First and Foremost ◆ J.D.

First and Foremost

The bright orange vinyl began sticking to his cheek, trapping his heavy sighs against his warm skin but James didn't care. Why should he care? It wasn't as if he had a modeling gig to run off to so the inevitable red line pressing into his cheek could stay. It wasn't as if he had an acting gig to prepare for so he could continue to lay flopped on the couch, feet dangling off the edge, wrinkling his clothes. It wasn't as if he had a solo moment in a song to rehearse for so he could let his throat roll an agonized vocalization around in his chest.

He'd left Rocque Records hours ago and yet he still heard Gustavo's shouts echoing in his head: "Stop smiling like that, I hate it!", "A garbage disposal has better timing than you!", "I could replace you with a mop and it wouldn't make any difference!", and his favorite, "Okay, do it again, but this time, SING ACTUAL NOTES!"

Clearly, Gustavo was wrong. ...He had way better hair than a mop so, actually, it would make a difference!

James uttered another body wrenching sigh.

It just wasn't fair. He spent so much time rehearsing, getting his vocals warmed up, loosening his muscles to better execute dance moves. He put his all into being a pop star! Okay, sometimes he could get distracted by the lights and the glitz and glamor but who wouldn't? Pretty people wanted to dress him, sculpt his hair, perfect his image (not that they had to do much on that front), have them joint their ranks, put him in the spotlight where he belonged. Why was it a bad thing? When it came down to it, he wanted this. He always wanted this!

Kendall, Carlos, and Logan didn't get it. He loved his buds, but that didn't mean he didn't see their eye rolls, hear their scoffs, or feel their dismissive aside glances when he talked about a potential modelling job or how he was, in fact, the best person to lead a song (or sing the whole thing, why split hairs?), or when he shared his dream of buying a house to turn it into a personal salon/display museum for his bandanas. (It makes sense to keep it all in one place!)

All he was trying to do was make his dreams a reality. It wasn't as if he was pushing his buds off a cliff to get there. It'd happen eventually. It was inevitable. (The recognition, not the cliff-pushing.) He had the face, he had the voice, he had the talent, he had the body, he had the face. He was born for this life. He was meant to be doing this!

But no one else seemed to notice.

Groaning, James turned onto his side, tucked his arm beneath his head and curled his knees up to his chest. If Katie were around, she'd point and laugh at him, maybe say he was being a big baby or some other phrase with big words he didn't understand. Thankfully she, the guys, and Mama Knight were off at an LA Kings game. He'd been looking forward to the game for weeks but going didn't appeal to him after the day he had. He'd taken enough hits to watch other people get tossed around like a ragdoll.

Sometime later he heard the distinct sound of someone climbing the stairs to get to the swirly slide entrance and yet he still didn't move. Instead, he watched dust motes float and around the shafts of gold light seeping in through the blinds.

"Hey, it's just me." Ordinarily James would've jumped up at the sound of Mickey's voice, double-checking his reflection in his lucky pocket mirror to ensure he was presentable and his muscles were at their peak. He couldn't let her see him at anything other than his best. He was James Diamond! He didn't do mediocre! This time, though, he stayed still, listening as she came down the swirly slide, the rubber on her docs tapping against the ground on her dismount. It was the only time she didn't knock before entering. The door was always open, and people came and went as they pleased, but not Mickey. She made sure to knock every time. It was polite, she explained, looking at them all as if they'd been raised by wolves.