Page 113 of If the World Was Ending

“He is not my boyfriend,” Colby barked in a tone that left no room for argument. “He’s my best friend and my ex-roommate. And that’s it. For real. That is it.”

Trevor laughed. Kenner tipped his head back in annoyance. Burke frowned. “You should stop being the peanut gallery, Bowerman, because your shit show of a girlfriend is the next topic of conversation.”

“She’s not his girlfriend,” Colby informed their beleaguered publicist. “And trust me, you don’t want to see how he reacts if you call her that.”

Trevor stood. “I’m out. I’ll see you all at four for the recording session.”

“Trevor!” Ford said warningly.

“I’m not done here,” Burke called out, but Trevor walked right out the door anyway.

“I think he has a drug problem,” Kenner announced.

“Don’t say that.” Burke stood, his eyes wide and his face pale. “Don’t say that to anyone.”

“Seriously. Don’t.” Ford added a stern expression to his weary face.

Colby thought of the day Marley passed out at their kitchen table, half naked, and the condition of her arms. “I think Marley has one, and if Trevor doesn’t, he will soon.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Burke aged before their eyes. “I’ll call a guy.”

“A guy?” Kenner echoed.

“We hired a drug counselor to work with musicians who are… struggling,” Burke explained and flipped on the laptop on his desk. “We call them a bodyguard to the press and everyone else, but he’s essentially a glorified babysitter with a side of psychiatrist and a dash of MD.”

“Oh. Okay. Does it work? Do the musicians sober up?” Kenner wants to know.

“We have an album to finish and a new tour to plan, so it will work,” Ford promised, but Colby was pretty sure just saying it wasn’t going to make it so.

“It’s hit or miss, honestly, but the kid isn’t going to go to an actual rehab willingly, and quite frankly, we need him working,” Burke replied, and this business flashed its ugly face again. Colby would be very willing to take a break from the band if Trevor agreed to go to rehab. Apparently, even if he did, the label would consider that problematic.

Colby stood because Burke seemed to be on to the new crisis. Kenner followed as he made his way to the door, but Burke lifted his hand and snapped. He pointed at Colby. “I’m going to send you some stuff to read, and you'd better read it. The fan fiction is shits and giggles compared to this. Because at least those people are tolerant of your little… romance. But there’s a very loud side that isn’t, and they ain’t small, Colby. No one is pouring money into a debut solo album for a guy who has lost half his fan base. Remember that.”

Colby’s guts twisted, and a nauseating nervous flutter took flight in his belly. “I don’t have a solo album.”

“And you won’t at this rate.”

Colby didn’t respond. He also didn’t make contact with Ford because he knew he’d find an I told you so expression on his face. Instead ,he just walked out of Burke’s office and straight to the elevator. Kenner went right along with him, silent until they were in the parking lot attached to Revolution Records, waiting for the valet to bring their cars. “Do you love him?”

“Yeah.” It fell out of Colby’s mouth much more easily than he wished. Because it was so incredibly, sadly, wholeheartedly true. “But that doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah. I know.” Kenner shot him a soft smile. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

Colby got in his car after handing the valet a ten and drove out into the Sunset Boulevard traffic. He had a busy day of house hunting, which should make his heart happy, but all he could think about was how Hunter was doing. Until the day he died, he would never forget the way Hunter’s face fell while he sat naked on that hotel room bed talking to his dad. It was so swift and so complete. His eyes darkened, his skin paled, his jaw melted into his neck. It was like a building crumbling brick by brick.

After briefly telling Colby his mom was in the hospital and it looked bad, he dressed and tore out of the room without even saying goodbye, which Colby understood, but he’d longed to hug him and rub his back and whisper words of strength. He had only talked to him twice since that night. Hunter texted him to tell him his mom was terminal now. Colby had called him immediately, but Hunter hadn’t picked up. He’d texted back and told Hunter he was there—any time, day or night—if Hunter should call or text or anything. Whatever he needed, Colby was there. Hunter had responded with a blue heart emoji.

He knew Hunter was back at work now. He’d seen a paparazzi shot of him at the airport in Croatia. The entertainment news was spinning this into Hunter being difficult to work with because he’d delayed the production schedule by staying in Montreal for a couple of weeks. Colby didn’t understand why he wasn’t letting his people tell the world his mom was dying. Why was the studio letting the narrative be Hunter Law is making this difficult?

He met with his real estate agent, Cindy, who showed him three properties. None of them knocked his socks off. He had only forty minutes to get to the studio. The Tidal recording session would start at four sharp and probably run until midnight. They’d discovered they worked better later in the day, mostly because Trevor was comatose any time before 2:00 pm. The fact that he showed up to the meeting relatively alert this morning was a miracle. And the fact that he was basically defending Colby being gay and challenging why he couldn’t be out was pretty much a sign of the apocalypse. Or a sign he was on drugs, like Kenner guessed.

“Colby, did you hear me?” Cindy said in a lighthearted but chastising way.

“What? No. Sorry.” Colby lifted his Wayfarers into his hair so Cindy could see the embarrassment in his eyes. “I have a lot going on, and I flaked. Sorry.”

“I was saying there’s a new listing that my colleague just emailed me. She’s at the property now, and it ticks all your boxes,” Cindy told him.