12:42 p.m. Tokyo
Kevin knew he’d be having a conversation with Matt over this.
He’d just told off a world-famous photographer, walked off a scene, and shut down what was supposed to be the last shot of a nearly four-hour shoot.
He still wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing.
Chem hadn’t objected.
Maybe she wanted the scene.
Maybe it wasn’t his place to stop it.
That was the part that kept bothering him.
Kevin stared at the screen in his hand.
The call connected on the third ring.
There was laughter in the background, someone singing badly, and what sounded like tambourines.
“Hello.”
“Kevin, I don’t have long to talk. My karaoke card is almost up.”
Matt.
Calm. Dry. Familiar. Calling from somewhere far too loud for a serious conversation.
“We’ll have a long talk later,” Matt said. “But just know, I’m proud of you, son.”
Kevin didn’t move.
He barely breathed.
“Gotta go do Elvis. Talk later!”
The line went dead.
Kevin stared at the blank screen.
Matt had said he was proud of him.
Son.
He couldn’t remember the last time either of his parents had said that.
He wasn’t even sure they ever had.
That was just too much emotion for aging Yankees.
He still wasn’t entirely sure he had been right.
But whatever happened when Matt had time for the longer conversation, Kevin knew one thing.
He wasn’t in trouble.
2:03 a.m. CDT
Angelina Reyes usually refused to answer her phone after she’d gone to bed, but the damn thing was shaking harder than a poorly made vibrator.
She had to pee anyway.
Fuck being a woman over forty.
God had cursed them with shrinking bladders, so fuck Him, too.
She grabbed the phone and headed down the hall barefoot, the screen glowing like an accusation in her hand.
The message was from MJ.
That alone suggested trouble.
The kids had been filming everything by the end of the shoot. Official cameras, personal phones, behind-the-scenes footage, pictures for later, and in MJ’s case probably anything sufficiently embarrassing to torment somebody with once they were back aboard ship.
Angelina hit play.
She hoped it was something better than another video of Kevin looking too good for a boy his age.
It was.
She watched it again.
Then again.
Then a third time, just to make sure the lack of coffee wasn’t fucking with her sleep-addled brain.
Nope.
He really said it.
On camera.
Clear as the goddamn summer sky.
“It sexualizes her, demeans the aesthetic, and just reinforces bad behavior towards Loli girls everywhere. We’re done.”
Angelina stared at the screen.
MJ had gone looking for embarrassing footage.
The girl had come home with the fucking Zapruder film.
Angelina immediately forwarded it to The Arrow Rock Tattler and the Chicago Tribune.
Then she looked down the hallway.
Mall needed to see this.
She flushed.
Then went to wake the girl.
1:21 p.m., Tokyo
Kevin was still standing there dumbfounded.
Matt had said he was proud of him.
Son.
That part kept coming back.
An arm went around his waist from behind.
His hapkido reflexes kicked in and Chem nearly got thrown.
“Sorry,” he said quickly, catching her arm before the movement went any farther.
Chem smoothed her hair like nothing had happened.
“Mall said you’re her hero,” she said, “but not to let it go to your head. Tonight.”
Kevin blinked.
“She also said she’ll call you back when she bloody well gets enough sleep.”
That sounded more like Mall.
“So who told her?”
“It wasn’t me.” Chem twisted one foot into the carpet. “So I suspect Angelina.”
There was a beat.
Then, quieter:
“I would have… if you’d wanted to.”
Kevin let out a long breath.
There it was.
The question he’d been trying not to ask himself.
“Chem, part of me wanted to. Part of me still wants to.”
He glanced away.
“If we were home, just us, friends, family, stupid music and too much sugar? I wouldn’t have hesitated.”
Mall would’ve understood.
Hell, Mall might have been the one calling out directions and taking the pictures.
Chem laughed.
“That does sound like her.”
Kevin turned back to face her fully.
“But the media isn’t our friend.”
Chem stopped smiling.
“What we do at home, for fun, for laughs, that’s ours. That can’t happen the same way on the world stage.”
He looked back toward the wreckage of the shoot, garment racks, lighting rigs, discarded props, people slowly packing away nearly five hours of manufactured images.
“We represent something so much bigger than ourselves.”
He paused.
“I needed to stand up.”
Another beat.
“For others.”
Then he looked directly at her.
“For you.”
Chem said nothing.
“Because I’d want someone to stand up for Polly.”
Chem looked at him for a long moment.
Then nodded.
“You’re my hero too,” she whispered.
And hugged him.
