Code Red by N.R. Walker

Chapter Two

As soon asMaddox and I walked into the common room, he was greeted by his bandmates with hugs and warm smiles. It relaxed me in ways I wasn’t sure I understood. It was like seeing the lone wolf return to the pack. There was safety in that circle of boys, and selfishly, the pressure was off me.

Even if just for a moment.

“My favorite dickbag,” Jeremy cried, hugging him the hardest, and Maddox’s smile was genuine. His laugh made me smile. I noticed a camera crew of three in the corner filming the boys as I walked up to Ryan and Amber. “Morning,” I said. I nodded toward the cameras. “Who are they?”

Ryan made a low growl sound, and Amber’s expression was pissed. “Ambrose dropped them on us this morning. Apparently Platinum wants this trip filmed for a documentary.”

The fuck?

The thing about band management was there were a lot of people behind the scenes, including a chain of command, or pyramid hierarchy. The management company, Platinum Entertainment, was owned by a man named Arlo Kim. He was the big boss. In my four years in the job, I could count the times I’d seen him on my fingers. He was clearly a masterclass in business management because he’d launched Atrous into the stratosphere. That couldn’t be denied.

Next link in the chain was Neil Ambrose. He was the actual band manager and who we three personal band managers answered to. We acted as the liaison between top management and the band. Ambrose was a good man, though he sometimes found himself in between a rock and a hard place trying to please everyone. Management usually won out every time.

Whatever Arlo said went. Like all management companies and their “boy bands,” he basically owned Atrous. And apparently Arlo Kim had thought filming every minute of the boys on tour was a good idea.

Like a tour wasn’t stressful on its own without worrying about having additional eyes backstage, in dressing rooms, and meetings.

Goddammit.

“And we’re just hearing about it now?”

“For what it’s worth, Ambrose was apologetic,” Amber said. She was obviously about as happy with this development as I was. But there was little we could do about it now.

“Where’s Ambrose?” I asked. He would be on the trip, obviously.

Ryan shrugged. “He was with the sound equipment guys and the stage team last I saw.”

I repressed a sigh. It was hard to be pissed when the guy literally had 120 people to organize for a national tour, plus a string of concerts in three other countries. He didn’t just have to worry about the band, but also wardrobe, the stage production team, the choreography team, the make-up and hair people, all the assistants and runners, and that didn’t include the medical crew.

This was a huge undertaking.

We’d done a world tour for the last album a year ago, so at least this time we knew what we were getting ourselves into. This tour was twenty-three concerts in sixteen cities across the US, Canada, Brazil, and Argentina. There was a lot of travel and a lot of expectations. A world-class stadium tour was no small feat.

There were always small windows of time for unexpected things on these tours, and of course the boys would need some downtime between concerts, press conferences, photoshoots, interviews, and guest appearances on TV shows.

But the schedule was tight.

We were starting in LA, for three sold-out concerts and a steady stream of interviews and appearances, and so would begin the security mayhem. Overzealous fans and paparazzi were a constant pressure. We had our own personal security team that was always with us, but we were using local security teams in every city as well. It made sense; they were already on the ground, they were familiar with the lay of the land. They’d been prepped and vetted, and the added layer of protection was a comfort to me.

And flying by private charter plane took the usual airport terminal chaos and customs out of the safety-hazard equation. We were basically bypassing every busy airport terminal and the risk of overwhelming fans in huge crowds. But getting to the hotels, to venues, to late-night talk shows, to interviews—doing anything outside of a hotel room, basically—came with risks.

I hated that part.

And of course, Maddox was the center of attention, the target for fans and photos; he was the money-shot for the papzz to exploit.

I hated that part the most.

Ambrose walked into the common room. No matter which hotel we stayed at, we always used a large conference room as our common meeting room, usually on the same floor as our rooms. It was used like our personal living room, giving us extra space, but also great for meetings, rehearsals, a dressing room if needed, and it was usually where we ate all our meals together.

“Morning!” Ambrose said brightly. “Welcome to day one.”

He gave a brief rundown of the next few days, starting with a tour jacket photoshoot today, photos that would be used on the special release tour album cover. It was an easy introduction to the busy schedule, and the boys had an hour to get settled in their rooms before we’d be leaving for the location.

