Nathan

Your lips are poetry, your eyes a song/You taste so right but I know it's wrong...

Groaning, I slam my notebook shut and lean back in my seat, rubbing at my eyes and fighting the urge to storm out of the studio. I've been here for almost three hours now, and aside from a mediocre, typical pop beat to go with the lyrics, I managed to get only two lines down on paper, both of which I don't like. It's frustrating, to say the least, especially considering the fact that this is what it's been like for the past few weeks.

A quiet chuckle sounds from somewhere behind me, but I don't even bother turning around. Instead, I only mutter: "It's not funny, Nay."

"Come on, I'm sure it's not that bad," she airily says. "Tell me what you've got so far."

At her request, I flip to the page I've just been on again and read what might be the beginning of a verse out loud, almost stumbling over the words in my haste to get them out. They feel stiff in my mouth, clumsy. Not like something I would say, even though they all poured onto the paper from the tip of my pen just moments ago.

When I don't get a reply right away, I spin my chair around to look at Naira and see her reaction. She has stretched herself out on the small couch with a bag of salted peanuts in one hand. Since she's staring straight at the ceiling, there's no way for me to really see her expression.

"That bad?" I ask.

"No... Not bad. Just kind of weird. I don't know," she says and tosses another peanut into her mouth. "I mean, the lyrics sound nice and all, but they aren't you."

I grimace, letting my head loll against the back of the leather chair I'm sitting in. Having Naira as my best friend comes with one big advantage and one big disadvantage. The advantage: She always tells me exactly what she thinks. The disadvantage: She always tells me exactly what she thinks.

It's refreshing to have someone tell me their blunt, unfiltered opinion, but on the other hand her words, truthful as they are, can sting.

"I guess not," I say. "But that hasn't been a problem before either, has it? Like, Take You Home wasn't that genuine either, but that's the song everyone seemed to love."

Naira shrugs, which, coming from her, is as good as a verbal You're right.

And I know I am; Take You Home was my first song to top the charts worldwide and it's about... well, taking a girl home after a party. Which is something I have never done and probably will never do.

The unforeseen success of that single has taught me two lessons. One: I have what it takes to be a musician. And two: To be a musician, authentic is the last thing I need to be. I have taken both to heart and so far they have been accurate.

"So far the song isn't horrible though, is it?" I inquire.

"Of course not. Your fans will eat it up," Naira answers and finally sits up, dark curls spilling onto her shoulders as she does. Now I can finally see her face and the expression on it; it's worry, just like I expected. "Is that all you've written today?"

I nod, earning a sympathetic look from her.

Carefully, she asks: "When is your album supposed to be released again?"

"In, like, four months."

"And how many songs have you written so far?"

"One," I sigh. "One song and these few lines."

Naira grimaces, falling back against the couch's backrest. "Oh."

"Yeah," I mutter.

I know that it doesn't look too good right now. My manager, Murphy, keeps asking for updates on my writing progress and when I want to come to the studio to start recording. I have hinted at the fact that I'm struggling a little and he has offered to arrange some co-writers for me, but I politely declined. As unauthentic as my songs are, at least they're written by me, and I want to keep it that way.

I thought that maybe coming to the studio to write would help, which is why I'm here today. It's one of my favourite places, always comfortable and welcoming and usually inspiring enough to make working on my music an easy task. An isle of quiet in the sea of turmoil that has been my life for the past few years. My studio at Saturn Records has been Studio 6 ever since I got signed four years ago. It's a little smaller than most other studios in the building, but I don't mind.

On the contrary, I love the atmosphere and the decor in here; whereas the others are stylish and minimalistic, this one stands out due to the thick ornate rugs, the dark mahogany furniture and shabby leather seats, all dipped in soft golden light by the little lamps that are scattered everywhere. It's charming that way, a little bit old and a little bit dusty, the only modern things being the mixing console with its monitors, the recording booth behind the glass wall and some instruments that I like to keep here, gorgeous electric guitars, a keyboard, and a drum set.

I love being here and I love writing here, but so far everything has been going just like when I tried to come up with something at home, wrecking my brain for lyrics or a melody or even just some harmonies and not managing to get anything onto paper.

It might be lack of inspiration, or simply no motivation, but I think the real reason is the pressure. It's only the second album I'm working on; the first one was a huge success, one that I feel I have to repeat. Back then I mainly wrote songs alone in my room back in Chicago, not thinking that millions of people would listen. But now I do, and it feels like if I don't get this right, the whole world will be watching me fail.

"Maybe you should just let it be for today," Naira says in an uncharacteristically gentle tone, ripping me out of my thoughts.

