Chapter 2: #EricThornObsessed
Eric opened Twitter and pulled up the list of trending topics.
#EricThornObsessed
21.8 million tweets
"Shit," he swore softly, chucking his phone down on the bed beside him. Still third on the list. The damn thing refused to die. Couldn't all those stalker-iffic parasites find anything better to obsess about?
At least he wasn't first anymore.
He slumped backward against the headboard of the hotel bed. A lock shaggy, dark brown hair fell over his eyes, and he raked it away in annoyance, wrinkling his nose at the crunchy texture of leftover hair gel. He should have showered before bed. He'd put in another sixteen-hour day of publicity appearances yesterday, and he'd been too tired to do anything more than kick off his shoes and crawl under the covers by the time he'd made it back to his hotel room last night.
No point showering now, anyway. His daily workout began in 20 minutes, and his trainer would give him hell if he showed up late. Then again, his hairstylist would give him hell if he showed up in the makeup chair afterward with a tangle of matted-down, sweaty, hair-gel-caked disgustingness. Maybe he should hop in the shower just for a sec. . . .
A faint creak sounded from the other side of the bedroom door. Eric paused, and his spine went straight. Someone was in his suite. Had he forgotten to turn the deadbolt last night?
He watched in horror as the door swung slowly open.
"Who's there?" Eric's lips formed the shape of the words, but there wasn't enough air in his lungs to make a sound. His eyes darted around the room, scanning for anything he could use as a weapon. Bedside lamp? No. Just wall sconces in here. No ashtrays, either. Shit! Maybe that ceramic vase over there-
"Eric? Are you decent?"
At the sound of the familiar voice, Eric squeezed his eyes shut in relief. He watched in silence as his manager, Maury, sauntered into the room.
"Dude!" Eric exclaimed, his heart pounding from the burst of adrenaline. "You don't even knock anymore?"
"Sorry kid. Were you sleeping?"
"No, I wasn't sleeping. That's not the point. This is my bedroom!"
Maury roved his eyes appreciatively around the well-appointed room. "Technically, this is a hotel suite paid for by your record label. And a very nice one at that."
"So we're not even going to pretend I have any privacy anymore?"
"Maybe hang a sock on the door if you're gonna have a girl in here."
Eric groaned and rolled over on the bed, burying his face in one of the pillows.
"Oh, come on, kid. Lighten up. It's a joke!"
"You're hilarious, Maury."
"I'll knock next time. I promise. OK?"
"Thank you."
"Anyway, I just got off the phone with social media. The #EricThornObsessed meme fell to number three overnight, so they want you to give it a little shot in the arm-"
"No!"
"What?"
"Are they crazy?"
"They just want you to do a little follow spree. Follow a few fan accounts. That should get everyone all riled up again."
Eric felt like he might throw up. Seriously? Did those words seriously just come out of his manager's mouth?
Maury looked back at him blankly. "What, Eric?"
"I don't know, Maury. Dorian Cromwell? Have you even been following the news?"
"Oh, for the love of God." Maury rolled his eyes. "Not this again."
"That is exactly what happened to him! He did a follow spree! He passed over some obsessed teenager, and she snapped. And she found out where he was staying. And she waited for him to come out of his hotel. And she killed him."
"Eric we've been through this."
"I'm not doing it, Maury!"
"I understand you're freaked out. I really do. It's a nasty story. But that girl had issues. You understand that, right? They locked her up. It was a one in a million thing--"
"See, that would be a lot more reassuring if I didn't have 14 million twitter followers."
"Eric--"
"So, by that math, I only have 14 psychotic murderers following me. No big deal."
Maury laughed. "You need to stop watching the news, my friend." The manager picked up the cellphone, resting on the mattress beside where Eric was sitting. "Here. Do the follow spree. You can pick the fans yourself. You just have to include this one."
Eric glanced over at the twitter account Maury had pulled up on the screen.
Tessa H (@TessaHeartsEric)
30.1K followers
"Why her?" Eric asked, as he ran his eyes down her recent tweets - all various pictures of him, shirtless, with a link to some web site called Wattpad, and the hashtag #EricThornObsessed.
"She's the one who started the meme," Maury explained. "She wrote a fanfic story about you called Obsessed."
"Oh, perfect. That sounds healthy."
"It's actually not half bad, as these things go. The label's thinking about publishing it and bundling with the next deluxe album-"
Eric buried his head in his hands. "You can't be serious."
"They're just keeping an eye on it for now. But if you follow her, that story will explode-"
"Which is exactly why I'm not doing it!" Eric snatched the phone out of his manager's hand and slipped it into the front pocket of his jeans. "I'm not encouraging these people to be any more obsessed than they already are."
"You really don't have much of a choice, Eric."
"Did the label get back to you yet about beefing up my security?"
Maury looked away and began studying the tips of his shoes. "Let's just tackle one thing at a time, OK?"
"Did you even ask them?"
"Yes, I asked."
"And?"
"And your liaison said yes. But then publicity got wind and nixed it."
"What the hell, Maury!"
"It's not good for your image to have photos of you surrounded by bodyguards who are more muscular than you are. It makes you look effeminate."
