2. #EricThornObsessed

#ERICTHORNOBSESSED

Eric opened Twitter and pulled up the list of trending topics.

#EricThornObsessed

21.8 million tweets

“Shit,” he swore softly, chucking his phone down on the bed beside him. Still third on the list. The damn thing refused to die. Couldn’t all those stalker-iffic parasites find anything better to obsess about?

At least he wasn’t first anymore.

He slumped back against the velvet-upholstered headboard of the hotel bed. A lock of his shaggy, dark-brown hair fell over his eyes, and he raked it away in annoyance, grimacing at the crunchy texture of leftover hair gel. He should have showered before turning in last night. He’d put in another sixteen-hour day of interviews yesterday, and he’d been too tired to do much more than kick off his clothes and pass out on top of the covers by the time he made it back to his hotel room.

No point showering now anyway. His morning workout regimen began in twenty minutes, and his trainer would give him hell if he showed up late. Then again, his hairstylist would give him hell if he showed up in the makeup chair afterward with a tangle of sweaty, hair-gel-caked disgustingness. Maybe he should hop in the shower just for a sec…

A faint creak sounded from the other side of the bedroom door, and Eric paused, his spine stiffening. Someone was in his suite. Maid service? No. They knew better. Did he forget to turn the deadbolt before he passed out last night? But then it could only be—

He shrank back against the pillows as the bedroom doorknob turned.

“Who’s there?” His lips formed the shape of the words, but there wasn’t enough air in his lungs to make a sound. He grabbed a bedsheet to cover himself—undressed except for yesterday’s pair of boxer briefs—while his eyes made a quick scan of the room. Anything he could use as a weapon? Bedside lamp? No. Just wall sconces in here. No ashtrays either. Shit! Maybe that ceramic vase over there—

“Hey, kid, you decent?”

Eric squeezed his eyes shut at the sound of the familiar voice. He relaxed his death grip on the bedsheet as his manager, Maury, sauntered into the room.

“Dude!” Eric exclaimed, his heart fluttering like a caught bird inside his chest. “You don’t even knock anymore?”

“Sorry, kid. Were you sleeping?” Maury looked like he’d been up for hours. Eric couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his manager dressed in anything other than polished wingtip shoes and designer-label suits. The man deserved a GQ fashion spread—probably could’ve landed one for himself, if he hadn’t been so short and fat and bald.

“No, I wasn’t sleeping,” Eric said. “That’s not the point. This is my bedroom!”

Maury roved his eyes appreciatively around the well-appointed room. “Technically, this is a hotel suite paid for by your record label,” he said, brushing a hand against the duvet cover. “What is this, Egyptian cotton? Probably eight hundred thread count. Did you sleep cozy?” His manager didn’t bother to mention the room rate, and Eric knew better than to ask.

“So we’re not even going to pretend I have privacy anymore?”

Maury poked a toe at the pile of dirty clothes that lay discarded on the hand-loomed carpeting. “Maybe hang a sock on the door if you’re gonna have a girl in here,” he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. Eric made no response. He punched his fist into one of the overstuffed pillows.

“Oh, come on, kid. Lighten up. It’s a joke!”

“You’re hilarious, Maury.”

“Relax! I’ll knock next time. I promise.”

“Thank you. Can I get dressed now?” Eric clasped the bedsheet tighter around his shoulders, but his manager didn’t take the hint. “What?” Eric asked. “Is there something you needed?”

Maury reached for Eric’s cell phone. “Yeah, I just got off the horn with social media. The #EricThornObsessed trend fell to number three overnight, so they want you to give it a little shot in the arm—”

“No!” Eric swatted the phone out of reach before his manager could get his paws on it.

“They just want you to do a little follow spree,” Maury said. “Follow a few fan accounts. You know the drill.”

Eric thought he might throw up. Seriously? Did those words seriously just come out of Maury’s mouth? Didn’t anyone at his record label watch the news?

Eric buried his head in his hands. He knew he must sound like a broken record, the way he brought up the murder case on a daily basis, but he couldn’t put the ugly story out of his mind. His manager’s words had summoned up all the sordid details once again. A follow spree… Eric let out a low moan.