I nod and rub my fingers over my temples, where a headache is slowly starting to build up. "Yeah, you're probably right." I'm silent for a moment, debating whether I should ask my driver to pick us up right now or if we should stay a little longer, when I suddenly get an idea. "Hey, how about we take a look at those videos Murphy sent me? You know, of the applicants? I'm supposed to pick one by tomorrow."

Her mouth curls into a small scowl. "Sure, let's see some pathetic sell-outs make a fool of themselves only to get paid to hang out with you. How fun."

I raise a brow at her, but choose not to comment. Naira has made no secret of her opinion on my management's plans ever since I first told her about them a few weeks ago. I'm not entirely sure why she's so against them, but I know that if she wanted to talk to me about it, she would tell me to my face. So I let her sulk about it in silence without asking, waiting until she's ready to speak up.

I'm not really a fan of the concept either; especially the idea of pretending to be with someone makes me nervous, seeing as I have never dated anyone. It's something I don't like to talk about with anyone other than Naira and my brother, but to me it feels like it's an elephant in the room wherever I go nevertheless: Nathan Lowe, twenty-one years old and a pop star, has never been in a relationship. People keep hinting at it, in interviews or at parties. What about you, Nathan? Is there anyone you're seeing? Someone like you surely must have a whirlwind of a love life...

And it's true, there have been countless opportunities, both for something long-lasting and for something more... casual, but in the end I never followed through.

Of course my lack of public relationships only motivates people to come to their own conclusions. They're grasping at straws; whenever I talk with anyone in public, fans freak out over it, whenever I mention someone in an interview, people immediately assume we're together. It gets tiring, and also awkward when the person you're suddenly being paired with is your best friend or an employee.

Truth be told, this is the main factor that made me agree to the plan of hiring a fake boyfriend. Not the promise of fame or money, but the prospect of not having to vindicate myself and making excuses, of showing everyone that I do have relationships and that I'm just like everyone else, even though that might not be strictly true.

While I'm dwelling on all of this, I pull my laptop out of my backpack and wait for it to boot. When it does, I select the file that Murphy has sent me, a collection of applications that, according to him, looks promising. It's only a small selection of five videos, seeing as the entire project has to be kept under wraps and only a few people know about it. I know that Murphy and my publicist, Chelsea, have picked them, and knowing my brother, he probably had a look at them as well.

Despite sounding so opposed to the idea, Naira still sinks onto the armrest of my chair to peek over my shoulder as I click the first video titled The Jock. I grin up at her as she wraps an arm around my shoulders in order to keep her balance before I focus on what's happening on the screen.

The face of a blonde guy appears, not much older than me, with big grey eyes and a lip piercing. "Hi Nathan!" he says in an overly enthusiastic voice. The smile on his face is infectious, spotting pearly whites and dimples above the corners of his mouth. "I hope you're doin' alright, mate. My name's Colby, but it could be babe to you if you want a piece of this." His smile grows as he winks at the camera and gestures down at himself.

Next to me, Naira snorts unattractively, but keeps her mouth shut for now.

"My hobbies include surfin', goin' to the gym and of course, listenin' to music... Especially if it's yours."

"Yeah, right." I roll my eyes and reach out to pick up the notes that Murphy has taken on each applicant. "Good-looking, funny, confident," I read out loud. "Seems like he's got great stage presence and would be easy to play off of in interviews. Might become a fan favourite."

"He's trying too hard," Naira comments. "I don't even wanna know how many times he's filmed this. I mean, shit, look at his hair." She gestures at the screen. "It seems like he just rolled out of bed but I would bet good money that he spent at least thirty minutes getting it to look like that."

"True," I agree. He seems nice enough, but I have a feeling his easy-going attitude is studied and that if he were to go onto the street and be surrounded by paparazzi all of a sudden, that flirtatious charm would vanish within seconds.

Naira reaches across me and clicks onto the second video.

One after the other, we work our way through the applicants while comparing them to Murphy's notes. We see The Bad Boy, a guy with a voice like sandpaper and a stare like daggers; The Nerd, a younger looking brunette with big glasses and a shy smile; The Sweetheart, a blushing mess with a thick Spanish accent and doe eyes.

So far all of them are alright, but none better than the others. They're handsome, likeable, funny, but they somehow lack... depth. They seem too polished, like they memorized a script that they then spoke out loud. Like they're trying to get casted for a role, which is not at all what I want here. I want someone real who will behave the same way on and off camera, not an actor trying to stay in character.

By the time we finish the fourth video, Naira is even less impressed than me. Chewing on some more peanuts, she says: "I didn't know it was possible for a person to have as much charisma as a dead goldfish but I just got proof of that. Four times."

I can't help but chuckle at her honest disbelief. "Prepare for a fifth time then."

