Ch 4: PRESENT

EASTON

March 2024—Oakdale City

After the makeup artist finished with my hair and makeup, she left the room, leaving me alone in the dressing room to decide when I was ready to head to the interview room.

I wasn't sure if I was ready for this interview. I wasn't even sure if I wanted to do it at all.

My body hurt a lot, but what hurt even more was my heart. I couldn't shake the image of the scars on Ilya's back from my mind. It had been haunting me since the previous night.

It hurt me so much to know that he was hurting in silence. But what hurt me even more was the fact that he didn't have anyone to care for him.

Ilya didn't have anyone. He was alone; he had no family to worry about him. I wondered if it was wrong for me to worry about him this much after everything he had done to me.

But I had hurt him first, so shouldn't this make us even?

You could call me a hypocrite for wanting to protect him now, even though I had practically shut him out and turned my back on him when Ilya had literally asked me for help, begging me to protect him from his own demons that were threatening to consume him.

"Are you okay?" a voice whispered into my ear, startling me.

I made to jump out of my seat, but a hand grabbed my shoulder, pinning me back. "It's me, Pierre. I'm sorry; I didn't mean to scare you."

I let out a deep breath as Pierre released my shoulder, rounded the couch I was sitting on, and came to stand in front of me, his hands tucked away in his pants pockets.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, looking around the room to ensure we were alone. It wouldn't make sense for others to see me like this.

No one else apart from Pierre needed to know about my condition of zoning out all the time. They would want to know what's going on in my head, but I was afraid I wouldn't be able to come up with an answer, and that might make everyone distance themselves from me. I didn't want that.

"Is it just me, or did you look... sad?" Pierre asked, his brow furrowed with concern as he rested against the dresser, ignoring my earlier questions.

His gentle tone sent a pang through my chest. Did he caught on? But how?

I shook my head hastily, trying to brush off the inquiry. "No, no, I'm fine."

But the words tumbled out too quickly, and my voice trembled slightly. I wasn't convincing, and Pierre's arched eyebrows told me he wasn't buying it either.

Pierre sighed, his eyes filled with empathy, and then, he emoved his hands from his pockets. He cupped my cheeks, his warm fingers sending shivers down my spine.

"Easton, you can't always hide your feelings," he said softly, his voice laced with concern. "Talk to me. That's what being band members is for – to support each other when we're down. You don't have to go through this alone."

His words struck a chord within me. My band members were more than just colleagues; they were my brothers, my confidants. I trusted them with my life.

But the fear of being discovered, of being rejected by the industry and our fans, held me back. The weight of that secret threatened to crush me. Once I put my sexuality out there, I would be finished. My career would be over. No one will accept me for who I am.

And the fact that I was having a secret relationship with Ilya, a gang member and ex-convict, would not only damage my reputation but also potentially end my career and everything I had worked so hard for.

My parents too...?

"If my secret gets out, it could end my career," I thought, the anxiety gnawing at my soul.

The industry wasn't kind to those who dared to be different. Fans didn't want their idols, their dream husbands or boyfriends, to be gay. They wouldn't accept me for who I truly was.

I tried to speak, to deny that anything was wrong, but Pierre's gentle fingers pressed against my lips, silencing me.

He shook his head, his eyes locked onto mine, filled with understanding and compassion. "Don't, Easton. Just talk to me."

"But I can't." I whispered, avoiding his gaze.

"If you're going to insist that nothing's wrong, just know I'll respect your privacy," Pierre said, his voice laced with a mix of concern and understanding. "I won't push, but know that I can see right through you. This isn't the Easton I know. Something's troubling you, and for the sake of your career, not to mention your well-being, you need to work through it before it spirals into depression."

Pierre's words struck a chord, and I felt a lump form in my throat. He pushed off the dresser, his eyes locked onto mine, filled with empathy.

"Thank you," I whispered, my voice barely audible. I swallowed hard, fidgeting with the rings on my fingers.

"The others are here," Pierre announced, breaking the silence. My head snapped up, and I met his gaze, forcing a small smile onto my lips. He mirrored it, and for a moment, the tension vanished into the thin air.

"Will you be joining us for vocal practice after you're done with your interview?" Pierre asked, raising an eyebrow.

