Zach considers this, pensive, then gives a surprised “hmm” of agreement. It’s never failed to amuse me that Chorus Management insists on branding Zach as the dark, brooding type with a bit of an edge to him, when his real personality couldn’t be further from it. Zach isn’t quiet because he’s brooding or tortured. He’s just thoughtful, and careful—the type to evaluate what you say for a beat too long while he decides what answer you most want to hear. He might not be the type to dominate a conversation or enthusiastically work the room, but he’s dark in approximately the same way a puppy is dark. Whatever the media may claim to the contrary at our publicity manager David’s behest.
He puts his feet up on the back of Jon’s seat, his knees against his face. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice tells me that if the minibus crashed, his legs would drive right through his head. The concern is going to keep niggling at me if I try to ignore it, so I place my hand on his shins and gently press his legs back down. He gives me a crooked half-smile, and grudgingly obeys. “The canals in Amsterdam,” he says out of nowhere.
“The Alps in Switzerland. I love Mad Libs!”
“No.” He elbows me in the side. “That’s what I want to see. You guys all have your things, and I didn’t want to say it in front of everyone, but if I get to do anything over there, I hope it’s that. Just … sit by the canals for a while.”
“Why didn’t you want to say it in front of everyone? It’s not exactly scandalous. If you’d said the red-light district, maybe…”
“Oh, I wanna do that, too,” he jokes.
“Naturally.”
His grin fades, and he presses the toe of his shoe against the seat in front of him again. “It’s stupid. Just, that’s where my dad proposed to my mom. I want to see what it was like. I know it won’t magically bring them back together or anything, I just … I dunno.”
“It’s not stupid,” I say. “We’ll make sure we do it.”
The smile returns. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I mean, we’re letting Angel loose in Europe, so I’m sure Erin’s scheduled in some blocks to go to the police station at least twice. If we’re making time for that, we can make time for the canals.”
“I can hear you,” Angel grumbles in a muffled voice.
I kick his seat in response, and he yelps in protest.
Angel’s the kind of person who has no business being called Angel. In fact, his legal name is actually Reece, but no one’s called him that since we formed the band. In our initial publicity meeting David got all paranoid about the media confusing “Ruben” and “Reece,” and Angel happened to come with a long-established nickname already. He got it from his dad as a toddler, because Mrs. Phan took offense to the original, more accurate nickname of “devil child,” and Mr. Phan had a well-developed sense of ironic humor.
Beside me, Zach slumps back to close his eyes, and his arm presses against mine with the shift in posture.
I don’t think I breathe again for the rest of the drive.
TWO
ZACH
I’m pretty sure my driver is a fan of Saturday.
He keeps glancing up at me through the rearview mirror, making eye contact and smiling before looking away.
He does it again, making the hair on the back of my neck rise. He’s supposed to be taking me to Mom’s place, but I’m all too aware he could take me anywhere he wants to, and my gut is telling me he might have a basement covered in Saturday posters.
I run a hand through my hair and focus on the streets outside. I should think about this logically. Erin organized this driver for me, so he has to be trustworthy, if only because I know her career would take a pretty major nosedive if I got kidnapped and murdered on her watch. Deep down, I know nothing suspicious is happening.
So why is he smiling at me like he’s up to something?
I hear a familiar guitar riff. Oh, no.
He lifts his eyebrows and grins at me like Oh, yes.
The driver turns the volume up just as my voice comes through the car’s speakers. I almost wish he were a murderer now. It’s not that I don’t like “Guilty”; it’s fun, one of my favorite Saturday songs, actually, mostly because of that sugary-as-hell guitar riff and Ruben’s career-best vocals. Seriously, he sounds so freaking good on this song.
I rest my head against the glass as the chorus starts. It’s one of our earlier songs, before I’d fully shaken off my punk style of singing, the one Geoff kindly described as whiny and uncommercial, so my tone is shaky and the auto-tune is unmissable. I’d do it differently if I got a do-over, but when you’re famous, everything you do follows you forever.
I check the mirror and yep, the driver is still watching me. It’s fucking creepy.
I bob my head along to the beat, pretending I’m having a good time. Like, “Guilty,” yes, love it.
“My daughter is obsessed with you, Zach,” he says, making eye contact through the mirror. “All of you, but especially you. She says she’s a ‘stan.’”
I wince and force a smile. “Oh wow, thanks, that’s really nice of you to say.”
He chuckles. “You’re welcome. You know, I’m more of a rock guy, but some of your songs are pretty catchy. Just don’t tell anyone I said that, okay?”
I’m pretty much used to this now. Basically, no guy will compliment Saturday without an asterisk of some sort. You kind of suck, but …
“I won’t.” I pause, then decide to go for it. “I’m more of a rock guy, too.” It’s the first honest thing I’ve said to him.
I pick at my leather bracelet, which my stylist makes me wear.
For the record, I do love our songs. It’s just they aren’t my favorite thing to listen to during my downtime, nor is it what I’d choose to sing if I had control over that sort of thing.
Which I don’t. So it doesn’t matter.