reply.

Fuck.

I sent another one. Maddox baby, you okay?

His text bubble came up on screen and my relief was immediate. But then the bubble disappeared, reappeared, and disappeared again before his reply came through. Sure.

Sure. Hmm, right. I was one hundred percent certain he was not okay. I wanted to call him so he could hear my voice, but I was in a studio standing a few feet from the camera crew filming the band sing. I sent another text instead. Will be home soon. Will bring KFC.

His reply took a while to come through. Thx. ILY.

I love you too. All of you.

“Everything okay?” Amber mouthed to me.

I shrugged and she frowned, but the song ended and the producer called for commercial break. The guys went and thanked the hosts, said a round of goodbyes, and security ushered us into our vans. The crowd was big and closing in, screaming and yelling, cameras trained on our every step, and the silence when the doors closed was a relief.

There was no way we could go through a fast-food drive thru. “Maddox wanted KFC. I told him I’d get him some. Anyone else?” I asked Jeremy and Wes. And after a call to the other van, I put in a call to have our orders delivered to the hotel.

“How is he?” Jeremy asked. “Really?”

I met his eyes. “He’s okay. Apart from the feelings of failure and guilt for letting you guys down. If the doctor says he can’t perform . . . then I don’t know what he’ll do.”

Jeremy nodded slowly. “He’ll perform anyway.”

“And risk permanent larynx damage,” Wes added.

I sighed. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

He had to be.

He just had to be.

Maddox ate his mashed potatoes,half a chicken nugget, and a few fries while the others ate and chatted. He didn’t grimace when he swallowed, though, so I guessed his throat felt okay . . . but his smile was gone. He didn’t speak—not that he was supposed to—but his silence was somehow louder now than it had ever been.

We had a few minutes before Hardwick wanted to see Maddox, but I needed to talk to him first. I tapped my watch and he nodded, so I stood up, mumbled our excuses, and we went back to our room.

I pulled out two chairs at the table, sat in one, and waited for him to sit in the other. I scooted closer until our knees bumped and I took his hands. “I know you must be feeling like crap,” I said. “I just want you to know that it’s okay to feel that way.” He opened his mouth but I put my hand up. “No talking.”

Maddox sighed.

“Baby, I know watching them play without you must have been hard.”

He sucked on his bottom lip and he got a little teary.

“You wanna know what Jeremy said in the car? That it felt wrong without you. That something was missing. They didn’t want to perform without you.”

He tilted his head, anguished. “It was the first time,” he whispered.

“Hey, no talking.”

He shook his head; his voice was a little rough. “The band played without me.”

I cupped his cheek. “No, baby.”

“But it means they can. If they had to. Atrous would be okay.”

What the hell?

“Maddox, what are you saying?”

“All these years it was us five. We couldn’t be anything but five. We always said if one of us—” He swallowed hard. “If one of us couldn’t, or wouldn’t or didn’t want to . . .”

“Baby.”

“They’d be okay.” He let out a shaky breath. His chin wobbled. “I don’t know how long I can keep doing this, Roscoe. I don’t know how much I have in me. I’m so tired. I’m so fucking tired. But then I can’t be anything else. This is all I am. I don’t know who I am without this, without them. I don’t even know who I am with this.”

I held his face and kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his lips. “Oh, Maddox.”

“They could be Atrous without me.”

I shook my head because, no, I didn’t think they could be. But that was the problem. The whole band’s existence, the lives and professions of his four best friends was on Maddox’s shoulders. That responsibility, that pressure was what weighed him down.

He let out another shaky breath, then inhaled sharply, and again, and again. His breathing became jagged and shallow, and he put the heel of his hand to his sternum and he shook his head.

I cupped his face and made him look at me. “Breathe, Maddox. In.” I inhaled. “And out.”

So I breathed with him, slow and steady, in and out, until the fear in his eyes subsided.

Then there was a knock at the door. “It’s Doctor Hardwick.”

Goddammit.

I let out an almighty sigh, then looked up into Maddox’s eyes. “You up for this?”

