Giggles greet me when my gaze travels from my cell up to a car of women, girls really, waving their hands wildly in my direction. My reaction is ingrained, a smile, a flick of my wrist back at them, and then back down to my phone.
Never make eye contact. Once eye contact is made, they think they’re in. That’s when they want backstage passes and selfies for their Instagrams. That lesson was learned the hard way.
Give too much and they will take until there’s nothing left. Give too little and they talk about you on every groupie message board there is. Lying about how you never gave them an orgasm, or didn’t call when you said you would. Worse yet, that’s how I ended up on the front page of every gossip site with some chick saying I was her baby daddy. I’d never met her before in my life, but everybody wanted to believe it. Desperate to ignore any onlookers, I avert my eyes back down to my phone.
Little fucker is late again.
Calm down, EJ, you’re the older brother.
Irritation makes me take one last hit of the cigarette hanging between my lips before exhaling deeply and throwing it to the ground. With the toe of my boot, I grind the remaining filter and ashes into the asphalt of the parking lot I’m standing in. It’s a warm day in Nashville, feeling like summer even though we’re in spring. Typical of the six-one-five. Humidity makes the little bit of length I keep on my hair curl up at the ends. It tickles at the back of my neck in the down right, hot breeze. Like we’re in a fucking dryer, doing a high-heat tumble.
Leaning against my motorcycle, I cross my ankles, wishing I’d worn a long-sleeve shirt as I feel the eyes on me; at least then I could hide my tattoos. Normally I don’t mind when people look at me, it’s normal when you’re the son of one of the biggest power couples in music. I got used to it at a very young age, but today I’m trying to go a little incognito. Not so easy when you have full sleeves of tattoos on both arms, and a car-full of women have already screamed at you. The hat I’m wearing on my head is backward, and I consciously take it off, turning it around so the bill faces forward. The aviators I typically wear, I take off as well, sticking them in the neck of my shirt.
There, maybe now I don’t look so much like me.
Checking my phone again, I see a text from my little brother.
RJ: Runnin’ late, tell Mom I’ll be there ASAP!
Shaking my head, I roll my eyes as I read what he’s written. Little punk. I swear, I’m gonna kick his ass when I see him. You don’t leave Mom waiting. That’s why I’m standing here fifteen fuckin’ minutes early.
EJ: You better break some speed limits, dude. You know she don’t stand for that shit. Good thing Dad’s not gonna be here.
Our dad respects our mom like no other. He worships the ground she walks on, and god help you if you get in her way, then his when he’s busting ass for her. There are certain things you don’t do in his presence. Disrespect her, make her cry, or make her wait when all she wants to do is see her baby boys.
Regardless of that fact I’m twenty-six and RJ’s twenty-three, she still treats us, for the most part, like we’re kids. If it were up to her, she’d still have us in our rooms upstairs at her and Dad’s. She’d be making us breakfast every morning and tucking us in every night.
Thank God she doesn’t know what we do when she’s not around. I run my hand over my chin, scratching the beard I’ve started to grow. I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to stand the itch, but it takes a little bit of the boyish-ness away from my face. Now, instead of a boy band member, I truly look like I’m the lead singer of a rock band.
Finally, I see my mom’s Range Rover pull in, parking not far from where I’m resting against my bike. Being the southern gentleman she’s raised me to be, I jog over, opening her door before she can even turn the vehicle off. “Hey, Mama.” I lean in, kissing her on the cheek.
“Traffic is awful,” she complains before her eyes take in my