Strike a Pose (Blame It on Fame #1)

15. Riley

Chapter 15

Riley

E arly afternoon, we finally reach Winnipeg and have the day free to explore the city. But before we wander around downtown, we beg our driver to drop us off at a gym. After two days of being cramped on the bus, we’re all desperate to get some energy out.

“Starting with cardio?” Waylon asks me after we pay for our day passes.

“Yep,” I respond.

“I might start with weights and end on cardio. I need to push some heavy shit,” Ethan says.

Nash nods. “Same.”

“Want to run around the city?” I ask Waylon.

“Perfect,” he says.

We throw on our layers and place our gym bags into lockers before setting out.

“So, how are you holding up?” Waylon asks me as we exit the gym and begin jogging toward the waterfront paths.

It’s cold as shit here, I think, pulling down my beanie to fully cover my ears .

“You mean, how am I doing, being away from home?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says. Even his brown skin is looking pale in this cold.

“Are you asking because of what happened when I went away to college?”

“No…”

“You liar, you totally are. In my defense, it was the first week, and I wasn’t used to being away from my family. But I’m not eighteen anymore, and I spent four years away from home at App State. I’m fine, Waylon.”

“To be fair, you called home every night of your first month , not week, there. And App State really isn’t even that far from home. It’s like a two-hour drive.”

“Hey, come on, some kids did worse, like actually driving home every weekend. At least I wasn’t one of those . And I only called that much during the transition period. After that, I found my rhythm.”

Waylon makes a little hum that could either be affirmation or skepticism.

“Pick up the pace, Way, I’m freezing my ass off,” I snap.

Waylon laughs and gains speed. Definitely skepticism.

“How are you doing?” I ask him. “That’s the real question. You’re not even done with college yet, you baby. Did you know your mom made me promise to keep you safe? At least my mom trusts me to be an adult.”

Waylon scoffs. “My mom made me promise to keep you safe too. You know her, she worries too much. I’m doing fine, but then again, I’m not the one with my face on the side of a tour bus, signing boobs every night.”

“Are you implying that I’m complaining about that?”

“No, but it’s a big change for anybody, especially for a country boy who’ d never been West of the Mississippi before this tour.”

“Hey, not all of us can afford to summer in Europe,” I quip.

“You can now.” He winks. “You could afford to take the whole Coleman family on our first European vacation.”

“Keep wishing, bud.” I roll my eyes, even though I’ve already started brainstorming ways to repay my parents for all they’ve done for me over the years—even though no amount of money could ever make a dent in the amount of love and support they’ve shown me. “You’re getting paid. You can afford your own ticket.”

“So, you’re doing well with the fame, then? You seem to be handling it all pretty well.”

“I’m making my way. It’s just crazy to me that I can sell out shows across the country or in countries I’ve never even been to before,” I say, gesturing around us at icy Winnipeg. “And it helps that I’ve made some friends in the business to help me adjust,” I add casually.

The second that escapes my mouth, I regret it. After seeing Willow on that magazine at the beginning of the tour, I haven’t mentioned her to any of my friends and made my mind up to keep it that way, even swearing Nash to secrecy about seeing her at the Grammys. If they knew about our friendship—or worse, how infatuated I am with her—they’d tease me incessantly about it.

“Who?” Waylon asks.

“Willow,” I say, running a little faster, hoping to avoid the conversation by keeping us both out of breath.

Waylon huffs, not letting his lack of breath deter him from asking, “Willow Jordan ? I didn’t know you were still talking to her. I thought you just met her briefly at New Year’s.”

“Well, at some point, I guess we exchanged numbers.”

“At some point? When else did you see her? ”

“At the Grammys.”

“You’re seriously telling me that you’re friends with Willow Jordan?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“Because she’s…Willow Jordan. I didn’t even think she’d talk to someone like you.”

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” I scowl at him as we continue to practically sprint around the waterfront.

“Nothing—I didn’t mean that in a Claire way. It’s just that she’s Willow Jordan, and you’re from the backwoods of North Carolina.”

“Again, why not? She isn’t Claire.”

“I know she’s not.” He looks sidelong at me, sympathy in his eyes. God, I hate that look. “No, it’s just… I don’t want you to get hurt again. I mean, if I were her, I’d be talking to NFL players, award-winning actors, famous rappers, billionaire business moguls, maybe even an F1 driver or two?—”

“I think I get the point,” I cut him off. “I guess I’m lucky you’re not her.”

He looks disgusted. “Ew, I wouldn’t flirt with my cousin .”

“Well, I’m not her cousin. And anyway, she doesn’t flirt with me. We’re strictly friends. She’s made that pretty clear.”

“Ouch.”