"Good! Great! Maybe then they'll all start tweeting pictures of my bodyguards with the little drool-y tongue emojis."
"It's not happening, Eric."
"This is ridiculous! The label has to see that. You have to talk some sense into them."
"I'm sorry, kid. My hands are just as tied as yours."
Eric felt his fists clench with frustration at his manager's words. It wasn't Maury's fault, of course. He knew that. Maury was the closest thing to a friend that Eric had left at this point. It was the stuffed suits at the record label that held all the strings. And they didn't care if he ended up dead. Honestly, they might consider it a stroke of luck. Look at Dorian Cromwell. Fourth Dimension had been starting to fade before it happened. Sales were soft on their latest album, but it had popped right back to the top of all the charts the moment the story broke about the murder. The execs at Dorian's label probably all stood up and cheered when they heard the news. Probably started the #RIPDorian hashtag themselves, just to spur the feeding frenzy for a little bit longer. No such thing as bad publicity, right?
Maury sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed and leaned across to punch Eric in the arm. "You gotta try to enjoy the ride, Eric. You're on top of the world right now. You're making a money hand over fist. The entire twitter-verse is obsessed with you. Literally. You gotta take it as a compliment. Try to be flattered. OK?"
"Yeah," Eric mumbled, meeting Maury's eyes with a sullen glare. "I'm sure Dorian was super flattered, right up to the moment she slit his throat."
"It's just a little follow spree. You've done it before. No one slit your throat."
Eric shook his head.
"Eric, if you don't do it, the label's going to take your twitter account away from you and let some publicist over there run it. Then you won't have any control at all."
"They can't do that, can they?"
"You know what it says in your contract."
His contract. Eric let out a long, exhausted sigh. "How are we coming on the contract re-negotiation thing, anyway?"
Maury gave his head a little shake.
"What?" Eric demanded. "I'm not asking them to change any of the terms. I just want to re-sign now that I'm over 18, so my parents' names aren't on it."
"They have their lawyers looking into it."
"They've been saying that forever. How long is it going to take?"
"Don't hold your breath, Eric."
"What does that mean?"
"It means they're not idiots over there. They realize you're not happy. They see what you're trying to do."
"What am I trying to do?"
"As long as your parents are on that contract, they've got you by the balls. They'll wipe out your whole family's life savings, just like that-" Maury snapped his fingers for emphasis "-if you try to walk away."
"But I'm 22 years old! I've been trapped in this contract for five years already!"
"And you're almost out from under it. Just hang in there a little longer. Two more album cycles. Maybe three more years. Then you're a free man. You can go indie. You can retire. You can do anything you want."
"Three years?"
"Maybe two and a half if we hustle."
"Oh, so I'll get out early for good behavior?" Eric muttered.
Maury laughed. "If this is prison, kid, then sign me up." He raised his eyebrows meaningfully as he looked around the opulent hotel suite. "They've held up their end. They've made you a household name - a millionaire many times over. Not to mention you get to spend your life making music for a living. Wasn't that your dream, when you were just some no-name teenager posting cover songs on YouTube?"
"Some dream."
"You wanted this, Eric. You worked your heiney off to get discovered. Try to remember that."
"I know, Maury. I just didn't totally understand what I was signing up for."
Maury gave him another little jab in the arm. "Come on. Get up. Go do your workout. You'll feel better. Then you can do the follow spree after that."
Eric let out a huff of air that fell somewhere short of a laugh. His workout. . . . As if he had any choice about that either. Three hours a day of cardio and weights, overseen by the personal trainer of his record label's choosing. It was all right there in the contract. And lo and behold, pictures of his perfectly chiseled pecs and abs featured prominently in every single one of those #EricThornObsessed tweets.
"Fine," he said with a groan. "Just give me a few minutes to myself, OK? Can I have that at least?"
"Of course." Maury stood up and made his way toward the door. "You smell like a zoo animal, by the way. Did you sleep in those clothes?"
"Body odor isn't in the contract," Eric shot back, with the slightest hint of a smile curving one corner of his mouth. He followed his manager out of the room and trailed behind him to the main door of the hotel suite.
"Actually it is, my friend," Maury replied over his shoulder. "I hate to break it to you."
"What? Since when?"
"Personal hygiene clause."
"That's insane. Like anyone can smell me over twitter!"
Maury didn't answer. He already had his cellphone pressed to his ear, and he waved to Eric off-handedly as he made his way out.
Eric poked his head out the door and swept his eyes down the length of the corridor. Empty, except for an abandoned housekeeping cart. He slipped the Do Not Disturb sign over the door handle and turned the heavy deadbolt to lock the door more securely. Then, with a sigh, he made his way over to the bathroom and turned on the shower.
"Personal hygiene clause," he muttered under his breath. He pulled his phone back out of his pocket as he stood waiting for the water to heat.
Twitter app.
Swipe left.
#EricThornObsessed
21.9M tweets
In the fifteen minutes since he and Maury started talking, another hundred thousand people had just added their voices to the chorus.
(Psssst. Did you know @TessaHeartsEric is a real twitter account? If you're on twitter, please follow her!)
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{Banner Image thanks to Forbidden_Beat}