Maury cast his eyes upward. “Oh, for the love of God,” he said. “Let me guess. Dorian Cromwell?”

“Maury, don’t you get it? That’s exactly what happened to him! He did a follow spree!”

“Kid, I understand you’re freaked out, but—”

“He followed some obsessed teenager, and she got all carried away. Convinced herself that they were soul mates. Star-crossed lovers. Some bullshit like that. So she found out where he was staying and waited for him to come out of his hotel. And when he didn’t quite see it the same way?” Eric tilted back his head and slashed a hand across his throat.

“Listen to me, kiddo.” Maury shuffled over to the side of the bed and dropped a fatherly hand on Eric’s shoulder. “That girl had issues. You understand that, right? They locked her up. It was a one-in-a-million thing—”

“See, that would be a lot more reassuring if I didn’t have fourteen million Twitter followers.”

“Eric—”

“So, by that math, I only have fourteen potential ax murderers following me. No big deal.”

Maury laughed. “You need to stop watching the news, my friend, and maybe try showing your followers some gratitude.” His manager reached again for the cell phone resting on the mattress. “Here,” Maury said, tapping at the phone. “Do the follow spree. You can pick the fans yourself. You just have to include this one.”

Eric glanced at the Twitter account that Maury pulled up on the screen.

Tessa H @TessaHeartsEric

FOLLOWERS

30.1K

“Why her?” Eric asked. He ran his eyes down her recent tweets—all various pictures of him, shirtless, with a link to some website called Wattpad and the hashtag #EricThornObsessed.

“She’s the one who started the trend. She wrote a fanfic story about you called ‘Obsessed.’”

“Oh, perfect.” Eric snorted. “That sounds healthy.”

Maury waved away the sarcasm without taking his eyes off the screen. “It’s actually not half-bad, as these things go. The label’s thinking about publishing it and bundling it with the next deluxe album—”

Eric stuck a finger down his throat and pretended to gag.

“They’re just keeping an eye on it for now. But if you follow her, that story will explode—”

“Which is exactly why I’m not doing it!” Eric snatched the phone away. “I’m not encouraging these people to be any more obsessed than they already are.”

Maury didn’t answer. He merely shrugged and looked away, studying the tips of his shoes. Eric had worked with him long enough to know what the gesture meant. He could fume all he wanted, but when it came to the edicts of his record label, he didn’t really have much choice.

Eric pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel a tension headache coming on. He’d been having them far too often lately—especially when his manager was in the room. “Did the label get back to you yet about beefing up security?”

“Let’s just tackle one thing at a time, shall we?”

“Did you even talk to them?” Eric asked.

“Kid, you’re their number-one earner. I promise you, they’re not going to let you get hacked to bits by some serial killer…” Maury shot him a sly grin. “Just as long your ticket sales don’t slump.”

Eric rolled his eyes. “Great, Maury. I’m so glad you’re amused. Now do you think you could knock it off with the bad stand-up routine?”

“Whoa, big guy!” Maury threw up his hands. “I asked. They answered.”

“And?”

“And your liaison said yes. But then publicity got wind and nixed it.”

Publicity, Eric thought. He should’ve known. It always came down to those bottom-feeders, didn’t it? The geniuses at his record label didn’t care if he ended up dead.

No, they might consider it a stroke of luck. Look at Dorian Cromwell. Fourth Dimension had been starting to fade before it happened. Sales were soft on their latest album, but it had popped back up to the top of the charts the moment the murder story broke. The PR folks at Dorian’s label probably all stood up and cheered when they heard the news. Probably started the #RIPDorian hashtag themselves, just to spur the feeding frenzy a little longer. No such thing as bad publicity, right?

Eric clenched his jaw. There was no point trying to argue. He knew what the publicists would say—what Maury would say too—if Eric dared to voice a complaint: that he should be flattered. He had the entire Twitterverse obsessed with him. Literally. He should take it as a compliment.

Yeah, Eric thought, meeting Maury’s eyes with a sullen glare. Dorian must’ve been super flattered, right up to the moment that fangirl slit his throat.

“It’s just a little follow spree,” Maury said, cajoling. “You’ve done it a million times.”

Eric shook his head.

