Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
What I wouldn’t accept, was being lied to. “You don’t just add dates this late in the game, Drew. I’m not that naïve kid straight off a talent show anymore. I’ve been in this business a long fucking time, so don’t come at me with this bullshit and expect me to be okay with it.”
“Baby, you know as well as I do it would have only played on your mind if you’d known.”
I felt heat gather around my neck, like hot flames licking at my chin, my chest. I tugged at my collar. “That’s not your decision.”
“I’m your manager. It’s absolutely my decision.”
I swear, I was one word away from tossing the fucking table and storming out of there. “I suppose it was your decision not to tell me about tomorrow’s meeting with Sean fucking Wyatt as well?”
He let out a pfft sound. “I’ll deal with Sean. Just sit in the corner and look pretty.”
In that moment, it felt like Drew and I may as well have been strangers, like he didn’t understand me at all. I wouldn’t be able to simply sit there. I’d need to be prepared, alert, ready to answer any unexpected questions or respond appropriately to social cues like handshakes or high fives. “Well, I’m not doing a fucking talk show.” The waiter appeared by our table then, expressing a professional ignorance to what he’d overheard. “We’re not ready yet.”
“Of course, sir,” he said before shuffling off.
Drew, who had his menu open at the ready, snapped it closed. “You like Ricky.”
“I do. I don’t like talk shows. I don’t like being asked questions or cosying up to other celebrities and pretending to give a shit what they’re talking about to get a laugh outta the audience. You know this. I’m not doing it.” I’d done more than my fair share of those gigs in the past, back in the beginning when I was too young, too green, and too fucking anxious to say no. I could still remember the sickly feeling of expectation. The seated members of the public waiting with eager anticipation for me to say something great in answer to a question I hadn’t had the knowledge or time to rehearse for. Just the thought of it made me feel sick.
“Let me call Stefano…” Drew began, reaching into the pocket inside his blazer. Meanwhile, under the table, my nails scratched furiously against my palm. “…See what other guests are booked on the show that night.”
“Won’t make any difference.”
He dropped his shoulders, huffed. “You’re overthinking this, Hugo.”
“I’m autistic. There’s no other kind of thinking available to me.”
For a moment, we simply stared at each other. Drew didn’t call Stefano and I didn’t back down. Drew broke the silence first, seemingly by trying to steer me down a path of guilt. “Your fans are desperate to see you. It’s your home country. You wouldn’t be here without them, Hu. Don’t you think you owe them a little gratitude?”
Mother.
Fucker.
“I’m going to see them. On tour. On the dates I agreed to.” I sat back in my seat, chewed my lip. He’d pissed me off now. Of course I knew what I owed my fans. I may not be great at interacting with people but that doesn’t mean I didn’t love them, appreciate them. I wouldn’t have won Next Up without their votes, wouldn’t have rocketed to the top tier of the industry without their backing, wouldn’t have remained there without their ever-growing support. “Screw you, Drew. You of all people know how hard that shit is for me.”
Despite Drew only managing me for four years, I’d known him since pretty much the beginning. Our paths had crossed at various events, shows, parties and studios. The industry was like that. Its own community, of sorts. We’d been friends first, a little more at one point, and then friends again, and that’s what we would remain. Always. Manager title, or not. Even when he royally pissed me off. He made a good manager because he wanted the best for the Hugo Hayes brand but, ultimately, for me.
“I also know what you’re capable of,” he replied with a knowing smirk. Fucking hated that smirk. It drew his thin lips up at one side, tugged on the brown eyes that looked out below his mussed side-swept fringe, which was starting to grey a little around the edges as his forties loomed. Smug bastard. I hated the smirk because I knew he was right. Whatever he threw at me, I’d always got through it, would always feel proud as shit afterwards. Didn’t stop me feeling crushed to the fucking ground by the pressure beforehand, though.
“Look, let’s eat,” Drew said, placing his phone on the table. “Your appearance has been confirmed with Ricky’s team and, as of an hour ago, tickets for the additional dates not only went live but sold out. Now you’ve got two weeks to think about it. If it’s still a no after that, I’ll call in some ‘unforeseen circumstances’ and hope the money we’ll lose doesn’t give me a heart attack.”