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How odd!
It’s something I always do when I come home, yet I can’t even remember what happened to me or how I’ve come to wearing these foreign clothes or what the fuck the news anchor is talking about.
Hoping the message is from one of the guys explaining everything, I hastily make my way to the buzzing device. A frown forms on my face, realizing it’s some local pressagency offering exclusivity for my side of the story. I angrily cast the phone to the side and brush my hand through my head in thought.
My mind races, entertaining the unsettling notion that I might have been drugged and kidnapped. Paranoia whispers through my thoughts, leaving me on edge. I strain to remember anything, but the memories elude me like shadows slipping through my fingers.
I snatch my phone again and select Jagger’s number from my list of favorites, only to reach his voicemail. I do the same with Haze, then, Asher, and then Callum, and all my calls are sent to an automated answering service.
Please phone me. Something bad happened.
I hit send in the group chat I have with the boys.
The TV drones on in the background, its images a surreal backdrop to my growing anxiety. The weight of the unknown pressing against my chest.
I rarely watch TV and only use it for background noise. There’s no way I left it on this loud and forgot about it. Living in this massive five-bedroom home, smack in the heart of Bel Air within the foothills of the Santa Monica mountains, can get lonely and quiet. Disturbingly quiet.
It feels like only two days ago, Callum and Haze were in this kitchen, and for the most part, the band is in and out of this house so often that the lonely void I felt when I first moved in quickly disappeared with the presence of my boyfriends.
Picking up one of the music sheets that sit idly on the table, my heart and mind go back to the memory of Callum sitting on one of these chairs, and my body is casually draped over his lap, wearing nothing but his T-shirt. Haze is jamming on his guitar as we play around with some new songs.
The songs we knew our record label would not appreciate because it was the direction the five of us dreamed of going in and getting out of this bubblegum pop we loath to the core.
I look back at the screen and at my phone, which is empty of any missed calls and messages from them. These once-shared secrets and dreams now feel like shattered fragments of a broken mirror, reflecting only the harsh realities of the present.
Have they abandoned me?
I grab the remote and switch to a different news channel.
“In an unexpected twist, a scandal has unfolded involving Eden Rivers, the pop sensation who once enthralled our emotions. A recently surfaced exclusive video is allegedly revealing acontroversial affair involving Rivers and all four members of her band, Sonic Revolution.”
Desperation etches across my face, I clutch my head, trying to piece together the fragments of my memory. I’m caught in a web of confusion, my surroundings, and circumstances shrouded in mystery, leaving me to grapple with the unsettling possibility that I have been thrust into a reality that is not my own.
My thoughts are a tangled web of emotions – confusion, anger, and a profound sense of loss.
The uncertainty of all four boys’ current whereabouts adds another layer to the already complex narrative of my life. Did they leave because of the media’s accusations and that our relationship was brought to the public eye? Or was there another motive hidden in the shadows of our unraveling relationship?
Suddenly, the ring of my phone jolts me out of the current brain immobilization. My heart beats a million hits per second, thinking it's one of the guys. I need answers.
Please let it be Jagger.
Or Asher, or Callum, or Haze.
My heart drops again when I see the caller’s name on the screen, and all my hopes die with it.
It’s Oliver Jones, our manager. The infamous music mogul who discovered us and put this band together.
“Oliver,” I say, trying my best to sound calm.
"Only time will tell how this scandal will impact the future of the band and whether Eden Rivers can recover from this public relations nightmare.”
I grab the remote and turn the television off.
“I’m guessing you’ve already seen the news,” he says solemnly.
“I got a text message from Jessie Walters. She wants exclusivity on breaking my silence,” I say as I turn my laptop on to the security cameras outside the property. The gates are filled with reporters and paparazzi waiting to catch a glimpse of me.
Shit.