With that, I click onto the next and last video. One thing that I notice immediately is that this one doesn't have a title, no label for the guy who now comes into focus on the screen. The second thing I notice is that the camera quality sucks; whereas the others either bought or rented a professional camera, he's filming on his phone, and an old one at that. The picture is grainy, but still clear enough so I can discern his features.

Unlike the others, he isn't traditionally attractive, doesn't have a symmetrical face or perfect skin or hair that makes him seem like a model in an ad for shampoo. With full lips, unruly black hair, a strong jaw line and tattoos adorning his brown skin, he's good-looking in a way that only becomes apparent at a second or third glance. Not conventionally beautiful, but beautifully unconventional.

When he begins to talk, I'm surprised how nice his voice is. I guess I imagined it to sound raspy and a little unusual, but instead it's smooth and deep and strangely melodic. "Hi, I'm Elijah," he says. There's no smile on his face as he introduces himself; unlike the others, he doesn't bother looking particularly excited or upbeat. "I'm twenty two years old and I'm from Reno, Nevada."

He pauses for a moment, giving me time to tear my eyes from his face and take in the background. Most of the other applicants were standing in front of a white wall that appeared just as professional and nondescript as them. Elijah, on the other hand, seems to have filmed this in his own apartment. There's a bed in the background, the white sheets rumpled and looking like he left it that way in the morning, and next to it is a stack of books on his bedside table. It feels oddly personal to get a glimpse into the life of a stranger like that.

"In the form I received it was stated that you want me to tell you a little about why I want this position." His lips curl into the hint of a sardonic little smile as he continues. "I bet everyone's been telling you heart-wrenching sob stories about how they've always been a fan of yours and how your music saved their life or whatever. Well, I'm not going to do that." His eyes, which have been wandering about, suddenly shift until it feels like his intent gaze is burning right into me through the laptop screen. "I'm going to be upfront here. The only reason I want to do this is money."

Naira exhales a long breath through her nose. She's unusually quiet right now, whereas she couldn't shut up the entire fifteen minutes it took to watch the other videos.

On the screen, Elijah lets out a quiet little laugh and runs a tattooed hand through his hair. "There, I've said it. I'm not going to sit around and pretend I love your music and like you're my favourite person on the planet, because that's not true. If what you're looking for is someone to massage your ego all day long, I'm the wrong person. All that I can be to you is someone who's willing to work and who's going to be open and honest with you. I don't know if that appeals to you and frankly I'm feeling pretty fucking stupid filming this like I'm writing a bio on Tinder. So that's all I'm gonna say for now." He shrugs, a casual gesture that contrasts the defiant set of his jaw. "I probably just missed every single criterion on your evaluation sheet, but maybe that's exactly the reason why you'll want to have me."

The video cuts off then, without a goodbye or anything.

I feel a little bit dazed as I stare down at the evaluation sheet he talked about. He's right: he has missed a ton of criteria. Personable, Polite and Charming are just a few of them, but on the other hand there are also some boxes I can tick, like Well-spoken, Charismatic and Confident.

My management probably agrees, seeing as he's still an option to choose. I could look at Murphy's notes to find out his opinion, but I don't really care what he has to say.

Instead I turn to Naira, who is still suspiciously quiet and absentmindedly twirling a strand of hair around her finger.

"Nay, what do you think of him?" I ask.

"He's alright," she begrudgingly says. "At least better than the others. Different."

I nod in agreement. Elijah is the opposite of everyone else in this selection. He's raw and real, almost startlingly so. The others are candidates that my management picked because they fit a certain archetype, people who can be easily marketed in the mainstream media. He, on the other hand, can't be classified that easily.

I know what label I would slap onto him if I had to: The Rebel. Everything about him, from the look in his eyes to the way he articulates his words, sharp and precise, screams defiance. It's what makes him so intriguing, but also so intimidating.

I'm not sure if I want him around me for the next few months, but I also know that I prefer him over any of the impersonal, insincere shells. I feel like with him, I at least know what to expect, whereas I have no idea what the others are really like off-camera. All I'll have to do is hang out with him a couple times a week and live beneath the same roof. We don't even have to actually like each other or be friends, just tolerate each other enough to make our fake relationship believable. Really, nothing to worry about.

Picking him is a decision I come to alarmingly fast, one of those choices made on gut instincts that my brother always scolds me for. Still, at least for the moment, it feels like it's the right one.

Without further hesitation and under Naira's watchful eyes, I grab my phone and text my manager.

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And there we have it, the second chapter! I hope you enjoyed reading from Nathan's POV, since I'm going to be alternating between them :)

What are your thoughts on him so far? Oh, and on Naira?