Tetris in Red

11: Tetris in Chaos

11: Tetris in Chaos

Rhys

"What were you going to say?"

Holland looks up briefly then continue typing away on his phone. I can't imagine how many people he's chatting with if he can't even spare anyone a glance for a minute. My phone hardly ever rings, or pings with a message for that matter. If it does, it's usually the billing company reminding me of my due dates.

Then again, Holland Mayhem is an agent for tons and tons of well-known celebrities. He's probably getting messages and calls or alerts from his clients twenty-four-seven.

His typing quickens before his gaze reluctantly turns toward me. I wait for him to finish what he's typing, all the while staring at him rather pointedly, wanting to make him feel awkward and talk. After several painful seconds, he finally puts his phone in his pocket and gives his full attention to me.

He frowns. For a moment, I think he's figuring out what he's going to say, but then again, this is Holland we're talking about. "What did you say?"

I purse my lips, trying to conjure more semblance of patience. "I'm asking what were you going to say at the airport. You said we'll discuss whatever it is in the car," I explain as slowly as I can.

Holland doesn't like that. He scoffs, "I'm not a five-year-old, Blocks." I force to swallow my retort as he continues. "You can talk to me like a matured adult."

"So what were you saying?"

"That you shouldn't whine when you'd been ignored for five minutes. Some of us have other things to do."

It's in the tip of my tongue to tell him to fuck off and that we'd been sitting in this car for half an hour now, but I hold it all back. I'm starting to believe that he's as closed-minded as my initial impression of him. "I meant, what were you going to say back there."

"Oh." Yes. Oh. "About the deal."

"What about it?"

"It's not only about you designing publication materials for Eunoia's next album." He leans back against his seat. "I want you to spend time with him—Hold on."

I blink at him, my jaw-dropping as I process what he said. "I'm sorry, would you like to elaborate?" He opens his mouth, about to answer, but I cut him off. Panicking as it registers what he's saying. "Do you mean spend time with him like... as in spend time with him? You know, if this is about what he posted in his IG account. I haven't seen any cameras around me, so I supposed it finally died down and we can move on? I'm not going to pretend as his girlfriend, Holland!"

I'm breathing hard when I finish talking and look at him in trepidation. Cold sweat cascade down my forehead in rivulets as Holland stares at me blankly.

He tilts his head. I half expect what he's going to say will relax me. "Not as his girlfriend, no. Just spend time with him more since you're going to anyway. You're not going to tell the media anything, nor will you assume anything. We'll just allow them to speculate, but it ends there. No confirmation needed."

I jerk back. "I'm not spending time with him. My job here is being a graphic designer. That is all. I'm not going to be part of your publicity stunt."

He smirks. "Too bad you're in it already." Leaning forward, he says lowly, "You're already in their radar, Blocks. They already know you and had probably dissected your life piece by piece by now. Come to think of it. You'll be on this whole tour to collaborate with his people and spend time with him to talk about his visions. There's no doubt there'll be photographs of you two."

"Then why do I have to spend more time with him if we'll get the same results!"

"Hitting two birds with one stone. Eunoia needed a popularity boost."

"Shouldn't you be needing to put all the fans' attention to their upcoming album and not a scandal?"

He lets out a hearty chuckle. "Anything is good publicity, Blocks. Anything to make them talk about an artist—in this case, a band—is good. Eunoia's been quiet since their recent album took off. The public needs something fresh to talk about."

I just stared at him.

"We'll pay you double."

I snickered. "I'm financially stable, thanks." My whole expression sobered, not giving him a chance to talk. "I don't want to be involved with him romantically, even if it's just in the public eye. I'm coming with you to do a job and free you all out of your debt."

Surely, they can just pay me the money and I'll go on my way. But this is the break I've been waiting for. Doing publication materials for a globally famous band will secure me for the next five years or more. The deal Holland had given me can open more doors. And I'm not about to waste it by being a desperate money-grabbing bitch. I want to avoid the prospect of looking for a sugar daddy as long as I can. Not that I'm going to get one as soon as I hit the puddle. You know, just in case.

But I'm not allowing them to turn the tables on me.

I clucked my tongue. "Not gonna do it. Case closed."

xxx

Did I tell you that I'm not going to follow him in London?

What a liar, I am.

As the soles of my shoes collide with the London ground, I feel the concert's vibe resonating through the air. It's almost exhilarating like I'm breathing new air.

The fans' chorus of cheers is deafening as we walk through the backdoor entrance. Four bulky guys guard the door and Holland only nods at one of them before they let us in. Our feet try to avoid thick wires resting on the floor like vines and people walking to and fro in a rush. I follow Holland as he guides me toward a room located near the stage.

I can hear Toro and Peyton entertaining the crowd from the gigantic speaker on the darkened corner. Their voices animated, and my mind can almost picture their fans laughing along with their silly words. My eyes briefly wander about. Though I'm not sure what I'm trying to find, I guess they have a mind of their own.

I sense him before I see him. His gray eyes peer at me as the shock course through my system upon seeing him. I don't know why, it's not like I'm not expecting to meet him here. It's their concert after all. I just thought I don't have to deal with him until I negotiate the contract with his team.

His hand holding a water bottle freezes mid-air, his mouth halfway open as if he can't believe what he's seeing. My gaze travels downward, assessing him. His tanned skin misted with sweat, his hair even more so as the ends of the strands cling to his forehead. He's wearing nothing but low-waisted jeans and I suppose, there's nothing stopping my eyes from checking him out. But still, I force my eyes upward, right after I notice every outline of his chest and his abdomen glistening under the blue and yellow lights lighting up the stage.

He walks toward me, his stride slow as if taking his time. As if he's still convincing himself that I'm not here.

When he finally stands before me, I suck in a breath. I'm not going to lie and say that these past seven days gone by in a blur without me expecting. That somehow, in those days, he dug around in his brain enough to remember me. I mean, what the hell. I'm the one who owned the notebook he's stolen. I'm the one who wrote the songs—poems—that made him millions.

But still, I can't help but feel disappointment eating up my entire being as his eyes harden when he realizes he isn't dreaming. That I'm really here.

"Rhys?"