Page 4 of Not Your Golden Boy

“It’s because I want to start a scandal, isn’t it,” Nikky said, pulling himself together enough to face the accusations he knew would follow. “Because I want someone to help me ruin my public image.”

“Well, yes,” White said. His expression was one of genuine concern, which was both kind of him and a whole other level of torture for Nikky.

“I can explain myself,” he said, his impulse to smooth things over and make people happy rising up in him.

“We’d love to hear that explanation,” Rivera said.

Nikky cleared his throat. He’d practiced this speech and prepared for this moment ever since Rivera had called him to set up the meeting. “Fame isn’t what I thought it would be,” he explained as simply as he could. “I don’t generally like attention. Not on this scale. My life hasn’t been my own since Cooked blew up. I appreciate the offers and opportunities that have come my way, and my bank balance is better than I ever could have imagined, but I don’t have any privacy anymore.”

Fortunately, Rivera and White looked sympathetic.

“Yeah, I can imagine how difficult it must be to suddenly be everywhere, adored by everyone,” Javier said, completely genuine. “My modeling career was never even close to the sort of exposure you’re getting right now, but I was high-profile enough to get a glimpse of what you’re dealing with.”

Nikky let out a huge breath. “Thank you for understanding.”

“We do understand,” White said with a hefty amount of caution. “But we’re still concerned.” He checked in with Rivera for a moment before continuing. “Your career is young. You’re still in the throes of that first burst of fame. It’s entirely likely that things will calm down in time.”

“We just wanted to check with you to be absolutely certain you really want to tear all that down when things could get better right around the corner,” Rivera said.

Nikky stiffened. “I appreciate your concern,” he said.

Fear and resentment battled within him. He really did appreciate all the people who were worried about him. It was nice to think people cared. But they didn’t know what he was going through. They didn’t know about the lack of anonymity, constantly being pursued by strangers who thought they knew you. They didn’t know how rumors splashed through social media and other public places eroded his mental health. They didn’t know how all the questions by reporters and prying into his personal life and his past, questions about his mother, his father, his time in foster care, robbed him of his identity.

They didn’t know about Holberg and how one particularly persistent reporter could threaten to make everything he cared about vanish, including his sense of safety.

“I want to give this a try,” he went on. “I don’t know if this is the right solution to my problems or if this will even work. All I know is that I can’t go on with this kind of public scrutiny. I need something to change people’s minds about me.”

“And you’re certain that pretending to have a boyfriend who compromises your public image is the way to go?” White asked.

“I’d like to give it a try,” Nikky repeated.

Honestly, he wasn’t sure what he wanted. He’d asked for Rent-A-Boyfriend to find him someone older and possibly involved in the music industry. Maybe a part of him was looking for a mentor and not the shock of an age-gap romance that would turn his fans off. He’d seen how effective the whole Rent-A-Boyfriend concept had been with Drew and Lee’s fake-then-real relationship.

Maybe he wanted someone to ruin him and then put him back together.

“Despite our misgivings,” Rivera said into the too-long silence that filled the room while Nikky’s mind raced, “I think I’ve actually found the perfect man for you. But just so you know, I’ve called in a favor from a friend. He’s⁠—”

They were interrupted by Michael knocking on the doorframe again, then announcing, “Hi, guys. Mr. Bayonne is here.”

Nikky shifted in his seat, and his jaw nearly dropped to the floor at the sight of none other than Harry Bayonne, legendary one-hit wonder from about ten years ago, standing in the doorway looking like he’d stepped right out of Nikky’s wet dream.

two

​. . .​

It didn’t matter how many zeros appeared in Harry’s bank account on the first of the month or what sort of lifestyle they allowed him to maintain. Every time he saw the royalty payment from Love on the Line, the one and only hit song his years of blood, sweat, and tears in the music industry had produced, he felt sick.

He sighed and tapped out of his bank’s app on his phone, then leaned back on his sofa and rubbed a hand over his face. “It could be worse,” he reminded himself, like he did every first of the month. “You could have had no hits, no money, and no idea what to do with the rest of your life.”

Not that he had any real idea what to do with the rest of his life anyhow. Sure, he still had dreams and ambitions. Those things didn’t go away just because the industry turned its back on you. He still had music in him. A lot of music.

The problem was that no one wanted it.

He turned his head to look at the closed door to the room where his various guitars and other instruments sat in their stands and cases, waiting for him to feel inspired enough to pick them up and play with them again. He practiced every day, playing old songs and even working through exercises that newbie guitarists did to keep their fingers nimble and to develop their skills, but every time he tried to compose something new, no matter how badly he wanted it, the only thing that came out was the same tired strains of Love on the Line.

“Fuck this shit,” he grumbled, pushing himself to stand and stomp away from his sofa, his guitars, and his failures. He had other things to do anyhow. Like food to cook and a flat to clean and maybe a walk to take.

The life of a has-been was so terribly exciting.