He practiced his breathing, in and out, nice and slow, and nodded. I stood up, kissed him softly, and opened the door. As soon as the doc walked in, he could clearly tell something was up.

“Everything okay?”

Maddox nodded. “Yeah.”

“You’re not supposed to be talking.”

“First time just now. In three days.”

“That’s true, doc,” I said. “He hasn’t said a word in three days until just now.”

“How does your throat feel?”

“Better. The spray and the lozenges help.”

“Good.”

I put my hand on Maddox’s shoulder. “Want me to duck out for a bit?”

He shook his head. “Please stay.”

I sat on the bed while the doctor checked Maddox’s throat, looked in his ears, took his temperature. He was happy with his recovery. “Dance rehearsal this afternoon should be fine. Take it easy, though. And I want you to run through some light voice work this evening. Full stage rehearsal tomorrow should be okay, but don’t overdo it. No straining, no high notes. Okay?”

Maddox smiled. “Okay.”

I thought Hardwick might have been done or made some small talk before leaving, but he didn’t. He pulled out the chair next to Maddox and sat down. “You seemed a little stressed when I first came in.”

Maddox shook his head. “Nah. I’m fine. I’ll be better once I get back to work.”

“How are you feeling about the concert in two days?”

“Looking forward to it.”

“Being worried about your voice is no different than a pro football player worrying about their first game after an arm or a leg injury.”

“I’m not worried about being on stage, doc. Roscoe and I were just talking about—” Then he changed tack. “Actually, can you please tell him I now have the green light for a lot of sex?”

I barked out a laugh. “That is not what we were talking about!”

Hardwick’s smile ended with a sigh. “How many more concerts to go?”

I answered. “Five.”

The doc looked squarely at Maddox. “Okay. Five is doable. How’s the breathing?”

Breathing . . . because calling it what it was—anxiety, panic attacks, stress—was apparently off limits.

Maddox gave a small dismissive nod. “It’s fine.”

I raised my eyebrow, which Hardwick caught. He pursed his lips. “Maddox.”

“Roscoe helps me,” he said quickly. “If I can’t catch my breath.”

“And if Roscoe’s not around?” Hardwick asked gently. He had his hand on Maddox’s knee. “Maddox, it’s okay. You know what to do when you start to feel like you can’t get enough air. You can do it on your own if you have to.”

Maddox looked like he was about to protest, but the doc put his hand up. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but we are going to talk about it and we’re going to set up some appointments. After this tour. When we get back to LA. No more excuses.”

Maddox studied the table for a long second. “So, I wasn’t joking about the sex thing. It’s a go for launch, right? Because Roscoe is all about the rules. What the doctor says goes, so if you could just give him a nod, that’d be great. Or even if you don’t think it’s a good idea, if you could still just nod, I’d really appreciate that.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Christ, Maddox.”

The poor doc sighed and got to his feet. “You are medically fit to engage in whatever consensual activities you choose. As long as it’s not too strenuous. Oh, and no taking anything into the throat.”

Oh my god.

Maddox chuckled. “Believe me, it’s not going in my throat, doc.”

“Maddox! Jesus.” I couldn’t believe it.

“On that note, I shall leave you to it.” Hardwick picked up his bag just as there was a rather loud, obnoxious knock on the door.

“Hey, dickbag. Open the door.”

Maddox smiled. “Jeremy.”

“I’ll let him in, and I’ll go notify Ambrose that you’re good to go,” Hardwick said as he walked to the door, and two seconds later, Jeremy walked in.

“So, what’s the verdict?”

Maddox smiled. “He said the test results show, without doubt, that you’re the dickbag.”

Jeremy’s smile became a grin. “You can talk, which means you can sing?” Maddox nodded and Jeremy pulled him into a bear hug, his feet off the ground. “Thank fuck.”

Maddox laughed. I swear it made my heart squeeze to see him happy. “He has to take it easy today at dance rehearsal,” I said. “No pushing himself.”

