AFTER ALL OUR BROKEN PIECES: A SHORT STORY

KYLER

The interview this morning sucked. I mean, it didn't suck worse than the one before that or the one before that one, but the interviewer kept pausing while she was asking me questions, her gaze flittering across my face—never staring for very long—she'd try and get back to the question she wanted to ask and fail, distracted by my mutation once more.

I wanted to tell her to fuck off. To ask her if her mother taught her that staring is rude, and in this instance, extremely unprofessional but that would be a bad idea on so many levels.

Tom the super band manager, not to mention my label are both watching everything. Every move I make is orchestrated and monitored to ensure I am the cash cow they are hoping for. I'm ready to snap.

If I'm not on my best behavior, I risk losing it all. So, even though it's some of the hardest shit I've ever had to do—I'm on my best behavior.

We've just sat down at a decent in San Antonio, Texas and my mouth is watering. I've ordered a steak sandwich with a baked potato and it's the closest thing I'll have eaten to real food in a long time. My mom's a chef. My standards are high. Tacos and cheeseburgers just aren't my thing and I've spent a lot of time on this tour hangry as fuck.

Silas is texting someone smiling. I know whose making him smile so I grit my teeth and move on. Emmett is leaning on the seat reading and book, and Austin has his head back and eyes closed.

Tom approaches, cell phone in one hand, cash in the other. He tosses it down on the table. "Sorry boys, we have to eat and run."

"We haven't eaten yet," I tell him. "Just ordered."

He shrugs. "Guess we just have to run then."

Emmett closes his book. "Don't. Move," I say to him before I turn my attention to Tom. "Forget it, we're eating."

"No. You have a last-minute photoshoot."

"A what now?"

"A photoshoot."

I arch a brow. "What world do you live in where you think I'm going to give up a steak sandwich to go to a photoshoot? And what the hell do we have a last-minute photoshoot for?"

"Some teen magazine."

"What?"

"Listen, I'm not the publicist. I'm your manager and as your manager, I'm telling you sorry you missed the damned sandwich Kyler, but we're on a schedule. Now let's go."

I extend my arms shoving the chair roughly from the table and storm out.

The photoshoot ends up being in some shady brick warehouse in an industrial district. "Seems a little planned for last minute, Tom."

"It was planned—not for Fire to Dust."

"Who was supposed to be here?"

"Emma Castle."

I laugh. "Isn't a warehouse a bit sketchy for a girl like that? Isn't she wholesome, like America's Sweetheart type of material?"

"Listen kid," Tom says. "I don't ask questions. Last minute cancellation for her means you're in."

"So, what, literal poster boys for teenage bedrooms everywhere?"

"Well, yeah," Tom says. "Goes with the territory."

Half an hour later, I'm next to pretty boy Silas in a makeup chair while the lights overhead are glaring, baking me alive and a girl applies gooey makeup to my face. I'm watching the scar vanish before my eyes. A Mister Clean eraser for your face. Not the worst thing.