I hesitated, knowing my schedule was packed. "I... I don't think I can make it."

Pierre's grin was laced with a hint of amusement. "Hmm?" He gave me a look that said, 'You're ignoring your band members, and you know it.'

I barked out a laugh, feeling a genuine smile spread across my face for the first time since Ilya dropped me home last night.

I shook my head, chuckling. "It's not that. I have a busy schedule today."

Pierre shrugged, adjusting his jacket. "Alright. Let's have dinner together with the guys tonight at the main house, yeah?"

I nodded, pulling out a gentle smile from Pierre. "Sure."

As Pierre turned to leave, I felt a pang of gratitude toward him. He might not have pushed me to open up, but his concern and understanding meant the world to me. Little did he know, his words had struck a chord, and I couldn't shake off the feeling that I needed to confront my demons head-on. Even though Ilay was my demon, and I still didn't have the balls to confront him.

"Call me if you need someone to talk to," Pierre said, glancing over his shoulder to stare at me before opening the door and walking out.

"Got it," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

I swallowed hard, staring at the empty space Pierre had left behind. His words still lingered in my mind, but I didn't have a chance to process them before the door swung open again.

Maria popped her head in, flashing me her bright, perfect smile. "Hey, Easton," she called out, her voice cheerful. "The interview is starting in about ten minutes. Are you ready?"

I forced a smile onto my face, trying to shake off the lingering emotions from my conversation with Pierre. "Yeah, I'm ready when they are."

Maria nodded, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "Perfect. I'll go inform them."

She paused, her gaze sweeping over me from head to toe. Her face flushed a light shade of pink as she took in my outfit.

"By the way, you look great in that outfit," she said, winking at me.

I chuckled, biting down on my inner cheek to hide my amusement. "Thanks, Maree."

Maria's smile faltered for a moment, and I sensed a hint of something more beneath her playful tone.

But it was quickly replaced by her usual bright demeanor, and she disappeared out the door, leaving me to gather my thoughts before the interview.

I knew I was leading her on, making her believe that someday things might work out between us. I probably should tell her that I'm gay and that I'm seeing someone, but I didn't know if she'd be able to keep my secret.

The interview was nothing like I had expected. I had anticipated a discussion about our upcoming album and the recent award the band had won, but instead, the questions were intensely personal.

The fans wanted to know what I was like before I became a star, and I found myself navigating a minefield of inquiries about my past.

I answered each question carefully, leaving out crucial details about my childhood, my parents, and the messy reality of my life. I was relieved to have dodged those sensitive topics, but my reprieve was short-lived.

The interviewer's final question caught me off guard, making my heart leap into my throat. "Six years ago, when you won Artist of the Year for your solo song, you mentioned a childhood crush. Would you mind telling us who that person is? Do you still have feelings for them? Did they ever reciprocate your emotions, or was it a one-sided crush?"

The room seemed to shrink, and I felt like I was suffocating under the weight of the question.

My mind racing, I struggled to maintain my composure, fearing that one misstep could expose the secrets I had kept hidden for so long. The silence was oppressive, and I knew I had to respond, but the words caught in my throat like a vice.

"It..." What should I say? I can't possibly say my childhood crush was a boy, I can't possibly out myself. Not like this.

The interviewer's expectant gaze bore into me, urging me to satisfy my fans' curiosity. But how could I? The truth was too complicated, too messy. I took a deep breath, releasing it slowly as I crafted a lie.

"It's no one," I said finally, my voice detached. "It was stupid. I thought it was a crush, but it was just admiration. I didn't have a childhood crush. I only admired someone for being a smart student is all."

The words tasted bitter on my tongue as I stared down at the floor. But instead of the interviewer's face or the sea of expectant fans, all I could see was Ilya Lermontov. I saw us skating hand in hand in front of our house, our laughter and joy infectious. We were happy, carefree.

But that image shattered, replaced by another, more haunting one. Ilya stood over two bodies, butchered beyond recognition. His eyes pleaded with me not to call the police, to listen to his explanation. The memory made my stomach churn, and I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead.

I forced myself to take another deep breath, pushing the memories back into the recesses of my mind. I couldn't let my emotions betray me, not now, not in front of all these people. I had to maintain the facade, no matter how much it hurt.