Page 42 of Crimson Desires
My heart picked up as I saw him walking over. I wondered if he was going to bring up last night. How we’d fallen asleep in his bunk together.
“Hey, flower girl. Nice view of the stage from here,” Jack observed.
His voice summoned warmth to my cheeks. Funny how a few days of forced proximity with a guy you hate can make you not hate him so much anymore.
I looked Jack up and down and feigned an unimpressed expression. “It was nicer before you showed up.”
“Oh, we’re back to this now? Come on, Aster. I’m hot. Admit it.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re not the worst person in the world to look at,” I conceded. It was becoming clear that Jack wasn’t planning to bring up last night. “Anyways, how was your interview?”
Jack grimaced. “The interviewer was a dick. Damien and I ended up walking out midway through.”
“That bad?”
“All he wanted to do was talk about my solo career.”
I raised a brow. “Weird. I would’ve guessed that you’d enjoy the special attention.”
“Most of the time, I do.” Jack’s grin was small. “But not when I’m interviewing with my band. Wicked Crimson isn’t just about me.”
Jack went on to describe the interview in depth to me—from the interviewer’s refusal to shake the other guys’ hands, to the reveal that Ava had requested the interviewer to focus on Jack’s pop career.
“I worry sometimes that the guys hate me,” Jack said, crossing his arms.
“You don’t seriously. Do you?”
He shrugged. “Only sometimes. I mean, wouldn’t it be easy to resent the frontman of your band for getting all the attention?”
“I... I guess.”
Strange as it was, I couldn’t imagine anyone hating Jack. Not even myself. Not anymore.
“Anyways, I wish Ava had warned me ahead of time that Cal would be asking me about my past. I might not have gotten so touchy about it,” Jack said. “The thing is, I’m not ashamed of my pop career. At least, I don’t think I am. But at the same time, I’m trying to be taken seriously as a rock artist. I know that Wicked Crimson has only existed for a year, but it still feels like people haven’t accepted the change.”
I studied the troubled look on Jack’s face. I tendered to speak. “Do you think that it’s because you used to be a pop star?”
“Almost definitely,” Jack said, nodding. “Most people don’t see me as an actual artist. They attribute my music to my songwriters and producers. They credit my fame and popularity to my dad’s influence in the industry.”
I bit my lower lip. “I mean. You are like, a textbook nepotism baby.”
“I’m not trying to say otherwise. I’m trying to say that I’m not just my father’s money. My talent can stand on its own.” Jack’s voice was tight with frustration. It was clear that this had been bothering him for a long time.
“What if you were a nobody?” I asked. “Would you be happier?”
“Maybe. If I was a nobody, I’d learn how to be a somebody. I’d build myself up from ground zero. Then, no one would question whether I deserved to be in this space.” A rare flicker of uncertainty crossed Jack’s blue eyes. “I mean, at least that’s what I’d hope would happen. I like to believe that I could make it on my own—but maybe not. Maybe I am just a product of my father’s power.”
In the short time that I’d known Jack, he’d embodied the definition of self-assurance. His confidence bordered on arrogance. His trust in himself was unshakable.
Or so I thought.
His face, shaded by doubt, made him look like a different person.
I didn’t like it. As much as Jack’s cockiness annoyed the shit out of me, I knew it was an intrinsic part of him. I didn’t want to see it damaged by something as small as a pointless hypothetical.
An idea popped into my brain.
Before I could rationalize my way out of it, I blurted: “Jack, do you want to go out with me after the show?”