Code Red by N.R. Walker

Chapter Six

Maddox could barely lookat me at breakfast time. Was he pissed off at me? Embarrassed? I had no clue. But we had an interview and a photo shoot before lunch, which meant a fair amount of alone time in the car to talk.

And I didn’t waste a second. As soon as the van door was shut and we had some semblance of privacy, save our driver and Steve in the front, I tapped his boot with mine. “Maddox, talk to me.”

There was no way I was letting something like miscommunication get between us. Not now. Shit was complicated enough without childish games.

He shot me a puzzled look. “About what?”

“About what’s bothering you. You haven’t said three words to me this morning.”

“Nothing’s bothering me.”

I raised an eyebrow and waited . . . but not for long.

He scowled at me, then he turned to face the window. “You were gone this morning.”

“Of course I was. I went back to my room at one o’clock,” I said so only he could hear. “I’d left my phone in my room. And you weren’t exactly clear on how long I should have stayed. You were sound asleep.”

His annoyance became a frown. “I hate it.”

“Hate what?”

“Not sleeping. I’m so tired but my mind goes all the time,” he whispered. “It’s better when I’m not alone.”

“If you need something to help you sleep,” I began, though I was pretty sure what his reaction was going to—

“No.” He shook his head. “No drugs.”

“It doesn’t have to be drugs, Maddox. There are plenty of things on the market now that are natural or non-addictive. Or we can try meditation, or acupuncture, or massage, or anything. I don’t know. There are a lot of alternative—”

“I don’t want no wellness guru, hippy-loving crackpot—”

“Well, that’s a broad generalization, possibly prejudiced—”

“I don’t want anyone to know, Roscoe,” he snapped.

Aaaand there it was.

“Just you,” he added softly. He let out a shaky breath. “I trust you. And I hate that even you know. I hate feeling like a little kid or like I need adult supervision.”

“You hate feeling vulnerable,” I stated, and from the way his eyes shot to mine, I knew I was right. “I don’t blame you,” I added casually. “No one likes to feel that way. But for what it’s worth, I’m glad you told me. If you need me to sit there and watch two John Wayne movies back-to-back, then I will.”

That almost earned me a smile. “You watched two?”

I nodded. “They were actually pretty good. In a bad western kind of way.”

The corner of his lip curled upward for a fleeting moment before it was gone. “Thank you. I thought this morning you’d think it was weird, and if I didn’t look at you, I wouldn’t see you not looking at me.”

Oh, Maddox. “It’s not weird.”

“Can you not tell the others?” He winced. “I know I’m asking you to keep secrets and probably to lie at some point. But, Roscoe . . .” He chewed on his bottom lip and picked at the cuticle on his thumb. No more words were forthcoming.

“But Roscoe, what?”

“But I need you,” he whispered. He took in a sharp breath. “In my corner. I need you to be on my side. I feel . . . I dunno, things have been weird and I don’t know how I feel most days, but you make it . . . normal. Better. I dunno.” He shrugged, his cheeks tinted pink. “I think it’s because you’ve always been there. You’ve always been in the background and I know you’ll be there. I trust you, and I can’t say that about many people.”

He grimaced as he inhaled, as though he was mad at himself for saying too much. He fidgeted his hands, opening and closing his fists, and when he met my gaze, his eyes were . . . fierce or scared. Or a mix of both?

“I am on your side,” I said.

“I don’t want the others to know. The guys, I mean. I don’t want them to worry. And not Amber and Ryan either. Because then I’d have to ask them to keep secrets, and that’s not fair. And then it’s all too complicated.”

“The guys won’t mind, Maddox. They’d want to know if something’s bothering you.”

“They’ve got enough going on. We all do. And they don’t need to be worrying about me on top of their own shit.”

“You’re not in this alone, Maddox. Jeremy adores you. They all do.”

“Jeremy . . .” His eyes met mine again before he looked back out the window. “Jeremy’s my best friend, and I love him.”

