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partoftheairforce · 14 hours

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and they say, "she's so lucky."

Everybody knows Brittany Jackson. She's been famous practically her entire life, gifted with the voice of an angel. Nobody knows Matty Healy, the small-town boy whose penchant for music never took him anywhere, despite his semi-famous parents.

An At Their Very Best role reversal.

The first look. Her amused smirk in a hotel boardroom.

"Healy!"

He sucks in the last of his cigarette, nodding at the lone PA holding the door open and waiting for him to come back inside. Throwing the stick on the ground and crushing it with the toe of his boot, he exhales through his nose and heads inside the stadium again. Their steps echo through the maze of concrete hallways, his lanyard jingling around his neck as he moves toward the stage, nodding at the various crew members he passes. Grabbing his guitar from the stand, he moves over to the rest of the band, swinging the strap over his head quickly and bracing himself for the rest of the day.

She was the reason for his being in America for the last month, thrown into the deep end of one of the largest, most ambitious tours of the last decade. He participated in brutal rehearsals that extended into all hours of the night, worked early mornings with the sound techs, trying to perfect the show as best as he knew how, all for one girl who rarely graced them with her presence. She was the all-American (Australian) dream. The one, the only...

Brittany fucking Jackson.

He remembered turning on the television when he was younger and seeing her smiling face grace the screen. She was a constant in the early mornings when his parents were still asleep. He thought she was pretty, and he might’ve played her songs in secret, with headphones, on his walk to school sometimes. They were close in age, so around the same time he stopped watching the Disney Channel, she stopped appearing on it, moving into feature films and guest spots of American sitcoms all while putting out more bubblegum pop albums that became worse with time and touring constantly.

Her shine seemed to be fading though, her last record hadn’t performed well; the lead single barely cracked the top 40, and the album fared even worse, not charting at all. When the reviews poured in, there were shared musings on the lack of originality, the departure of something deeper within the Brittany Jackson brand that signified she was growing alongside the audience that had followed her since she was a child. Then there was the string of controversies that seemed to trail behind her...

When her name was ushered, they didn’t talk about the voice that was so powerful it rendered you speechless anymore; they spoke about the photographs of her in seedy Los Angeles backrooms, wiping at her nose, or the videos of her shoving paparazzi in violent outbursts, smashing cameras on the ground like some kind of arrogant rock star. She’d become a complete cliché, the child star who went off the rails because her name written in bright lights were going out, the money was running dry, and the sharks were circling because they smelled blood in the water.

It was only after he’d hopped on a plane, leaving the band he’d been in with his best mates since he was a kid and his entire family behind, that he wondered for the first time if any of the stories were true. Then, on his first day, they were more than confirmed. She was completely unappreciative of everyone bending over backwards to please her every whim; she was spoiled, demanding, and whenever she bothered to fucking show up, completely anal about every little thing.

He witnessed the petulance firsthand when he accidentally walked into the room as she was arguing with her management team. He thought it might have had something to do with costumes, or perhaps it was the timing of the quick changes? There seemed to be a never-ending list of issues that she had to prevent them from being on the road.

“Why the fuck is Billie Eilish singing my song?” She’d snapped harshly, turning the volume up and slapping her phone down on the table.

A delicate, eerily song played and Matty slowly backed out of the room, hoping he’d gone unnoticed.

“It’s not your song,” Bobby, her manager, dismissed without even a glance in her direction. “It’s the label's song.”

With a growl, she pushed his feet off the desk, and they hit the floor with a heavy thump. “I wrote it! It’s mine, so I own it!” Brittany shouted, her cheeks turning red and her usually blank eyes filled with rage.

He felt uncomfortable as he watched the older man slide around the room through the crack in the door frame before standing in front of the singer. She stepped back, trying to create more space for herself, but Bobby followed, pursuing her until her back hit the wall. Her eyes widened in alarm, and her breath quickened as Bobby reached his hand up to tuck a piece of stray hair behind her ear. Turning her face away from him, she closed her eyes in submission, anticipating what would come next.

“And who owns Brittany Jackson?” The question came out innocently, the words dripped in honey, but Matty could feel the metaphorical wasps flying in the air, waiting to sting.

“You do.”

He’d backed out of the room silently and tried to forget what he saw.

His position on the tour was one that he’d been practically given on a silver platter. He’d still had to audition for formality and paperwork reasons, but one of his friends at home in London, Jamie, knew Brittany’s manager Bobby from school, and they’d had a long sordid history of owing each other favors that were beginning to grow larger and grander in scale as the years went on.

Impostor syndrome was beginning to eat him alive since being in the States, especially since the role wasn’t exactly easy to fill after her last guitarist went straight TMZ after being fired for “misconduct”, telling them anything and everything they wanted to hear. The press had a field day for weeks after the tell-all story went live, and the flames threatening to burn down the Brittany Jackson empire grew higher until her label decided to pull the plug on the tour, canceling the entire production while trying to rein in their sweet little starlet who seemed hell-bent on adding fuel to the fire.

