My Life For Yours

Chapter 10.

Everyone messes around until noon. Then a van comes by to take the boys to rehearsal, and Cheryl brings me and a few others down to the dining room. I don't learn anybody's name, but I assume that one of them is the tour manager, a diplomat from the label, head of security, and several other assistants.

Cheryl gives me a tablet to work with. "We'll all be following the same schedule everyday," she says. "Make sure you always know what's going on. Charles Evans' number has already been emailed to you."

"I'm sorry, who?" I spill some water on my lap. The actual adults ignore me.

"Charles Evans. We hired him on contract last year to--well, to do your job."

"What happened?" I've soaked up three napkins just trying to get my pants dry.

"There were...difficulties, between him and the band. We have higher hopes for you."

"But why do you want me to call him?"

Cheryl puts her glasses back on and gets up. "Just check in. He was with us for two months, he might have something you could use."

When I get back to the room I bring my laptop and new tablet out onto the balcony. I dial Charles. I pray for his answer--I'm just about the worst voicemailer in the world.

"Hello?"

"Yes, hi." I rush. "My name is Aidan Graham. I have just started working on this new book for the band. Cheryl--" I have no idea what her last name is. Luckily, he interrupts me.

"Are you the new writer?"

"Yes. For One Direction. I've only been here for less than a week. I was wondering if there was anything you got from your time with them that I could poss--"

"Wait." Interference crackles. "Jesus Christ, how old are you?"

I don't want to say. "Twenty," I murmur.

"What?" He barks.

"Twenty." I repeat.

"Twenty." I think he's laughing on the other end.

"Look, Mr. Evans, I just need to know if you have--"

"No, I don't have anything for you. I was only with them for a few months, and got absolutely nothing from them that TMZ couldn't have told you." He's probably in his thirties. My mom always said that that's the arrogant decade.

"Fine, then. Thank you for your time."

"Wait," he stops me from pressing END. "I do have something for you. Advice."

"What about?"

"Get the hell out of there. Make sure you get a work recommendation from Cheryl, then leave. I mean it."

"Why the hell would I do that?" The sun emerges from behind the clouds. I shade my eyes.

"It was hard enough for me to be in that environment, and I'm a thirty-six year old guy. You, on the other hand, are a twenty year old chick. Are you pretty?"

"I don't--"

"Of course you are. That's even worse. If the tabloids don't get to you, then the boys will. Fucking Styles owes me two computers--I'm sure it was him--only their management won't let me talk to him anymore." I'm pretty sure the last part wasn't to me.

"What happened?" I press the phone closer to my ear. I don't want to miss a single thing he says.

"Have you talked to the kid at all? He's a fucking sociopath. He made stuff up in every single interview I made with him--it was my editor that had to tell me that he wasn't actually adopted out of Russia at three. Almost lost all my credibility over that."