There was a but coming.

“I love all of them.”

“But?”

He scrubbed his hands over his face and groaned. “Christ, Roscoe.”

“But what?”

“But they’re in the band. And I need someone who’s not in the band. Someone who I can talk to and someone who’ll just be with me for me. Someone who’s comfortable in the silence and who doesn’t expect anything from me.”

It dawned then. “Me.”

He nodded. “You.”

Goddammit.

“I won’t tell anyone. And honestly, I don’t mind hanging out.” I shrugged. “I get lonely too sometimes, so some company is nice.”

He studied me for a long moment and eventually half a smile won out. “Nice? Spending time with me is nice?”

“Oh, fuck off,” I whispered. “You don’t get to play the ‘but I’m Maddox Kershaw’ card after telling me you like me because I treat you like a normal person.”

He grinned. “That’s a first. Have you ever told me to fuck off before? I don’t think you have.”

“Not out loud.”

He laughed, and my god, it was a beautiful sound. “And I never said I like you because you treat me like a normal person.”

“You kinda did.”

“Pretty sure I’d remember. No, I like you because you’re the hottest bodyguard in the world right now.”

I groaned. “Christ. Is that still a thing?”

“Yep. Haven’t you seen Twitter this morning?”

“No. I was kinda busy getting everything ready.”

He took out his phone and tapped the screen a few times. “Well, things that were trending . . . our concert, my ass in those pants at our concert. Luke and Blake posted a shirtless selfie together in the dressing room. That was number one for a while. Made the Bluke fans happy. Oh, and here, look . . .” He turned the screen around to show me a photograph of me at the guitar store, and then he grinned as he read off some tweets. “Roscoe can guard my body any time. How do I sign up for him to manage me? How much heat do you think he’s packing?” He shook his head. “Want me to read you the R-rated ones?”

“No. No, I don’t.” I ignored all mentions of me. “Do the fans know that Luke and Blake are the two straightest men in the band?”

Maddox’s smile widened. “That’s what makes it hot. I mean, they could have us.” He waved his hand between us. “Two sexiest men on the planet—according to this tweet, anyway—who are both very gay. And we’re always together. It really wouldn’t be a huge leap to assume we fuck.”

Jesus Christ.

Was it hot in the van?

He chuckled. “What do you think our couple name would be? Maddox and Roscoe . . . Mmm.” He made a thinking face. “Doxcoe? Madscoe? Moscoe? They sound stupid.”

“All couple names sound stupid,” I said. “And why is your name first?”

Did I really just ask that?

He grinned, the kind of smile that stopped hearts all over the world. “Because I said it did.”

“Oh, the ‘but I’m Maddox Kershaw’ thing again.”

“It really is a double-edged sword.”

I found myself smiling at him. This was him, this was the Maddox of old. Carefree, guard down, happy, funny, witty. Just Maddox.

“You know,” he said, a wicked gleam in his eye. “We could break the internet. Right now.”

“Break the internet?”

“Yep. One selfie.” He grinned. “Of us.”

“Oh no.” I shook my head. “That’s a bad idea.”

He opened the camera on his phone. “It’s a great idea.”

“It’s possibly the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

Then, surprising the shit out of me, he climbed over and sat on my lap. He held his phone up at some magic selfie angle. “Smile.”

“Maddox, this is a bad idea. And you should be in your own seat with your seatbelt on.”

With his free hand, he took my arm and brought it around his waist. “You can be my seatbelt.”

I ignored how he felt on my lap. I ignored how he felt against my chest. I ignored how he smelled. He, on the other hand, smiled the world’s most beautiful smile and took some photos.

“Don’t upload that,” I said, trying to sound stern. “I mean it, Maddox.”

“But if I do, then we don’t have to decide our stupid couple name because the fans will decide for us.”

“That’s not funny.”

Still sitting on my lap, he turned to face me. “What would be funny is if I put the caption something like ‘You have no idea how good he smells,’ and the internet will die.”