“Eric, if you don’t do it, the label’s going to take your Twitter account and let some publicist over there run it. Then you won’t have any control at all.”

“They can’t do that—can they?”

“You know what it says in your contract.”

Right. His contract. Eric folded his arms across his chest. Honestly, his manager had a lot of nerve, bringing up the subject. Eric had been on Maury’s case for months to renegotiate that sorry excuse for a record deal. Signing it in the first place was probably the biggest mistake of his career.

Maury cleared his throat. “I know what you’re going to ask, Eric, and the answer is I’m trying.”

“How much longer is it going to take?”

Maury didn’t answer. He turned to straighten his tie in the gold-framed mirror that hung opposite the bed. For a moment, Eric thought he didn’t hear the question, but Maury spoke in a confidential tone as he adjusted the points of his shirt collar. “Listen to me, kid. They weren’t born yesterday.”

Eric met his manager’s eyes, reflected in the glass. “What does that mean?”

“It means they realize you’re not happy. They see what you’re trying to do. As long as your parents are cosigners on that contract, they’ve got you by the balls. They’ll wipe out your whole family’s life savings, just like that”—Maury snapped his fingers for emphasis—“if you try to walk away.”

“But I’m not a minor anymore! I’m eighteen years old!”

“And you’re almost out from under it.” Maury raised a hand to silence him. “Just hang in there a little longer. Two more album cycles and you’re free. You can go indie. You can retire. You can do anything you want.”

Eric’s shoulders sagged.

“Three years, tops,” Maury said. “Maybe two and a half if we hustle.”

“Oh, so I’ll get out early for good behavior?”

Maury laughed. “If this is prison, kid, then sign me up.” His eyes made another circuit around the opulent hotel suite. “You wanted this, Eric. You worked your ass off to get discovered. Remember? What happened to that pimply-faced kid I found posting cover songs on YouTube?”

“I know, Maury,” Eric said. “I just didn’t totally understand what I was signing up for.”

Maury sat on the edge of the bed and punched him in the arm. “Come on. Get up. Go do your workout. You’ll feel better. Then you can do the follow spree after that.”

Eric groaned at the reminder. His workout… As if he had any choice about that either. Three hours a day of cardio and weights, overseen by the personal trainer of his record label’s choosing. It was all right there in the contract. And lo and behold, pictures of his perfectly chiseled pecs and abs featured prominently in every one of those #EricThornObsessed tweets.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “Just give me a few minutes to myself first. Can I have that at least?”

“Of course.” Maury stood and made his way toward the door. “You smell like a zoo animal, by the way. Did you shower?”

“Body odor isn’t in the contract,” Eric said dryly. He wrapped the sheet around himself, toga style, and followed his manager to the main door of the suite.

“Actually it is, my friend,” Maury said over his shoulder. “I hate to break it to you.”

“What? Since when?”

“Personal hygiene clause.”

“That’s ridiculous. Like anyone can smell me over Twitter!”

Maury didn’t answer. He already had his cell phone pressed to his ear, and he waved to Eric offhandedly as he made his way out.

Eric poked his head out the front door of the suite and swept his eyes down the length of the corridor. Empty except for a maid pushing a housekeeping cart. She spotted him, and Eric tensed as her eyes widened with recognition. A fan, he could tell, from the way her face flushed crimson.

Eric looked away, praying she wouldn’t make a fuss. She wouldn’t scream, would she? Or, worse yet, snap a cell phone video to sell to TMZ? But the maid lowered her gaze discreetly as she pushed the cart around the corner. Eric took a breath. For a moment, he considered going after her. Maybe he should offer to sign an autograph. He used to take such pleasure from little things like that. It only took a second of his time to make some fan’s whole day…

But that was all at the beginning of his career—back when his Twitter followers counted in the thousands, not the millions. Now he didn’t dare leave the safety of his room. Anyone could be lying in wait around the corner. Publicists…photographers…fourteen-year-olds with knives…

Eric hastily returned the Do Not Disturb sign to the door handle. He flipped the heavy deadbolt and checked it twice to make sure it was secure. Then he padded back toward the bathroom and turned on the shower.

“Personal hygiene clause,” he muttered under his breath. He turned his phone back on as he stood waiting for the water to heat.

Twitter app.