Rye

                  The phone on the nightstand won't shut up. The sheets beneath my fingers provide very little resonance as I tap along with the rhythmic vibration of plastic on wood. It's my manager and while I know she's just doing her job, I fucking hate it. I can tell by the pitch it's about to fall to the floor, so I catch it at the last minute. My response is ready before I even read her request.

Cindy tell Ryan to go fuck himself. I'm done with this shit.

My fingers tug at the hair irritating my forehead. I erase the message.

ME: Yep. I'll be there at 2.

Sent. I'm doing this for mom, I remind myself to stay focused. One summer—I only have to play the game for one summer.

My dad loved this part of his career. He chased every bit of attention he could get and felt depressed when the spotlight wasn't on him. From the moment he sat behind his first drum set, to the night he ODed, he lived for the warmth he swore it provided. "You should be grateful," he'd tell me, "My fame provides these walls." The walls he'd been referring to were lined with framed records and pictures of sold-out concert venues. Walls that I had wished held family portraits instead.

The screen on my phone goes dark as I power it down. The last year has been hell and everyday there's a new story about my dad or myself in the tabloids. Insiders with supposed blind items about my family or the girls I'm getting with, get passed around social media like the breadbasket at a family dinner, everyone wants a piece. There are no insiders, it's all an illusion. The machine is guiding you to believe whatever will sell the most records.

My dad is a legend, and I've got three months to convince his fans that I can fill his vacant, but still-warm shoes. I swear I haven't taken a full breath since the night I found him and yet the machine wants to be fed. It wants scandal and intrigue, the raunchier the better. Left with no better choice, I have volunteered myself as tribute.

The shower water is hot as I step inside and let it wash over my throbbing head. The heat begins to loosen the muscles of my neck as try to remember my part. Go to lunch. Be seen in public. Pretend to fight. Look arrogant. Leave.

When I get to the restaurant I do as instructed and park my motorcycle right out front. Paparazzi has already been tipped off that I'll be here, as will Tinsley Lockheart, my on-again-off-again girlfriend.

She's beautiful as always. Her long, blonde hair and big brown eyes are what I noticed first believe it or not, then her nice ass and perfect set of tits. And if you believed it, you're gullible because I was drunk at the Viper Room and it was way too dark to see her eye color. She was a set-up by our managers, and we have been limping this one-night stand along for months to help build her career and cement my image as a rock star in the eye of the public.

"Hey babe," she calls with a little wave from a table in perfect view of the paps.

My lips press to her forehead even though I know she's going to get pissed I messed up her make-up. Maybe I did it on purpose. "Hey you."

Her spine stiffens. She needs to be seen as desirable, and I'm not doing my part. Her skin feels silky beneath my palm as I run it up her leg and a few inches higher beneath her hem. She softens, relaxing into her chair and playing with the hair above my collar.

"I'm going to miss you," she tells me and for a minute I believe her. She's a good girl, a smart one who is caught in the same game I am, hoping for the best outcome. We need each other.

"It's just a few months," I say, "you can come see me on the road." It wouldn't be awful actually. A little taste of home might be what I will need, and I should keep the door open. I know our arrangement has a timeline, a contract with an end date, but she's growing on me. She's a lot of work in that she has an image we have to be mindful of too, but when our schedules line up and we're alone we get along fine. And the sex is distracting, I could use some of that.

Her eyes stare into mine as if she's trying to read my thoughts. She knows her part of the contract too. This is the wind-down—the beginning of the end. She gets mad that I cheat on the road and then it will be leaked that we broke up, confirming I am in fact just like my father. Guilt rushes over me for a moment as if I've already committed the act. I'm a guy who enjoys women, but I'm not a cheater.

"I could," she answers softly. She whispers, "They won't even have to know."

I don't answer. This is the moment, although it presented itself a little sooner than I had hoped. I watch an obvious model get out of the car at the curb and saunter into the patio. Tinsley follows my gaze and for a moment I believe I've genuinely hurt her—maybe I have. The sound of air rushing from her lungs is loud and feels heavy. She pushes back from the table and begins to tear up. I can't tell anymore what is real and what's for show, but it all feels like shit. It feels like I'm a little boy playing in my dad's too-big shoes. My hand reaches for hers, but it stops just before I catch her. Let her go. The tour bus leaves in half an hour and her call time is an hour after we will cross the state line.

The flashes are blinding as they capture this moment. I callously pull my phone from my pocket and power it back on. Her message is the first to come up.

TINSLEY: Maybe we can do this for a little longer.

Maybe, I think. I wait for her to get into a waiting car before texting her back.

ME: It's been fun. Let's meet up in a few.

A few hours? A few weeks? A few months? A rockstar would never be clear. I hate that I know that. My phone slips low in my pocket as I make my way past the model who had the perfect timing. She wasn't a player in our game, but I used her entrance to my advantage. I don't even know who she is really, but in a few hours her name will be splashed all over social media and I'll find out then. For now, she's a pretty girl on the patio of a popular LA eatery and I'm the asshole boyfriend of a movie star that was cursed with the wandering eyes of his father. At least that's what we are all hoping you believe. I can't decide if PR people are angels or devils, but either way, they write the narrative we need you to buy.

I'm looking forward to getting a break from Ryan and working with the band's social media manager this summer. A clean slate. I heard she's young and knows a lot about all the major platforms, which is good because I rarely post and have no desire to fill my feed with anything. I like to make music and perform; the rest just makes those things possible. The older guys in the band are like family to me. I've spent more time with them than I have anyone else, my mother excluded. I appreciate them giving me this opportunity to make things right but recognize that I'm not a full-fledged member just yet. My dad's commitment to Free Pony has earned me an audition as their drummer this summer, but it doesn't guarantee me a seat at their table moving forward. Free Pony might not survive the loss of my father, and I stand behind them making whatever decision they deem necessary to keep it alive for the sake of their families.