“Maddox.”

“Because you do smell really good,” he whispered. “The world should know. It’s a great injustice that they don’t.”

“The only thing that should happen is you sitting in your own seat.”

“Well, I would,” he murmured, his lips closer to my ear. “But your arm is still around me.”

I looked at my traitorous arm and moved it. He chuckled and slid back over to his seat. Christ, this car ride had been dizzying. I needed to try to recoup some control.

“You can’t post those photos,” I said, my tone low. “Unless you want me on the first plane back to Vermont.”

He shot me a look, alarmed and puzzled. “Why?”

“Because Ambrose would drive me to the airport himself. One, you not seated in your own seat. Two, no seatbelt. Three, on my lap. Four, fooling around. Five, in a moving vehicle. And six, because he can fire me anytime he wants.”

“I told you before, no one’s firing you.”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s not your decision.”

He stared at me, amused and stubborn, and he smiled again. “It’d be interesting to see who holds the most power, me or Ambrose. Don’t you think?”

“No. No, I do not think. That is a competition no one wins. No one.”

“I mean, he can claim control and management, but if I walk away, what does he have? Pretty sure Arlo Kim would pick me.”

This was a dangerous conversation. “What do you mean, walk away?”

Steve turned around in the front. “ETA, one minute.”

Maddox sighed and fixed his cap, pulling it down tight.

I wasn’t letting him not answer my question. “Hey. Do you think about walking away?”

He waited until the van slowed, then he shrugged. “Not really. I don’t think I could.” He gave me a smile that was all stage and performative. His public smile. “I don’t know who I am without any of this.”

The van door opened. I didn’t want to drop this conversation but I had to. I grabbed my backpack and went out first. Maddox followed close behind, and security ushered us through the wall of photographers and fans.

And the madness began all over again.

One interview—live, on morning TV—and a photoshoot.

Madness and mayhem. Push and shove. Screaming crowds, the constant click of cameras, the call of names in a futile attempt to get a direct-eye-contact photograph or even for them to look in that general direction.

The boys would always be polite and wave if they could, but they mostly kept their heads down and kept moving. The majority of fans were just excited, which was great. But some . . . well, some were fucking crazy.

They screamed through the fencing, though, and the boys simply waved, and we followed the studio staff through the doors and into a large room where Bibi and the make-up and stylist teams were already waiting.

They were on a bit of a time crunch—traffic took longer than expected—but they swarmed in, did their magic in no time at all, and before we knew it, the boys were walking out onto the stage to a deafening applause.

They took their seats in formation opposite the hosts, and whereas their last TV appearance had been fun and showed the side of the band that was funny and loud, this interview was more serious.

“Your album Beacon shot to number one just about everywhere,” the host said. “And for me, when I listened to this, I felt an undercurrent of hope, which I guess is what a beacon is. Tell us what the message is behind these songs.”

Wes answered. “We all brought something to the table for this album. We wanted our fans to connect with each song for whatever they’re going through. There’s a journey in every album, I guess. Reasons to be mad, reasons to celebrate, to be grateful.”

“Congratulations on kicking off your tour. Your concert last night was a huge success,” the host said. I got the feeling she was a huge fan. “Rolling Stone called it an ‘epic, cross-genre, multi-generational sensory experience.’ How does that make you feel?”

Blake answered, saying it was surreal.

“If someone told you six years ago, when you were just a high school band with big dreams, that you’d be where you are now, what would you say?”

Luke answered with a laugh. “I’d have called them delusional. There’s no way we’d have believed them.”

“Which song on the Beacon album is your favorite? To sing, to perform?”

Jeremy put his hand to his heart as if he’d been wounded. “That’s a tough question because we each wrote our own songs, or we co-wrote or produced. We had a hand in every song.” He groaned. “But I’d have to say ‘Fly.’”

“‘Oceans,’” Maddox said quickly. It was the first time he’d spoken all interview.

