Strike a Pose (Blame It on Fame #1)

4. Riley

Chapter 4

Riley

“ I

can’t believe this is finally happening,” I say, unable to hold back my grin as the tour bus pulls onto the highway.

It’s now mid-January, and the tour has just officially begun. I couldn’t be more excited since I’ve never been on tour before, not even as an opener.

I first picked up a guitar as a kid and spent hours teaching myself how to play by watching videos I found online. But I always thought of it as more of a hobby, something that would give my life meaning while a real job would pay the bills. And now, after the release of my debut album, I’m sitting on my tour bus with my three closest friends, pursuing my passion and making more money in the past month than I thought I’d see in my entire life.

“I can believe this is all happening. You have raw talent, Riley,” my best friend, Nash, says, smiling from behind his dark curls.

He and I have been inseparable since kindergarten, and he was the one who convinced me to record my first song. He’s a bona fide genius, and—even though his specialty is in math and computers—when I asked him if he’d be my bassist, he learned to play the bass guitar in a single week. Not only did he learn to play, but he did it well enough to have fooled my record label into believing he’s been playing for years.

“Alright, alright, let’s not give Riley too much of an ego,” Ethan chimes in.

He and I met in college and hit it off due to our mutual interest in music. He was my right-hand man while recording and producing my first few songs before my label picked me up.

“I don’t think Riley could get an ego if he tried. When we were little, I accidentally knocked over a cake that took my mom hours to make. She started yelling at me, but then Riley came in and took the blame. He’s not exactly known for his ego,” Waylon, my cousin, adds. He’s practically a guitar prodigy, blowing my skills out of the water. But I have the voice.

When my label came to me about assembling a backup band for me—even though I’m technically a solo act—I knew I needed my friends and family surrounding me, not strangers. The label was surprisingly receptive to this idea and asked the guys to come in and audition. After hearing them play, they were completely sold.

And now, we’re all four heading out on tour: Nash as my bassist, Ethan as my drummer, Waylon as my lead guitarist, and me playing rhythm guitar alongside my vocals. It’s a dream come true. I’ve gone from recording songs in my dorm room with Ethan to signing with a record label last January, to having all four of my singles on the Billboard charts (one of them reaching number one), to having an album released last month (still holding steady on the Billboard Top Ten albums). My head spins just thinking about it.

“Yeah, how could Riley have an ego? It’s not like his face is plastered on the side of a bus or anything.” Nash smirks, referencing the ten-foot-tall photo of me on the side of our bus.

“I’m really glad y’all are coming with me.” I change the subject as we settle on the couch at the back of the bus to play video games. From what I’ve heard, they keep the boredom at bay while touring.

“Yeah, yeah. As if we’d let you tour the country without us,” Waylon jokes, grabbing a controller.

“Have any of you been to Utah before?” I ask, referencing our first stop: Salt Lake City.

We’re set to arrive there in two days, leaving now from my labels’ stronghold in Nashville. We’re kicking off the tour with two sold-out nights at the Delta Center, which seats 20,000 people. I literally cannot comprehend how so many people want to see me, especially in a state I’ve never even stepped foot in.

“Nope,” Ethan says. A beam of sunlight moves directly onto him as the bus takes a curve, illuminating his auburn hair and blue eyes.

Waylon shakes his head.

“Me neither. I’m ready to scratch it off,” Nash answers.

“What?” I ask.

“My sister gave me one of those scratch-off maps of the country. I only have five states scratched off so far.”

“I should get one of those for all the women I sleep with,” Ethan says. “I want one from every state.”

Nash, Waylon, and I groan in unison. Ethan has always been a playboy, taking advantage of his incredibly good looks. I gave up keeping track of the women he slept with in college. It seems every woman on campus knew him by name.

I chuckle. “That’s disgusting.”

“No, it’s not. Don’t worry, dad, I always wear a condom,” he teases .

“I like Nash’s map better,” I say.