Jeremy put his arm around Maddox’s shoulder. “Your dad is such a drag.”

Maddox shoved him, smiling. “Fuck you.”

“No thanks. We’ve been through this, Madz,” Jeremy joked. “I don’t swing that way.”

Maddox grabbed him by the back of the neck and they play-shoved for a bit, but Jeremy was soon pulling him to the door. “Come on, the boys are out there waiting to hear.”

Maddox spared me a glance over his shoulder as Jeremy led him out, but I already had my laptop in hand and was following them out. I had a lot of work to do, already feeling bad that Ryan and Amber had carried more than their share of our workload.

I followed Maddox and Jeremy into the common room and made my way over to the table where Ryan and Amber were sitting. They saw Maddox, saw how happy Jeremy was, and quickly deduced that he’d been given the all-clear to perform.

“Oh god, that’s a relief,” Amber said, giving me a warm smile. “I mean, I’m glad he’s okay, but the whole Plan B thing was getting a little daunting.”

I opened my laptop. “Plan B?”

“Yeah, what to do if he was out for this concert, for the rest of the tour,” Ryan answered, then he shrugged. “His position affects everyone: center choreography, main vocals.”

I tried to keep my expression neutral, but it wasn’t easy. “Yeah, I get it. But the boys did really well without him today. Changing the song to suit the circumstance was smart.”

My morning with Maddox replayed through my mind. Him wondering how long he could do this, how long he wanted to. The pressure put on him to stay, the people he’d disappoint if he didn’t. His anxiety about it all.

I considered my wording carefully. “I gotta say, maybe we should use this as a learning curve for what happens when one of them is ruled out. Not if. But when. I mean, it’s bound to happen, right? It’s going to happen. Knees, shoulders, voices, stress.” I shrugged, trying not to give too much away. “I think we need to consider putting contingency plans on the table after this tour. We just expect them to bounce back, to endure it. It’s not just Maddox. Wes and Blake are held together by athletic tape right now.”

Ryan nodded. “I agree. But you know how Platinum is,” he said, keeping his voice low. He rolled his eyes and mimicked Arlo Kim. “Gotta make hay while the sun shines.”

“Yeah well, you can’t make hay if the horse pulling the plow can’t take another step,” I replied.

Amber never took her eyes off me, studying, scrutinizing in that way that made her very good at her job. “There’s something you’re not telling us.” She wasn’t mad or snide. If anything, she was concerned. “Is he okay?”

Fuck.

Of course she was asking about Maddox. I met her gaze. “Between us three,” I whispered, “I don’t think so. I mean, his throat is better . . . Ryan, you should know . . . and so help me god, do not repeat this to anyone. Don’t let him know that you know. I’m only telling you because he’s supposed to ride with you now, but he’s been experiencing some . . . breathing issues.”

They both stared. I didn’t like doing this behind Maddox’s back, but if Ryan was to be spending time alone with him, he should know. This wasn’t a boyfriend thing; this was a professional responsibility thing.

I looked over to where the boys were still talking, laughing, not paying us any attention at all. I turned back to Ryan. “It’s like he can’t get a full breath, so he just needs you to breathe with him, nice and slow, hold his hand, stay with him and stay calm, and it should pass.”

Amber stared. “You’re talking about panic attacks.”

I met her gaze. I didn’t deny or confirm it. I didn’t have to.

“Holy shit,” Ryan murmured. Then he shook his head. “You know what? He should ride with you. Honestly. Fuck Ambrose’s bullshit rule. And it’s not just because I don’t want to deal with this; it’s because when he’s with me, he spends the whole time looking for you. He’s relaxed when he’s with you. Why add stress when we don’t have to?”

I made a face. “Ambrose was pretty clear.”

Amber leaned forward, her eyes narrowed. “But who is our first concern? Them?” She nodded toward the guys. “Or Ambrose?”

Well, Ambrose was technically our boss. But the truth was the five members of the band were our top priority. Always.