“‘Metronome,’” Luke answered.

“‘Reflection,’” Blake said.

“‘Puzzle,’” Wes said. “Because I wrote it, but ‘Oceans’ is beautiful.” He smiled over at Maddox. “The melody and bridge combo is extraordinary. Maddox wrote it, and when he played it for us, we knew it was something special.”

Of course this opened up a direct line of questioning to Maddox. “Can you explain what the song means to you?”

He smiled and shifted on his seat, nervous or uncomfortable. Or both. “‘Oceans’ . . . it’s, uh, it’s a personal thing. It’s about power and depth, tumultuous and healing, the ebb and flow of life, I guess.”

I watched from the wings, my pulse thumping oddly in my veins. The conversation with him in the car this morning had been a rollercoaster. He’d been everything from happy and flirty to vulnerable and scared.

And now to hear him talk about something personal in public just made my heart ache.

Jeremy commandeered the question, thankfully, and talked about the writing process, about what came first, the lyrics or the melody, and how a song is born.

Maddox was never excluded. He agreed and nodded and was involved, but the focus was off him, and I was relieved.

Until it was almost time to cut to a commercial. “Now, Maddox, I can’t let you leave without asking you something that’s been on everyone’s mind since yesterday . . .”

She gestured to the screens behind them, and there was a photograph of me.

Fucking fuckity fucking fuuuuuck.

“Now, this is not your bodyguard, is it?” she pressed.

Maddox laughed. He actually fucking laughed. “No, that’s my manager.” Then, because he apparently couldn’t help himself, he pointed at me standing off camera. “There he is. Roscoe, say hi.”

Every camera swung around to face me.

I was going to kill him.

Amber and Ryan scattered like scolded cats, and all I could do was wave. Like an idiot.

“Roscoe, is it?” the host asked, grinning, because he’d just handed her the scoop of the fucking year.

“Yes, that’s right,” I replied.

“Now, you’re sure you’re not some long-lost Hemsworth brother?”

I couldn’t help but smile at that, because that was ridiculous. One of the studio crew handed me a mic, which was also ridiculous. “Absolutely sure. Sorry.”

“I have to ask,” she said sweetly. “What’s it like managing the biggest band in the world?”

“I’m part of a team, so it’s not just me,” I replied. “But I can say, confidently on behalf of the entire management team, it’s like herding cats.”

The five boys burst out laughing. Maddox laughed the loudest, and it was a genuine laugh too. He almost doubled over.

The director gave her the wind-up signal and she recovered quickly. “We’ll be back after this commercial break with Atrous performing their hit song ‘Fly.’ Don’t go anywhere.”

The guys got off their stools and our sound crew quickly fitted them with their earpieces and mics, and they took their places on the dance floor. They played to the audience a little and when they went back on-air, the song was introduced and they sang.

Oh, they were great and Maddox was perfection.

But I was still going to kill him.

“I’ll be in the green room,” I said, not even waiting for the song to finish.

Amber gave a nod. “I’ll herd the cats.”

I grumbled all the way to the green room. The stylist teams were gone, already off to the photo shoot location. I began packing up all the mess, with probably more vigor than was completely necessary. I swear to god, they’d been in this room for less than thirty minutes. How did they make such a mess?

I heard them coming before I saw them, and when they bustled in through the door, they stopped when they saw me.

Jeremy meowed, and they all busted up laughing again.

“Pick up your shit. We leave in two minutes.”

Jeremy, Luke, Blake, and Wes all stared at me. I’d probably never sworn at them before. Maddox pounced forward, his hands like claws. “Feisty kitty.”

I sighed, letting the backpack I was holding drop so I just had the handle. I looked at the others, who were now trying not to smile. “Please collect your belongings. We’re on a schedule.”

I waited for them at the rear exit doors. The vans were lined up, and soon enough the guys filed out with their security, all of them with trying-not-to-smile smiles. Amber and Ryan gave me a nod as they walked past, Maddox was last, followed by Steve, and we walked in silence to our waiting van.

