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Jesse couldn’t hide his worry. His smile fell a little. “Chand is a such good baby, and we help her as much as we can, but she’s just so tired. All the media shit is starting to wear her down, I think.”
Kyan looked deep in thought, his brows drawn together. “Can’t the police do anything about the van out there at least?”
“I already talked to my guy,” Brendan answered. “Third Avenue is a public street. No laws have been broken.” He paused. “Yet. They’ll fuck up eventually.”
Monica smiled like she always did, took his hand in hers, and put her arm around Jesse. “Transitioning into motherhood is a magical time, but it’s a stressful one as well. Getting out of the house—a little fun and laughter is the best therapy in the world for her right now. Your wife knows she’s safe, and she knows she’s loved and cared for by both of you—and all of us too.” She squeezed his hand. “That girl is fire. It’s going to take a lot more than the media to put out her flame.”
Except they kept trying so bloody hard.
“Are you sure, Tay?”
He was more than sure. It was long overdue, and this was the final straw. They’d sent a fucking drone into Brendan’s backyard. There were photos of everyone with the baby, who with his head of black hair was unmistakably Taylor’s biological child, all over the internet. They’d been violated, their privacy ripped out from under them. Chloe was shaken and he was angry.
Actually, he was furious.
“Absolutely sure, Jesse.”
Their label had already warned him of the consequences if he didn’t just let this go. CJ advised against it, as did their PR manager, but he was doing it anyway. He was going to put an end to this fuckery once and for all.
Taylor invited every news outlet, every tabloid, every gossip rag that circulated those photos to a little press conference. And they were all here. He knew the bloodthirsty vultures wouldn’t be able to resist.
I’m ready for you, motherfuckers!
Venery lined up together. United. They stood tall, side by side, hands clasped behind their backs. Bo even wore a shirt for the occasion. CJ took the podium and introduced them. Then he took a step back.
Taylor took a step forward.
“I have a statement prepared. I will not be taking any questions.” He cleared his throat. “When my mates and I started this band more than a decade ago, we knew what we’d be giving up for our music. It’s part of the gig—to be paraded, followed, photographed at every show. Every party we attended. Every venture out in public. And that’s fair game, I suppose.
“What isn’t part of the gig, nor fair game, nor in any way acceptable, is to obtain, illegally I might add, and publish photos taken on private property, in a private home, of us. Of our family. Our children. Without our permission or consent. Without our knowledge.”
Taylor slowly surveyed the room, taking in each member of the press that was there, looking them right in the eye. “And each one of you in this room is guilty of that.”
A reporter called out from the back of the room, “Are you going to deny—”
CJ dipped his head in front of Taylor to take the mic. “Once again, Mr. Kerrigan is not taking questions. Please allow him to finish his statement. Thank you.”
“Each one of you is guilty of purchasing and/or publishing photos that were illegally taken via drones by paparazzi. You should know these persons have been detained and charged. The evidence of your complicity is already on the internet. At this very moment your corporate offices have been issued notice and we expect expeditious takedown of every single photograph. In addition to any legal remedies available to us, we, the members of Venery, and the residents of Park Place, have filed civil suit against you.”
Taylor threw the notecard he was reading off of the podium. He didn’t need it anymore. This was personal now. No one fucks with his family. No one.
“What will you do for a story? A headline? A photograph to sell your sleazy rags in the grocery store check-out lines, hm? To get more likes, comments, and shares on social media.” He glanced around the room. They were silent. “What will you do? How far will you go? Got nothing to say now, do you?” He scoffed, and he paused for a brief moment. “I was a nine-year-old boy living in London when the paparazzi killed Princess Diana. When they chased her through a Paris tunnel. I stood with my mother and the masses that lined The Mall on the day of her funeral. I watched two young boys walk behind their mother’s coffin. So I ask you again, how far will you go? What’s it worth to you?”
And the room remained silent. Not a cough. Nothing but blank expressions on their faces. That made him even angrier.
“You can have us on stage. We give you our music, our hearts and souls, gladly and willingly then. Giving you our music brings us joy. You cannot, without consequence, come into our homes, our backyards, and violate our right to a private and peaceful family life. We will not stand for it, nor will we tolerate it.”
Right. They want a bloody show, let’s give them one. Fuck them.
“That was my son, my two-week-old baby, in those photographs you published everywhere. Endangering him. There’s sick fucking people out there. That was my wife…”
Now there was whispered murmurs to be heard. “Isn’t she Jesse Nolan’s wife?”
Taylor smirked. “…and my husband. I love them both immeasurably.”
They weren’t whispering anymore.
“Our son is loved and adored by three parents. He, and any children we may have in the future, are fortunate that they will grow up knowing such abundant love. I don’t expect you to understand and I don’t owe you any explanation. You are not entitled to any part of me, or any of us, outside of the music. How far will you go? You didn’t have an answer for me, but I have one for you. I will go to the ends of the earth for my family.”
