Spotlight

THREE ★ London, England

★

T H R E E

"WHERE the fuck is he then?" Jeremiah Tull shouted from his desk. Angry did not even begin to describe his current state. The man, cursed with a head of grey at thirty-six, began to scratch in frustration, hard enough to draw blood.

In fear of ruining the two-hundred dollar haircut he had recently received, the man paused and instead directed his fury to a black pen that stood innocently in a cup. Breathing in deeply, he proceeded to click with one hand, while simultaneously rubbing his temple with the other.

He sat in a large office, surrounded by dark brown walls decorated with flashes of silver and gold records, displaying his numerous musical accomplishments from the past years. Plastered next to the records were tour posters, many accompanied with the bold name of his most successful client.

Huxley's face stared at him from all angles, in different poses and with different awards sheltered in his hands. Different magazines took different pictures and smashed them together with a story; all of them mostly fabricated if not completely false. Yet, there was one thing that Jeremiah noticed above all else. All of the posters and magazines and gold records had one thing in common.

The dates.

All of the dates were at least six months old.

There had not been any magazine covers or stories or any recent news about Hux in six fucking months and he knew that was one thing that needed to change. Now.

That goddamn bloody bastard, he thought, checking his silver watch , he was supposed to be here an hour ago.

But he had an idea. A good one, that would hopefully restore the omnipresent nature of his client in the media, and the money in his paycheck. There had been no reply from his fool of an assistant, so Jeremiah thought it would be best to take this issue into his own hands, as he had to do most of the time.

With a grimace, he flung the pen back into its cup and used his hands to push him up from the desk, the wheels squeaking as he rose from the chair. His office was completely opaque, except for the small window that was almost always blocked with shutters. Today, though, the shutters were pulled up, and exposed a sad hallway lined with three vacant metal chairs, called by most with a grim frown the "waiting room."

He emerged from the room and found his way down the hallway, through another door, and walked past the recording studio and into the reception office, where he was faced with his dimwitted assistant sitting idly at the desk, playing with paper clips.

At the site of his fuming boss, the boy jumped up, and quickly threw his paperclip away with a terrified jolt of his arm.

"S-sir?"

He leaned both elbows on the desk, aware of and perfectly content with the boy's fear of him. He frowned, the light grey beard above his lips twitching. "Get Samson Louison on the phone and tell him to come in with his client to arrange a business deal."

The boy nodded frantically and leaped for the phone, dialing the number as fast as his fingers could move. Jeremiah grunted in mild satisfaction and grabbed his hat from a nearby hook.

"As for Huxley," he said, "I'll find that idiot myself."

★

The thrill of the race was unlike anything else he had ever experienced. Nothing beat the gradual rumbling of the engine that resembled the growling of a wild animal, ready to kill. The damp dirt flew up from the ground like confetti during every sharp turn, cooling the hot nape of his neck and adding another stain on the grey jacket, markings that provided proof of excitement and freedom for times where he needed a reminder.

Adrenaline pumped through his veins, filling his head and heart, while flowing steadily through his arms and legs. If there was a drug that could beat this feeling, Huxley Wilde had yet to find it.

"Smelling the roses, Hux?"

The yell and laughter had come from his friend, Chris, who was advancing quickly on his own bike.

"Even if I were," Huxley yelled back, bracing his body for acceleration, "you still couldn't beat me!"

The two laughed, while Hux tugged harder on the throttle and leaned deftly into the sudden right curve.

The trees began to clear, and he knew that the makeshift finish line was not far past the upcoming stretch of road. Being in first place, as always, he decided to try and beat his best time.

With a final pull, his motorbike bounded forward and headed to the street crossing. This was always the part that made his heart beat recklessly. He would be going at least 80 mph as he crossed, and if at that moment a car decided to meet him in the middle...that would be the end of it all.

It was funny, he thought, that it wasn't the hundreds of red carpets or constant stream of money that made him feel something, but it was this, when death was practically touching him, that he felt the most alive.

Huxley smiled beneath his helmet and prepared for victory.

"Huxley fucking Wilde!"

He knew this voice all too well, and it made him freeze. He jerked the hand brakes and braced himself for the fall. The motorbike refused to slow down as it approached the clearing of trees. In that moment, his instincts took over completely, and he let the bike move for him. It shrieked and skidded to a stop right as he passed the trees and Huxley's left boot sturdied him on the pavement.

Jeremiah stood leaning against his black car with his arms crossed and his jaw clenched hard enough to make his eyes water.

He pulled off his helmet and smoothed down his thick black hair. The initial shock had worn off, and all Huxley felt now was annoyance. He heard the whooping of his friends who were approaching and the rush of wind on his back when they passed him.

"Wanker!" one of his friends yelled at Jeremiah, and Hux couldn't help but chuckle. Ever since he was approached by his current agent in a bar a few years ago, his life had been a series of lectures and rules and curfews. He was trapped, both figuratively and literally, in every flash of  paparazzi and in the dark blue ink of his signature. And it was moments like these where he felt like he was fourteen, rather than twenty-three.

"Do you realize what time it is?" Jeremiah snapped and pulled out a cigarette. The smell of tobacco wafted towards Hux and made his throat burn. He opened his mouth to answer but was met with a hand. "Just get in the car, kid."

He hated being called kid. He hated the limo. He hated sounding like a whiny teenager.

But it was true. When he was seventeen and signed on to the record label, it was as if his soul froze in time. He never got to grow up and pass through all of the teenage angst. He never had the chance to sneak out late and fail miserably when he tried asking a girl out.

He had missed out on his adolescence, and he resented him for it.

But in some strange way, this was his life now. All of it: the limos, the fame, the girls. They came and went, just like everything else in his life. He had become immune. He would see his face on the telly and not recognize himself. He would hear himself sing and hear a different voice.

He followed his manager into the car and sat silently, wondering whether or not he would have to buy a new bike.