The Classix

(OLD) Chapter 31

    I consider the gaggle of chiffon-clad women to my left. When I nod in their direction, they bump each other excitedly, like children watching a parade. But do their smiles reach their eyes, or are they looking at me and mentally insulting, judging, stabbing me, even? Perhaps one of the voices I heard complaining about the way I look at Cartney belonged to one of them.

    "I don't think you have to worry about people falling in love with you tonight," I tell him. "Half of the people in this room are faking it."

    As we approach the bar in a corner of the room, Gerald and Lex disperse to meet other celebrities in their career fields. I scan the room quickly for Chapter, but I can't find him anywhere. I remind myself that he might not have left yet––I didn't see him while we were leaving the Hideaway, anyway.

    "It'd be a shame if DEFED killed me before my album came out," Cartney says, continuing from before.

    "It would definitely boost your sales."

    He gives me a look. "Wow, okay. No, I'd miss you or anything."

    "Just telling the truth."

    We make our way around a few more crowds, en route to the big stage at the center of the room. Two employees I assume must be from Buchan look as if they could burst the moment they see him walking up.

    "Good, you're here," one of them says. "Took you long enough."

    The other nods. "We were beginning to wonder whether or not you were actually going to show up."

    Cartney gives the man a wry look. "Oh, c'mon now. You know I'd never pass up a party about me."

    "That's valid."

    The other employee nods to me. "Unfortunately, your girlfriend's going to have to let you go for an hour or too."

    "What?" I ask. "Why?"

    "We're about to start the presentation part of the night, so we're gonna need Cartney up on stage, explaining the lyrics song by song."

    "Oh, right," says Cartney. "Well, that won't be long at all. I mean, it's not that big an album. You'll manage Ray, right?"

    The idea of standing around alone for an hour rubs me entirely the wrong way, but I agree regardless. "Uh, sure. I mean, I'll go around telling everyone about how much of a genius you are."

    "It is a pretty good album," one of the employees says. "Of course, Buchan thinks it would be much better if we were releasing this album three months ago, when everything was much more relevant."

    "The anticipation is worth it," Cartney insists.

    "Lately you haven't been too good on the image front––"

    "Any publicity is good publicity, right?" He glances at me. "I mean, we're only selling albums here. You don't have to love me to love what I'm making."

    "And yet, having them love you is always a plus."

    Cartney shrugs. "I'm not worried about it. These songs were written when everyone was calling me their golden boy."

    "That's right. You just need to go up there and put them back into that mindset," the man says. His voice grows more hopeful. "Make them remember how vulnerable you were, and how much happier you are now that you have Emeray."

    "It's a redemption story, really."

    "Exactly."

    They carry on about redemption for a while more before the Buchan employees whisk Cartney away behind the stage, leaving me to wander around as I please. As I walk the perimeter of the club, greeting other celebrities and their gritted smiles, something rotten seems to settle in the pit of my stomach. There's an oddness to this party––a facet in the air that rubs me the wrong way with every breath I take.