Neon Red [Order The eBook] [Zayn]

52

(DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. It's important to remember this is all totally fabricated, embellished, and exaggerated for entertainment purposes.)

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I wish I was special

You're so fuckin' special

Radiohead | Creep

By September, after the show in Phoenix, I'd gotten word that all of the demos Shahid and I submitted for the next album had been summarily rejected due to a conflict of interest. They'd even discarded "One Chance To Dance," the generally adored track that had been in talks to be the lead single for September. After the hammer came down, the label and producers refused to expound on this so-called conflict-of-interest further, only suggesting that Shahid may have crossed the line in discussing particulars of the upcoming album with the press without authorization.

I was distraught, but beyond that, I was disgusted. After four hard years on this relentless circus train, marching to everyone's tune but my own and asking how high whenever the order came down for us to jump, I was genuinely sickened by this level of maltreatment. The tone in the meeting had been cold and dismissive; none of the executives keen on listening to my side of the scenario or heeding my appeals.

Shadid caved almost immediately. He bent over and took it right up the ass, unwilling to jeopardize the relationships he'd built with many of the London big wigs who'd made the final decision from overseas. Resorting to saying Mashallah as some sort of laughable Band-Aid for the whole situation. What a cowardly motherfucker. That left me scrambling alone to defend our tracks to no avail. I left the meeting and entered a void so abysmal that my darkest thoughts reverberated around me in an echo chamber of bitter hostility. Pure rage welled up within my core, making my hands lock into fists and my eyes twitch. Igniting a ringing in my ear. Blood-pressuring rising, whistling through my veins like the engine of an overheated steam train.

Aghast and humiliated, I refused to take Shahid's calls because he'd hung me out to dry when I needed him the most. He had insisted there was no point in fighting the decision. That this was the way the industry worked sometimes, and we just had to chalk it up to the game. He suggested that we turn to Allah for the answers men seemed unable to provide. I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, but settled for completely ignoring him instead. I knew he was just as upset as I was, but his hands were tied. And as the older brother, he was likely trying to keep it together for the both of us. The more I thought about it, I knew him too well to deny he was plotting some sort of retribution behind the scenes to make them pay for what they'd done to us. He just wouldn't voice it yet. Until that time, I had nothing to say to him.

Haz had come to me the second he saw the official tracklist that morning, knowing I'd be outdone. I wouldn't take his calls, so he came to my room every few hours to no avail. The next day he did the same, noticing I hadn't left the room, and becoming fearful that I would miss the show that evening. He kept returning and speaking gently to me through the door, literally talking to a brick wall, until finally Preston let him in for a wellness check because I had missed rehearsal for the upcoming El Paso show.

Smoke poured out of the room for the brief time the door was open. He eased in, coughing and fanning a path towards me. I lay in the bed like a dead tree stump, rotting from the inside out. It was every bit of four in the afternoon, yet I was still sprawled across the mattress, buried beneath the covers despite the LA temperatures. The drapes were closed too, so he moved to let in a slither of light from the balcony, cracking the sliding door to vent the place as well.