Amber, Ryan, Ambrose, and I sat in the meeting room and went through our itineraries, making notes and going through the finer points we’d discussed ten times already. Soon enough we were on our way down to the underground parking garage. There were three black SUV-style vans that looked like they were out of a presidential motorcade, our security standing guard at each one. Each van was the luxury kind most celebs used these days. Three seats across the back, two seats near the door, all leather of course. It resembled the interior of a private jet more than a van. There was plenty of room, and most importantly, we could see out but no one could see in. These windows weren’t just tinted. They were some high-tech security feature that the record company had paid a fortune for. Bulletproof and paparazzi proof.

Amber, Blake, and Luke took the first, Ryan, with Wes and Jeremy, in the second, and Maddox and I climbed into the third.

We drove to the photoshoot location, which was down past Laguna. Hair and make-up met us there, along with wardrobe, and the photoshoot went well. The boys were in good spirits, laughing and joking as usual, and while the photographer, set designer, and lighting crew worked to get the best shots, Arlo’s camera crew filmed everything that went on.

The racks of clothes, the table of jewelry, the behind-the-scenes people who were just trying to do their jobs. They didn’t get in the way at all, but even having them there felt like an invasion of privacy.

I didn’t like it at all.

And apparently neither did Maddox. When we were done and headed back to the hotel, he took his seat, and as soon as the door slid closed, he said, “And the film crew? What the fuck is up with that?”

I groaned, trying to take the middle ground. “Arlo’s orders, apparently. It’s for some behind-the-scenes documentary. Which, in all fairness, I can see why he wants to show that. People will be very interested in seeing the hard work you guys put in, and how it’s not just what they see on stage.”

“But?”

“Why is there a but?”

His lips twitched. “Because I know when you’re not saying something.”

I relented a smile at that. “But,” I said, “I think tours are stressful enough on you guys. And make no mistake, if they get too close to you or if they get in the way or impose in any way I deem inappropriate, I will launch them and all their cameras into the fucking sun.”

Maddox chuckled, the eye-crinkling kind, and went back to staring out the tinted windows for a while. “Can we get some food? I’m starving.”

“Absolutely,” I replied. I pulled up the group chat with Amber and Ryan. Maddox wants food. I’m ordering burgers to be delivered to the hotel. What does everyone want?

We droveinto the underground parking garage at the hotel, still incognito. I would expect it would be the last time, given people must have seen our big black vans, but it was good to see the guys relaxed and smiling as they went inside. It was only us staying at this hotel; the rest of the crew were staying at different places. Given there were so many of them—the soundies, the stage production, wardrobe and make-up, and dancers—they’d take up an entire hotel. As it was, “just us” took up half a floor.

As soon as the food was delivered, the guys ate in Luke’s room, and Amber, Ryan, and I ate in the common room. “They’re all psyched,” Amber said. They, meaning the band.

“How’s your boy?” Ryan asked. “He seems happier now that we’re here.”

My boy . . .  I liked that a little too much.

“Yeah, he’s okay,” I replied, then sipped my water. Maddox had been quiet in the weeks leading up to now. Actually, he’d been quiet for months, and everyone knew it. “I’m sure he’s just nervous and worried about this trip. Once they start performing, he’ll be fine.”

I didn’t exactly believe that, and I was pretty sure they could tell.

“New albums and tours are always stressful,” Amber added. “Just keep an eye on him and let us know if you need anything.”

I gave her a smile. “I will, thanks.” I picked at a few fries. “He just . . . he feels distant. I’m sure he’ll find his feet once the concerts and press shit starts.”

“He thinks he carries the world. He doesn’t need to shoulder everything,” Ryan said.

“We know that,” I replied. It was almost comical. Of course he didn’t have to. He just did.

Amber shrugged. “It’s how he is. How he’s always been.”

I conceded a nod. “True. But it’s more now. It’s different. Before he thrived on it. The harder it all was, the better he did. Now he’s . . . tired.”

“We’ve got twenty-three shows,” Ryan pointed out. “He can’t be tired before he starts.”

Amber finished her burger. “He won’t let those boys down,” she said. “He’ll give 200 percent until it kills him.”

That’s what I’m afraid of.

I didn’t need to say that out loud.

None of us did.

I knockedon Maddox’s door at 7:00 am. I heard him grumble something before the door swung inward. He was showered, dressed, and ready to go, and when I held up an iced coffee, he smiled. “You ready?” I asked, walking in. His bed was unmade, and I tried not to think about how he slept on the left side . . . how perfect it was because I slept on the right.