Then they cleaned house, firing every employee on the books and bringing Robert “Bobby” Reynolds on board instead. The guy was a force to be reckoned with, making a name for himself by being able to rehabilitate troubled stars, most notably women. His reputation preceded him wherever he went, and he was a PR dream, always knowing the right answer to even the prickliest of questions and so far, he seemed to have been a miracle hire.

Brittany was out of the wild headlines, and her career became heavily curated again. She was only seen when Bobby Reynolds wanted her to be seen: charity events, social galas, paparazzi photos of her coming out of the gym with a full face of makeup and hair perfectly straightened. Her social media content transitioned from videos at 2 am in Las Vegas nightclubs to cooking cinnamon scrolls in her lofty New York apartment, dressed in matching loungewear while sipping green tea and lighting expensive candles that sat atop Tom Ford coffee table books.

So, no. He wasn’t there because his talent had earned him his place. He was there to ensure the Brittany Jackson train remained firmly on the rails and not off them.

The first time he’d seen her in person, not just through his television screen, was when she’d finally attended one of the tour rehearsals. The musicians and sound techs had been given one soundstage, in some grimy district in LA that he’d never heard of, to practice and prepare in, while the dancers were in another further down in the backlot. They’d been mid-song when the doors to the warehouse opened, allowing sunlight to pour in, and once his eyes adjusted to the intrusion of light, he watched her strut her way across the dusty concrete floors, looking every bit as beautiful as he’d imagined.

Her hair was dark and long, draped over her shoulder like glossy strands. The natural sway of her hips as she walked mesmerized him, and there was something about her that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but he felt enraptured. Completely enchanted and spellbound by her very presence.

Then she opened her mouth and shattered all the illusions he’d been able to conjure in the 10 seconds it took her to cross the room.

“I don’t like it.”

She doesn’t bother with taking her sunglasses off, standing there with her arms crossed over her chest and her hip popped to the side in a display of arrogance. Her bratty attitude made them all sigh, and she’d hardly heard any of their rehearsals because she was never present. Now, after all their hard work, without her, she wanted to come in and make them start all over again? He thinks he might hate her.

Mr. Davis, their band leader and the only person who managed to keep his job after the headlines from the previous year, sighed. He rubbed some hemp oil into the joints of his hands to soothe the ache from his arthritis, then stood from the piano and made his way over to the annoyed singer, attempting to quietly have the tense conversation.

That was two weeks and numerous changes ago.

Sighing, he looked at the time on his phone, and of course, that’s when the girl of the hour finally waltzed in, her mother following behind her, all pointy features and bleach blonde hair. The older woman sneered at him down her nose, and he put the device back into his pocket and got ready to play. It was hard to miss the irony of her daughter being over an hour late for one of their final rehearsals, but he was the one getting glared at.

~ ~ ~

Before he’d flown over from the UK, he’d been sent all the sheet music, along with notes from the band leader himself, as he was sure everyone else had. So, the reason Johnny, their keys player, didn’t know how to play the majority of the setlist was beyond him. He seemed to be the only person prepared, and it showed. He’d been snappy all day, frustrated with the little progress they seemed to be making as a cohesive unit and annoyed that Brittany Jackson once again had never turned up for rehearsal.

It seemed like every little thing was getting to him these days: the terrible coffee, the unfunny sitcoms on the television late at night. The time difference between Los Angeles and home, meaning he missed call after call during the night. He hated that they were staying in a mostly concrete, industrial area, and he hated that the rest of the band did not put as much effort into their time there as he had.

They were all talented musicians in the band, but most of them, himself included, had never performed on such a scale before, with shows every night to sold-out crowds, playing some of the biggest arenas and stadiums the country had to offer. Their inexperience showed during rehearsals, with Mr. Davis shouting across the room until his voice was hoarse, trying to corral them into something somewhat unified.

He was helping the guitar techs with some of the instruments at the end of the day, turning the pegs on an acoustic, millimeter by millimeter, until the strings were taut, and he could hear that it sounded perfect. He was quick, having done it for much of his adolescence after his father used to mess about with his guitar when he was younger. It used to annoy the shit out of him, coming home from school and having to spend an hour just twisting the knobs until it sounded right again, but he looked back fondly on the ways his dad showed how supportive he was of his passion for music. By making sure he practiced more than just playing the instrument, it made him into the advanced player that he was today.

Good enough to play a part in a world tour, at least.

He paused briefly at the thought, fingers halting over the wooden neck, and made a mental note to call his dad whenever he had a free moment to tell him that.

“They look up to you, you know?”