Steve slid the door shut behind me and Maddox watched as I took my seat. “I feel like I’m in trouble.”

“You are.”

“Like I’ve been sent to the principal’s office.”

“Put your seatbelt on.”

“You put yours on.”

He . . . he had a good point.

I put my seatbelt on and he smiled as he buckled his. “You know, I didn’t bring the topic of you up in that interview. She asked me.”

“You could have deflected the question.”

“But you were right there. And you being all stern with your arms crossed was kinda hot.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“And herding cats? I can’t believe you said that.”

I shifted in my seat. “Well, that was probably out of line. Sorry.”

“Are you kidding? It was funny as hell. And I bet you anything you like . . .” He took his phone out, scrolled for all of two seconds, and nodded. “Yep. Herding cats is trending. And you. Soooo many pictures of you.”

He turned his phone to show me the screen. And there I was. Standing next to a cameraman with my arms crossed and a none-too-pleased smile on my face.

Soooo many pictures of me.

“That is the exact thing I wanted to avoid.”

Maddox looked at his phone again, scrolling. “Have you tried not being so hot?”

I sighed.

“Ooh, right click and save. This one’s gonna be my screensaver.” He scrolled some more. “And I found my lock screen pic.”

He turned his phone long enough for me to see a zoomed in photo of me, again with my arms crossed. “Holy biceps,” he mumbled. “And in a polo shirt. God, they’re going to write fanfictions about you as a sports coach, or a preppy professor and I’ll be the rogue student who needs a very firm lesson, if you know what I mean.”

I didn’t reply to that.

“You know they do that, right? Write fanfiction stories about all kinds of shit. We read some once. It was weird, and kinda hot, kinda gross.”

“Yes, I know they do that.”

“Have you read any?”

“No.”

“I think you have and you’re just too embarrassed to admit it.”

“Can this conversation end now? Please.”

He laughed. “Anyway, back to the herding-cats thing . . .”

My phone buzzed again, and needing the distraction, I checked the screen. It was Ambrose calling me. I showed Maddox the screen. “Oh, goodie. This conversation is gonna be so much fun.”

I hit Answer. “Hall speaking.”

“I saw the interview.”

“Yeah, about that—”

“It’s all over the internet.”

“I know.”

“The band has, in one way or another, held four out of the top ten trends on social media in the last twenty-four hours. Including you.”

“I know. I tried to explain—”

“It’s a good thing, Roscoe,” he said. “It’s keeping our PR team busy, that’s for sure.”

“It’s hardly—”

“Anyway, we can discuss it later. I’m coming to the photoshoot. I have some news for the boys.”

I contained my temper enough not to sigh. “Okay, see you there. We’re on our way now.”

I ended the call and took a deep breath as quietly as I could.

“So glad he let you finish one sentence,” Maddox said, not looking up from his phone.

“He’s coming to the photoshoot.”

Maddox looked up then. “What for? If he reprimands you about the herding-cats thing, I’m gonna be pissed.”

I scrubbed my hand over my face and decided it was just best to read my emails and messages.

After a few minutes silence between us, he tapped his boot to mine. “Hey,” he said, waiting for me to look up before he continued. “I’m sorry about the interview. Next time I’ll deflect the question.”

“There won’t be a next time,” I replied. “I’ll be staying in the green room from now on.” Where I should have stayed today.

He chewed on the inside of his lip for a bit, then grimaced. He showed me his phone again, and this time it was a photo of us walking into the TV studio. I had my hand on his back, and he was smiling. “We have a couple name.”

I rolled my eyes and sighed. For the love of fucking God. “Don’t tell me what it is. I don’t—”

“It’s Moscoe.”

I groaned and banged my head against the headrest a few times. After I sighed, again, I tried to stay composed. “Thank you for not telling me.”

He grinned. “You’re welcome.”