“Better a friend than nothing. And she’s pretty great too. She’s so sweet and genuine. Not anything like you’d expect her to be,” I say, thanking God that we’re coming up to the gym again, completing our loop.

“Just be careful, Riley. We don’t want you heartbroken again, no matter how good that album you wrote about Claire was.”

“Don’t worry.” I shudder, not just from the cold. “She’s no Claire.”

“So, did y’all know Riley is friends with Willow Jordan?” Waylon asks the group that night in a diner booth.

I try to catch his eye to glare at him, but he’s conveniently focusing on his cheeseburger. Nash’s eyes widen slightly.

“No way,” Ethan says. “I thought you just met her once.”

“I saw her again, and we’ve been texting on and off since. No big deal.”

“Dude, that’s a huge deal. Could you have her put in a good word with Heena for me?”

I raise an eyebrow at him.

“What? They’re like best friends,” he says. “A video of her is literally on Heena’s story as we speak.”

“Dude, you need to chill with the Heena shit,” I finally crack, laughing at him. “She’s tough, she wouldn’t even talk to you.”

“We’ll see about that.” Ethan smirks. “So will you? Put in a good word for me?”

“I won’t do Heena that disservice.” I grin. “Let me see the video of Willow.”

“Why would I show you now, you dick?”

“Fine, I’ll just look it up myself,” I say, finding Heena on Instagram and hitting the follow button before watching her story.

Willow is dancing around what looks like a rehearsal space in one of the shortest dresses I’ve ever seen—definitely high fashion, judging how weird its mixture of tartan and black tulle is. She’s moving her lithe body to the beat of some rap song while she skips down a “runway” outlined in tape on the floor, barefoot. She looks so radiant, laughing as she twirls at the end of the runway. Heena can be heard laughing behind the camera. It’s such a reli ef to see joy on her face, especially after our last call. I can’t explain what was off specifically, but she definitely didn’t seem like herself—which is saying something since her base state seems to be fame-tortured and hyper-vigilant.

“Hmm,” is all I say.

“Hmm?” Waylon echoes, looking at me, eyes wide.

“She looks happy,” I add.

“She looks like a fucking dream .” He laughs. “Riley, you’re in deep if you won’t even admit that much.”

“She’s pretty,” I say noncommittally.

Even Nash laughs at that.

“Guys, stop.” I groan. “Can’t we find something better to talk about?”

“Probably not, but I think we can at least try,” Waylon concedes.

Ethan plants his chin on his hand. “But aside from the literal masterpiece Riley is ‘friends’ with, nothing else is going on.”

Masterpiece…that could work in something , I think, jotting the thought down in my notes app under the table.

“We are on tour in Canada. I, for one, think that’s pretty cool,” Nash says. “I still haven’t bought one of those Kinder eggs with the toys in it. I promised my siblings I’d bring them each one from Canada. I don’t know why that’s what they associate with Canada?—”

“What are you doing?” Ethan asks with a wolf’s smile as he sees me.

“Nothing,” I say, clicking off my phone.

“Doesn’t look like nothing to me. Are you writing a song?”

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

“Fine, maybe I am. What does it matter?”

“Nothing, I’m just curious what it’s about. ”

“It’s not about anything. It's just something I’m working on.”

“Not about anything? Or anyone?”

“Nope.”

“Let’s see it then,” he says, holding out his hand expectantly.

I look to Waylon and Nash for help, but they seem just as interested as Ethan.

“Fine, but you’re paying the bar tab tonight.” I eye Ethan. I’d make him pay for dinner, but that’s covered by my label. Nights out, however, are not.

“Deal.” He shakes my outstretched hand. I unlock my phone and hand it over.

She puts Helen to shame,

Makes a Monet look plain

You'll forget about anything in a Louvre frame

She stole my heart and its keys

But I got away with the masterpiece

“Jesus, Riley, you’re fucking sick for this girl,” Waylon exclaims over my shoulder, reading the lyrics.

Ethan just laughs maniacally. Nash's eyes jump back up to the top, rereading the lyrics.

“It’s not about Willow. I just told you that,” I say.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Nash shrugs, earning a round of laughter from the other two.

“You too, Nash?” I ask.

“I’m sorry, man, but this is just…damning evidence.”

“So you think I shouldn’t record this? ”

“They’re pretty great lyrics. We just think you’re delusional,” Waylon says.

“Hey, I’ll let you guys believe what you want to believe, and I’ll know the truth,” I say, knowing damn well that they see right through me.

“Alright, man, whatever you say,” Ethan responds. “Can we put this to music and play it live one night? See how the people like it?”

“Yeah, nobody else will know who it's about,” Nash echoes. “And the lyrics are really good. You can just feel the pining.” He smirks.

“Fine, but also fuck you guys,” I laugh. “Now, let's find the nearest bar and rack up a huge tab for Ethan.”