In the end, I nodded. “Okay. Thanks. But please, don’t say anything. He’d never forgive me if he knew I told you. He hasn’t even told the boys.”

“I’m assuming the doctor knows?” Amber asked.

“Yep.”

“And Ambrose?”

I grimaced. “Not exactly. He thinks it’s a blood pressure thing. Maddox doesn’t want him to know. He says it will put more pressure on the others, and that just makes him feel worse. But I have told Ambrose that Maddox shouldn’t be pushed right now.” I shrugged again. “He just thinks I said that so he wouldn’t separate us. Which isn’t his fault. Because he doesn’t know what’s going on, so how could he know?” I let out a long slow breath and admitted something I’d known for a while. “Maddox should tell him.”

They both agreed without saying it out loud. Their faces said enough.

“I think Hardwick wants him to see a therapist after the tour.” We had five concerts to go. And that felt doable. “Ten days. We just have to get through the next ten days.”

Dance practice went okay.Maddox was pissed at himself for missing a few steps, for being a bit out of sync. He was distracted and frustrated, and I had to remind him to take it easy.

He knew these dances. He knew the moves, every beat, every motion. He knew them.

“Stop overthinking it,” the choreographer told him before he made them start at the beginning.

“Stop overthinking it,” Maddox repeated sarcastically when we got back to the hotel. He was sweaty and tired, still frustrated. “Jeez. Why didn’t I think of that? Such an easy solution. Has he considered telling a diabetic to produce a little more insulin? Because if I could stop overthinking shit, I would.”

I rubbed his thigh. “How does your throat feel? Not sore at all?”

He looked annoyed at me for asking but he sighed. “It’s fine.”

I could tell he was tired and stressed. “Good. Because you’re supposed to do some light vocal sessions tonight, and I was thinking you could do some groaning and begging.”

A hint of a smile pulled at his lips. “Begging?”

I leaned in and whispered, my lips brushing his ear. “Yep. After a steaming hot shower, I’m going to rim you until you beg me to fuck you.”

His breath caught. “Fuck.”

“Yes, I intend to.”

He shifted in his seat and glanced around the common room. “You better not be teasing me.”

I laughed, not giving a shit who saw us, and tilted his chin toward me for a kiss. “It’s a promise, Mr. Kershaw.”

His dark eyes gleamed with desire. “You better deliver, Mr. Hall.”

And deliver, I did.

Was it an attempt to distract him, clear his mind so he thought of nothing else but what I was doing to his body? Yes. Was it an attempt to flood his body with endorphins, to make him feel good, to help him sleep? Yes. Was it hotter than hell, near perfect love-making? Did his body react to every touch, every kiss, did he writhe and moan, beg and groan when I gave him what he so desperately wanted? Also yes.

But I woke up to a noise at a bit after three in the morning to find Maddox out of bed. He was sitting on the sofa by the window, the blinds open, watching the city lights below. He had his guitar in his lap but he wasn’t playing it. His notepad sat beside him, open, pen at the ready.

“Baby,” I murmured, my voice croaking with sleep. “Whatcha doing?”

“Did I wake you? Sorry. I was trying to be quiet.”

I moaned and stretched my arm out to his side of the bed. “Come back to bed.”

“Can’t sleep.”

“What can I do to help?”

He smiled. “Nothing. You just being here is enough.” He lightly plucked the guitar string, coaxing the sweetest chords into the air. “This song is about you.”

“It is?”

He nodded and played another chord, ever so gently. “I always wondered what possessed Elton John to sing a song like ‘Your Song,’” he mused. “I think maybe now I know.” He turned in his seat and looked at me, the hint of a smile on his lips. “He could have given his man anything in the world, but somehow a song . . .” His words trailed off. “A song about you is easy. I could write a thousand. But a song for you? To put into words . . .”

I lifted the blankets on his side of the bed. “Come here, baby.”

He seemed to hesitate for a split second, but he put his guitar down and slid back into bed. I folded him up in my arms and rubbed his back. He nuzzled into my chest. “I love you, Maddox. ‘For every day I have lived, for every beat of my heart.’”

