“They’ll just say they didn’t know,” I jump in. “They always pretended they didn’t notice. They have plausible deniability.”
Mrs. Braxton smirks. She looks very pleased with herself. “Well, we may have a thing or two in writing. When Jon came home from the tour, we had a talk, and he shared some … concerns with me about the way some things were handled. I took it upon myself to take a look at Geoff’s emails, and sent a few through to myself so I’d have copies.”
“Mom,” Jon says, a smile spreading across his face.
She giggles. “What? It’s my company, too, Jon. The content of some of those emails was quite enlightening, though. For example, the boys’ hair and makeup artist lodged some formal concerns regarding Angel’s well-being, long before Budapest, and as far as I can tell none of the processes that are supposed to happen in those situations were followed. I found years of emails regarding Ruben’s sexuality, and I’m sorry to say a large number of them firmly cross multiple legal boundaries. Especially concerning the relationship between him and Zach.”
“We’ll sue them back for all they’re worth,” Laura hisses. “I’ll make him wish he wasn’t—” then she catches herself. “Sorry, Shantelle. This is awkward.”
Mrs. Braxton laughs. “Oh, it’s awkward. But not between anyone sitting in this room, I promise you.”
The worst part is, the awkwardness is only just beginning. Even if we manage to win the lawsuit Chorus is preparing against us, that won’t magically free us from their contract. If this Jane Sanchez is as good as Mrs. Braxton says, she might be able to free us, but I’m not hopeful about it. As long as our contract stands, Chorus is our management team for the next two albums, and as long as they’re our management team, they’ll do everything they can to make our lives a living hell short of ruining our careers—and that boundary will only be there because our profit is their profit.
We could technically find another management team, as long as Chorus still gets their contracted commission, but our options would be to pay them nothing, or pay them their fair commission as well as paying Chorus, which would leave so little over for the four of us we’d almost be working for free by that point. And no company in their right minds would work for us for free. Maybe for one album cycle, if we got lucky, but not for two more.
“I have to ask,” Mom says. “Chorus Management is your company…”
The question is implicit in the statement. Mrs. Braxton doesn’t seem surprised to hear it. “Let me make two things very clear. One, I am appalled at what our boys have gone through. Appalled. If I’d been aware of it earlier you can believe I would’ve shut that down in its tracks. As it is, all I can do is apologize sincerely for any complicity I had.”
“It’s not your fault, Mom,” Jon whispers, but she shushes him.
“Second,” she goes on. “A company is a company, and money is just money. Geoff and I had a very clear understanding when it came to Jon and his involvement with the label. His responsibilities as a father were supposed to trump work, always, period. I didn’t think for a second he would breach those boundaries, which, I suppose, is why it took me so long to realize what has been happening. But he did. My family comes before anything, and he’s going to find out what happens when you cross my family.”
The parents raise their glasses, and Mom clears her throat. “I’d very much like to see the emails concerning my son, please.”
The others nod in firm agreement, and Mrs. Braxton promises to send them around tonight. That’s when Zach excuses himself, looking a little green. Concerned, I follow him, and find him by the private elevator with his back pressed against the wall.
“Are you okay?” I murmur. There’s not much privacy here—we can still hear every word being said by the others.
“Yeah. Yeah, I just…” He shakes his head. “Everything’s happening so fast. Yesterday morning we were a secret, and the band wasn’t in any danger. Now we’re out, and everyone’s talking about us, and we might be losing everything, and there are lawyers, and emails, and…”
“Do you need some air?”
“Yes, please.”
After dashing back to gesture to the group, we escape into the elevator. Zach lets his head fall against the mirror, but his body is angled toward me. He presses level three—the pool and gym level—and tilts his head back, sucking in a deep breath. When he’s done, he lowers his head to look at me, eyes dark, and stretches out a hand to beckon me in. I step between his legs and crash my lips against his roughly. It’s our first moment alone since the concert, and suddenly I realize how desperately I’ve wanted to feel his skin beneath my fingertips, to pull him hard against me and hold him until all the adrenaline and tension seep out of my muscles.
“God, finally.” He breathes between kisses, and I just about lose my mind, cupping the back of his neck and pressing us back together. When the elevator dings, it takes me a full couple seconds to register what it means and reluctantly step back.
We stay a chaste few feet apart from each other as we walk past the mostly empty pool. There’s only a single family using it, and they aren’t paying us any attention, but the habit is ingrained now. It’s not until we sit on a swinging love seat overlooking the pool from a distance that I take his hand in mine.
He looks at it in surprise, then it seems to dawn on him. We aren’t a secret anymore. Holding hands in public isn’t a punishable offense.