Strike a Pose (Blame It on Fame #1)

10. Riley

Chapter 10

Riley

“ A

nd that’s really a real tattoo? You’re not playing a joke on me?” I ask the first fan in line at my backstage meet-and-greet—part of the VIP package offered to fans at all my shows for a premium price. My boys are here with me, mostly for moral support since they’re just my supporting band. Some people ask for their autographs, which makes my face light up as much as it makes theirs. It’s our second and final night in San Francisco before we move on to a show each in Washington and Oregon later this month and then head to Canada before returning to the US.

“One hundred percent real.” The male fan smiles proudly as he glances between his tattooed forearm and me. “Do you like it?”

“I love it…really. I’m at a loss for words. This is the first time someone has gotten my lyrics tattooed. Or at least, the first time I’ve seen it. It’s incredible, I like how it?—”

“Riley, time to move on,” Tracy, my manager, says from behind me.

“Just one more second,” I call back to her, shooting the fan an apologeti c grimace. “Can I get a photo with you and the tattoo?”

“Riley Coleman asking me for a photo? Fuck yeah, man,” he says, putting his arm on display between us while I snap a photo.

“NEXT,” Tracy calls behind me. The man scurries off, giving me a final wave, which I return regretfully.

“Oh my gosh, Riley, I just can’t believe you’re real!” a girl says in front of me, drawing my attention away from the receding male fan.

“In the flesh.” I grin. “What can I do for you, a photo, an autograph, both?”

“I’d love an autograph.” The girl smiles back at me. “Can you sign my…” she trails off, moving her hair to reveal her ample chest, almost bare thanks to her very low-cut tank top.

“Um…sure,” I stammer, feeling my face flushing. I almost move my left hand to her side to stabilize her as I write, but I think better of it and let my hand fall to my side. No matter how many times I get asked to autograph women’s bodies, it never feels normal.

“Got room for a second signature?” Ethan smirks down at the girl from my side.

“No thanks,” the girl says before taking a quick selfie with me and skipping away. She must have sensed the sharp eyes of Tracy glaring at her for almost running over time.

“I just wanted to tell you that your album literally saved my life,” a young teen girl says, taking the previous girl’s place.

“Wow,” I say, speechless. “I think that’s the greatest achievement my music has ever earned.”

“It deserves every ounce of attention it's gotten and more.” She smiles. “Can I get a photo?”

“Of course.” I don’t object as she wraps her arms around me and smiles as Waylon snaps our photo .

“Could I get one with all of you now?” she asks, looking up at me adoringly.

“Definitely, I think you just made their day,” I whisper to her while the guys crowd in around us.

Tracy sighs. “We really don’t have time for two photos per fan.”

“It’s my time, and she can have as much of it as I want her to have,” I snap back, probably ruder than I should have.

“Last photo, then we’re moving on.” Tracy scowls, taking the photo for us before shooing the young girl away. As she hurries off, she shoots me one last shy smile over her shoulder.

“NEXT,” Tracy calls.

After the last fan leaves, Tracy sighs and looks down at her watch. “Riley, I hate to seem mean, I really do. But when you take longer than one minute with each fan, we run over, and then your whole schedule is thrown off. We’re thirty minutes late, meaning I have to tell the stage managers to rush through sound check, making them angry with me. ”

“Listen, I’m sorry, really. Is there any way we could start scheduling more time for the meet-and-greets?”

“Not really.” Tracy shrugs. “This is standard for the industry. And it's better for all of us if we rush the fans through. More fans getting to meet you within a smaller amount of time means a larger profit margin for all of us.”

“But I don’t care about the profits,” I protest.

“It’s not about what you care about anymore. What about the livelihood of me and the rest of my firm? Or the venue owners? Or the stage, equipment, and security teams? They all make money when you make money. And you want them to be able to afford to feed their families, right?”

“Right—”

“Then we need to stick to strictly one minute per fan. Welcome to s how business. We’re expecting you onstage in fifteen; don’t be late,” she says, exiting.

“That was harsh,” Nash breathes.

“I mean, I guess it makes sense,” Waylon says ambivalently. “As much as it sucks, Riley no longer answers only to himself. He answers to everyone who works to make his shows happen.”

“Yeah, but he also answers to his fans,” Ethan argues.

“It’s a tough spot to be in,” I agree. “I just wish I could have more time with fans. Rushing them through in one minute seems so fake.”

“One minute is enough to make an impression, though,” Nash consoles. “I bet those fans are posting all those photos as we speak or even printing them out to hang on their walls at home.”

“When I was really little, I met Dave Grohl at one of these things, and he signed a photo of himself for me. I still have it,” Ethan adds.

“You do?” I ask.

He narrows his eyes. “Don’t make me regret being vulnerable.”

“No, no, I think that’s great. Thanks for telling me, Ethan. It makes me feel better about what we’re doing here.”

“It really is an industry-standard,” Nash offers. “No artist gets to spend much time with any one fan.”

“Yeah, it just sucks.”

“I know, Cuz,” Waylon says, squeezing my shoulder. “And I hate to do this, but we really should head to the stage before Tracy eats us alive.”