He froze, then pulled back to see my face. Even in the dark I could see his smile. “That’s one of our songs. Off our first album.”

I chuckled and pulled him back in to where it was warm. “What can I say, I’m a fan. Want me to sing it?”

“No, please don’t. I’ve heard you sing.”

So of course I did. “‘For every day I have lived . . .’”

He laughed and pinched my ass. “You’re butchering one of our songs. Pretty sure that’s a crime.”

“I’m not that bad.”

He chuckled quietly and I could feel him smile against my chest. “I was sixteen when I wrote that. I had no idea what love was. I thought I knew. I knew what I wanted it to be.”

“Was falling in love with me everything you wanted it to be?”

He squeezed me, snuggled in, and sighed. “And so much more. I don’t know how I survived before you.”

I kissed the side of his head. “I love you so much, Maddox.”

“Love you, too.”

“Get some sleep, baby.”

“‘I want to dream of you,’” he whispered. “‘Where the world can’t touch us, where time can’t betray me. Where your smile lives on forever. That’s where I’ll be.’”

It was one of their songs from their last album. I finished it for him. “‘Where love still lingers, I want to dream of you and me.’”

We’d just hadbreakfast and were getting organized for the full dress, full stage production rehearsal. It was a busy day. We were literally five minutes away from leaving, everyone was in good spirits . . . until Ambrose walked in for a quick briefing.

He gave us a bulleted rundown on all the usual particulars. What to expect at the stadium, what last minute minor details had been changed, what times we needed to be done.

“Unit teams are as follows,” he said. I knew it was coming . . . I just knew it. “Luke and Blake with Amber, Wes and Jeremy with Roscoe, Maddox with Ryan.”

Ryan and I both moved to object, but Ambrose declared the meeting over, turned on his heel, and walked out.

“I’ll go speak to him,” Ryan said.

I stopped him. “Don’t worry about it. He clearly saw the pictures from yesterday.”

Maddox and I had been photographed leaving the dance studio complex; the photos were everywhere. Us side by side, my hand on his back. And obviously Ambrose didn’t like us not following his rules.

“Are you sure?” Ryan asked.

I nodded. The truth was, Maddox could handle riding with Ryan just fine. What wouldn’t have gone down well was another reprimand or a caution or an official warning of breach of my employment contract. “I think it’s best if we just keep our heads down and get through the last five concerts.”

Ryan gave a nod, and although Maddox was pissed, he more or less agreed with me.

He just wanted this tour to be over.

The rehearsal went fine. Maddox’s throat and voice held up well, though he didn’t push it too hard. He rested when he should, he drank honey tea, lots of water, and took his pills like a good boy. He didn’t sleep much that night, and like the night before, I woke to find him writing in his notebook sometime after three. He was frowning at the paper, his knee bouncing, like his mind couldn’t settle.

He was tired the next morning, though of course he never complained. He was quiet though.

The Toronto concert went well, and Maddox’s voice was strong. Wes was rolling his shoulder, grimacing. Blake limped off the stage.

The Ottawa concert was much the same though everything was beginning to take a toll. It wasn’t unusual to find them asleep in the dressing room or barely able to keep their eyes open during hair and make-up.

The Montreal concert went off like a firecracker. The Olympic Stadium was packed with sixty-five thousand screaming fans, and it really felt like they were part of the show. They roared with each song, they danced and sang every word, and the guys left absolutely nothing behind on that stage. For over two hours, they gave every single thing they had.

When they came off after the last song, they were breathless, sweating, exhausted. Wes’s shoulder would need more PT, and Blake’s knee would likely need another injection, at the very minimum. Maddox’s throat was sore again, though not inflamed or swollen like it had been. Jeremy was sucking on an oxygen can and Luke was flat on the floor.

They were happy, yes. The concert had been great, the crowds were awesome, but there was no bounce in their steps as we left the stadium. There was no hyped-up excitement, no laughing as we bundled into the vans and drove back to the hotel.