“So do I,” Nash states. “And don’t get any ideas about my sister.” He glares at Ethan.

“Speaking of her, how is Nellie?” Ethan smirks.

Nash pales. “You haven’t.”

“I haven’t,” Ethan confirms. “Friends’ sisters are off-limits.”

“At least you have some decency. Keep away from Olivia, too,” I add, referencing my older sister.

“Come on, guys, don’t you have any faith in me?” Ethan asks.

“No, we don’t,” Nash answers.

“I have some boundaries. And anyway, it’s not like I don’t respect women. I respect them a lot. I just also want to sleep with as many of them as possible.” Ethan grins roguishly.

“Shut up, Ethan,” I joke.

“Yeah, man, quit while you’re ahead,” Waylon says, clapping Ethan on the shoulder affectionately.

“So who’s going to cover me when I head into this cave?” I ask, drawing our attention back to the game.

After a few hours of gaming, we pull over at a rest stop so our driver can fill up on gas and stretch his legs. We head inside, craving some beers and snacks.

As we’re in line for the checkout, junk food in hand, Ethan points to a magazine. “If anyone could get me to give up my bachelor ways, it’s her.”

I turn around to look, shocked to see Willow, the girl I met on New Year’s. She’s sitting in a glamorous midnight blue ball gown, angled slightly away from the camera, looking over her shoulder directly into the lens. She has her elbows propped up on her knees, her face in her hands as she stares out at me. She looks…colder than she looked on New Year’s, no pun intended.

“She’s so hot,” Ethan repeats, practically drooling .

“Who, Willow Jordan?” Nash asks. “Isn’t she supposed to be really mean or something?”

“No, not Willow,” Ethan scoffs. “ Heena Badahl .” He points to the magazine next to Willow’s, featuring a stunning South Asian woman posing in a similarly dramatic fashion. I recognize her from a poster he kept in his room all throughout college—gross.

Willow Jordan , I think to myself. Fuck, of course, I know that name… everyone knows that name. I just didn’t connect the dots between “Willow Jordan” and the girl I met on the rooftop of the Empire State Building. She seemed so…real. I guess that’s why I didn’t equate Willow, the model on the rooftop, with Willow Jordan, one of the most well-known names of our generation.

“And anyway, what do you know about Willow Jordan?” Ethan asks Nash.

“Nothing. Nellie just talks about celebrities all the time.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “Riley, why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?” he adds.

“Willow’s not mean,” I say, still in a state of shock.

“You know her?” Ethan balks.

“I met her once. But I didn’t know she was Willow Jordan .”

Ethan laughs. “Bro, how did you not know who Willow Jordan was?”

“I mean, I know the name. I just didn’t recognize her.”

“Where did you meet her? Did she look like that in real life?” he prods.

“New Year’s party. Stop being gross, Ethan. She was nice.”

“So, she wasn’t that pretty,” he says as a statement rather than as a question.

“She was the best-looking girl I’ve ever seen in my life,” I correct. “Now, drop it unless you’d want her talking about you that way. ”

“I would kill for her to talk about me that way,” Ethan responds. “But, I’d prefer it if Heena did.” He practically swoons.

I roll my eyes. “I forgot who I was talking to.”

“What’d I miss?” Waylon asks, joining us at the checkout after a quick bathroom run.

“Riley’s now famous enough that he knows Willow Jordan,” Ethan summarizes.

“I wouldn’t say I know her,” I protest. “I met her once, okay?”

“No need to get so defensive.” Ethan smirks. “It’s not like I’m trying to steal your girl,”

“She’s not my girl, and you’re totally trying to steal her.”

“Well, if she’s not your girl, she can’t be stolen, right?” Waylon raises his eyebrows.

“Exactly. Come on guys, enough of this. Let’s get back on the bus,” I say, leading the way out of the rest stop.

“Someone’s touchy,” I hear Waylon loudly whisper behind my back.