He sat on the bed, put his drink down, and pulled on a boot. “Yep.”

“Busy day. We leave in five.”

The next two days were full-on final choreography on stage, full dress rehearsals, sound checks, and roundtable talks about last minute changes and suggestions before the first concert. Tonight was their first television appearance on a well-known talk show where they would perform their newest song, “Fly.”

Maddox and Jeremy had composed the score, Wes and Luke wrote the lyrics, Blake worked in the bluesy rap line. They moved it around like a jigsaw puzzle until it all fit together, and the song went to number one, on day one, in twenty-six different countries.

I picked up his black jacket. Not that it was jacket weather, but it had a hood, and he’d obviously left it over the back of the chair for a reason. “Got your phone?”

“Yes, Dad,” he said with a smirk.

“I’m barely seven years older than you, so shut it.”

He chuckled, that low throaty sound that rumbled through me in ways it shouldn’t. He fixed his other boot, then collected his iced coffee and sipped it through the straw. “Thanks for this,” he said. “Have the others eaten yet?”

“Yep. You know, you could try actually eating breakfast some time.”

He put on a black baseball cap, pulled it down low, and smiled. “No, thanks.”

I went to the door and held it open for him. “Move it or we’ll be late.”

“Yes, Mom.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You wanna fucking walk?”

He laughed as he walked past me. “I’m gonna tell my mom you swore at me.”

“Your mom likes me.” I pulled the door closed and met him at the elevator. It was true. His parents did like me. I’d come to know them quite well over the last few years. Considering I spent almost every day with Maddox, it was only natural that I’d become familiar with them as well.

“Yes, she does.”

“She promised to make me some of those almond cookie things.” The elevator doors opened and we stepped inside. “I still want them, if you could ask her for me, that’d be great.”

“She speaks to you more than she speaks to me,” he replied.

I snorted. “That’s not true. She knows you’re busy, so it’s just more efficient.”

“Oh,” he said. “Speaking of family. You still leaving me after New York to go see your folks?”

“I’m not leaving you,” I said, liking that a whole lot more than I should. “It’s just for a week. It makes sense while I’m on that side of the country. I’ll see you through the last concert of the tour. You’ll come back here to LA and sleep for a week. You won’t even have time to miss me.”

He was about to say something when the elevator stopped at a lower floor and the doors opened. Two people got in, both female, mid-twenties, maybe. They didn’t pay much attention to us, too busy looking at their phones. But Maddox backed up against the wall, kept his head down, his cap covering his face.

Instinctively, I stepped in front of him, putting myself between them and him. They got out at the lobby, and when the doors closed again, leaving us alone, I heard him sigh. Those two girls were harmless, but the risk was always there.

That brief moment of levity, of smiles and joking around, was gone. Security met us in the parking garage, we filed into our van, and drove to the Rose Bowl stadium for a full day of rehearsals, sound checks, and dance routines for this stage set-up. Maddox never said much at all, and I didn’t want to push him. He had enough to worry about without me nagging him.

Once we were there, with the guys and our team and all the familiar faces of the crew, Maddox relaxed and we all got down to business.

Watching them practice on stage never got old. They joked around together, getting their mics and earpieces all sorted. The LA morning sun was warm with not a cloud in the sky. The stadium was empty, of course, so the five of them goofed around on stage while the sound guys got ready.

They danced, they twerked, they laughed. Maddox did this slow squat and grind move that was so fucking hot, it should have been illegal. Jeremy called it a slut-drop, and everyone laughed some more as they all tried it. Then they did silly dances, and when they got the nod from the sound guy, Maddox strutted down the center stage, stripping out of his jacket like a hooker while singing the first verse, a cappella, of Joe Cocker’s “You Can Leave Your Hat On.”

It was sexy and sultry and I’m not gonna lie . . . it was hot.

The others laughed, and Maddox and Jeremy did some impromptu duet dance break. But once the music started, they were all serious. In key, in sync, and so beautiful to watch.

The documentary film crew caught it all, of course, and I tried not to let it bother me that this private moment between the boys would be given to the public. Would their fans love it? Hell yes. Was any part of their lives not up for public consumption? Not so much.

“They’re pumped for the tour, huh?” Amber said from beside me. I hadn’t heard her come up, and I wondered just how much of my watching she saw.

“Yeah. They won’t be like this by show twenty-three.”