Maddox didn’t sleep too well. He hadn’t slept well for over a week. Even after the concert, the hot shower, and a belly full of food. He was utterly exhausted but slept fitfully at best. I’d pulled him in for a hug, rubbing his back and holding him tight, and he sighed and leaned heavily into me.

“Two more concerts to go, baby,” I whispered. “Just two.”

Leaving Montreal for Boston, Hardwick put Maddox on another twenty-four-hour voice rest, which to be honest, I think he was thankful for. We spent the day traveling anyway, but Maddox was happy to pull his hoodie up, hunker down in his seat, and stare out the window.

Boston was always one of my favorite cities, but not even being back in the States helped Maddox’s state of mind too much.

We were almost at the finish line. We were so close we could almost see it, but I was beginning to wonder if we’d ever get there.

The Boston concert was at the Gillette Stadium, which felt impossibly large. We’d played in bigger, but for some reason it felt vast and never-ending. It felt like a chore. The rehearsals, even the actual concert. The crowds were amazing, the fans always were. Mostly. But god, I just wanted it all to be over.

Everyone was tired: the boys, the stage crew, the production crew, the make-up and wardrobe teams. The smiles and the energy from the beginning of the tour were long gone, as I knew they would be by now.

When we finally got to New York City, the guys wanted to do a thank you video to their fans. The tour was almost over and this would be their personalized send off. It was just an impromptu and candid thing, filmed on Luke’s phone set up on a tripod in front of them. They sat in the common room at the hotel, with Maddox, Jeremy, and Blake on a sofa, Luke and Wes sitting between their legs on the floor. “Hello!” They all waved at the camera.

“Maddox is back on voice rest,” Jeremy announced. Maddox waved again and managed half a smile. Jeremy took Maddox’s small notepad and held it up for the camera. “He’s supposed to write down what he wants to say, but it’s basically just rude words and obscene pictures.” Maddox snatched back his notepad and shoved Jeremy. He quickly scribbled something down and Jeremy gasped. “Mom! Maddox said a rude word!”

It was all in good fun, and they were joking and hilarious and charming, just like always. They thanked everyone for the amazing tour, and how they loved all the fans, and how the whole team behind the scenes had worked really hard, and how they were in New York City for the final show of the tour. It was short and sweet, but they wanted their fans to know how much they appreciated their support.

But when the interview was over, when they all got up from the couch, Maddox came straight over to me and into my arms. He was so tired, so over everything. I kissed the side of his head. “Wanna go to our room?” I asked. He nodded against my chest, so I took his hand and led him out.

I didn’t give it another thought. We ordered some room service and put some movie on the TV, Maddox strummed on his guitar for a bit, and I answered emails.

But then Jeremy called Maddox’s phone. He hit Answer but he still wasn’t supposed to be talking, so he put it on speaker.

“You’re on speaker,” I called out.

“Guys, you better come here. To the common room,” he said, his voice low. “Uh, now.”

Well, shit, that didn’t sound good at all . . .

So we went.

They’d uploaded the video onto their social media platforms, as was the plan, and sure enough, within an hour, they were trending.

The power they held, the driving force of their fans. It was pure madness.

But I hadn’t checked my phone, I hadn’t looked at social media. And there on the TV screen on the wall in the common room was a photo. Just a usual photo of Luke laughing, clearly taken just after the video they’d done, but there behind him . . . it was kinda blurry but distinguishable enough.

“I didn’t notice before I uploaded it,” Luke said, pale and horrified. “I’m so sorry.”

He’d taken some photos after the video had stopped filming. They’d all been mucking around with their phones. In the background of the photo was Maddox and me. My arms around him, his arms around me, his face against my neck, his eyes closed, my lips at his ear. It was a lover’s embrace, no doubt about it.

“We were gonna take down the photos, but we didn’t know if that’d make it worse,” Jeremy said. “But Madz . . .” He shook his head. “It’s too late. They’re everywhere. This photo of you and Roscoe has gone viral.”