She nodded slowly. “No, they won’t be.”

“It’s good to see them all so happy,” I admitted.

Amber nodded to Arlo’s documentary crew. “You know, letting the fans see them like this is a good idea. They’ll eat this shit up. It’s good for publicity.”

“True.” But I was a little sad that such a fun, private thing between the boys was going to be used to sell them. And I knew there would be quiet times after this tour before the next album where adding snippets of this footage to their social media channels would keep fans happy.

I knew it made sense. But still . . .

I left Amber in charge of watching them to go make myself useful elsewhere. We had director meetings—security, wardrobe, transport, catering—and by the time we called the boys off the stage, they were a sweaty, tired mess. But there were a lot of smiles, and with a promise of a late lunch, we made our way back to the hotel.

Maddox’s shirt clung to him, sweat-drenched down his chest and back, his wet hair stuck to his forehead, his cheeks flushed pink. He all but fell into the back of the van.

His smile was contagious. “Feel good?” I asked.

“Yeah. We’re ready.”

“You are.”

“What time are we leaving for the talk show?”

“Six.”

He met my gaze. “Can we do something?”

“Like what?”

“I dunno. Anything. Just drive around, see where we end up. Maybe get ice cream at the beach?” He shrugged. “It’s kinda our last day of anonymity.”

I wasn’t sure that was a great idea, but he wasn’t a prisoner. “Sure. Let me get it organized. Who wants to go?”

“Oh.” He blinked. “Um. Lemme ask,” he replied, pulling out his phone and thumbing out a quick text.

They had a group chat, and within a few seconds, he looked up at me with a funny grimace. “Uh, that’d be everyone.”

I sighed. That meant it was a full convoy: the band, managers, security. “Ambrose is gonna have a stroke.”

Maddox laughed. “He should come.”

“He should. I’ll tell him to bring his credit card.”

Maddox’s smile widened. “Then he would have a stroke.”

Ryan’s number flashed on my screen. He was in the second car with Jeremy and Wes. They were a good ten minutes ahead of us. “Have you heard? The boys want to do something before the show tonight.”

“Yep, but I hate to break it to you,” Ryan said. “I don’t think we’ll be going anywhere. There’s an issue at the hotel.”

“What kind of issue?” I asked. Maddox’s gaze shot to mine.

“Crowds, paparazzi. The police are trying to redirect traffic.”

I sighed. That meant it was bad. “Fuck.”

“Some asshole papzz are following us from the stadium. Drivers are being instructed right now,” he said, and sure enough, our driver was talking into his earpiece while checking his rearview mirror.

“Be safe,” Ryan said.

“You too.”

The call disconnected and I let my hand fall to my lap with a shake of my head. “Fucking papzz.”

Maddox sighed, his face a resigned frown. “It was good while it lasted.”

And sure enough, the front of the hotel was a shitshow. Our driver zipped into the underground parking lot and security quickly blocked the access after our car. We pulled up at the elevator entrance, and Maddox squeezed into his jacket and pulled his hood up, hiding his face.

I got out first, to the sound of camera clicks and people shouting his name, even through the hotel parking garage security. I stood between Maddox and the fray, blocking their chance of any decent photo. He kept his head down, and we dashed inside.

A hotel staff member was holding an elevator door for us, and with a swipe of their fob hit our floor number. “No stops until your floor,” he said.

“Thank you.”

When the doors were closed and it was just us, Maddox let his head fall back. “I guess going to the beach and getting ice cream is out of the question.”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

He tried to smile. “And so the fun begins.”

God, the look on his face just killed me. When we stepped out of the elevator, the hallway was clear, and he went straight to his door, two rooms up from mine. “Maddox,” I said before he went inside. “If you want ice cream, I’ll get you ice cream. Berry swirl, right?”

He smiled then, that gentle half a smile that he was famous for. “You don’t need to do that.”

“It’s no problem.”

He seemed to consider it for a long moment, but in the end, he shook his head. “Nah. Thanks anyway. I’m gonna go shower.”

He disappeared through his door, and I stood there for a second like an idiot, until I remembered what I was supposed to be doing. I dialed Amber’s number and put my phone to my ear. “Everyone okay?” I asked.

“Yeah, and you?”

“Yeah, we’re fine.”

“Good.”

We now had a whole string of issues to sort out before the talk show appearance tonight. “Where are we meeting?”