Mr. Davis seized the quiet moment to talk to him once the rest of the band had left for the day, sitting behind the grand piano and shuffling his sheet music into a worn leather bag. The statement was offered so blithely and so casually that it knocked him off guard for a moment.

“I’m sure you’ve got a band back home, and a family, and probably a girl who’s waiting by the phone for you to call her every night.” Blood flushed to his cheeks, and he didn’t know why the comment had made him so embarrassed. “But Lord knows I could do with a new set of hands.”

“Instead of judging them, you might try helping them and seeing how much further that gets us.”

The comment makes guilt worm its way into his skin, and unfortunately, the guy had a point. They quietly discussed how much work they had ahead of them to be ready for opening night, and it was daunting, to say the least. That's how he suddenly became the assistant to the Band Leader. Mr. Davis took him under his wing, offering insight into the industry that he’d barely been able to break into.

“You’ve got what it takes, if this is still what you want in the end.” They swung their bags over their shoulders and began making their way out. “You’ve got that whole ‘tortured poet’ thing all the girls go crazy for. You’ll be fine.”

He snorted out a laugh, and the door shut behind them with a slam.

He starts making friends with other people in the band the next day after deciding to stop being a moody prick about missing home. It's not that he thought he wouldn’t, but he’s very aware of being the only Englishman among the group of Americans who bleed red, white, and blue.

He befriended Thomas, the drummer, while he was having a cigarette in the alley behind the sound stage, who then introduced him to Curtis, one of the other guitarists. Curtis then introduced him to the rest of the band, and he was folded into the group of people that he was about to spend the next six months with – granted the tour doesn’t get cancelled.

When it was revealed that his role in their rag-tag group had been promoted, he was nervous they would think he was getting special treatment, but instead, everyone in the room had congratulated him, patting him on the back and inviting him to the bar down the street from their hotel for a celebratory drink. He’d seen the group head there most nights after rehearsal when he’d elected to stay in his room, studying sheet music and trying to put his best to not let resentment eat him alive.

When the sun had barely set, they called it a day at the sound stage and headed outside. The Sprinter Vans that usually carted them between the rehearsal space and their hotel were idling in the alley, but instead of being empty, it contained one very famous pop star. Texting rapidly, Brittany Jackson sat in the backseat awaiting their arrival. Mr. Davis pulled the sliding door open, and she reached forward to help him with his bag. Frankly, it was the nicest thing he’d seen her do since he’d met (he uses the term loosely) her.

Her mum was nowhere to be seen, thank God, so Brittany must have been specifically waiting for their band leader to discuss the tour. He couldn’t imagine them making small talk about the weather or sharing anything in common, so he decided to pay it no mind and keep walking with their group down the street.

The bar was a total dive, playing nothing but top 40 radio hits, but it slung cheap beers, and he met a few girls who were giggly at his accent and impressed by his job. He sipped from his wine as he smoked with some of the crew, partaking in what could only be called “gossip”.

"She has good days and bad days like everyone," one of the dancers tried to be diplomatic, but most of their group scoffed.

"Do you wreck other people's marriages when you’re having a bad day?" Curtis laughed, and the rest snickered over their drinks.

"Is that true?" He wondered with wide eyes, and suddenly he felt like a little kid sitting at the table with the grownups.

Thomas rolled his eyes good-naturedly and corrected the story. "All we know is that the guy you replaced, he was invited to her room after one of the shows and when he came out, he filed for divorce."

"Then got fired!" One of the dancers exhaled their cigarette with another laugh. "Went straight to TMZ before they could get him to sign an NDA too."

"Look out, mate," one of the gaffers snarked. "You're fresh meat. She'll come for you next."

“It’s not Britt he needs to worry about though, it's fucking Anne and Bobby.”

"Oh, don’t even get me started!"

The conversation continued without him, memories of old shows coming to light and laughter about stupid things that had occurred in the past. He decided he might be finished for the night because he had nothing to contribute, and he didn’t know why learning all this new information about Brittany Jackson was making a pit form in the bottom of his stomach.

They were also talking about him as if he didn’t have any say in the matter. As if he would somehow not be immune to her charm, a fly caught in her trap. Sure, she was attractive, and yeah, maybe he used to have a poster of her on his wall when he was younger, but he was old enough now to not get caught up in the drama.

~ ~ ~

When they get closer to opening night, the band and the dancers are moved into an actual arena to rehearse, and they begin practicing together, running through the show as best they can without the main star. They’ve become somewhat of a “tour family,” as Mr. Davis likes to call them, and despite his initial cynicism, he doesn't disagree. He’s spent every single day with these people since he arrived all those weeks ago, watched them break down when things have gone wrong, and celebrated their wins at the end of each day.

Brittany Jackson appears more frequently now, not every day, but more often than he’d seen her before, which was never. There are a few dress rehearsals with the dancers as they assess all the costumes for each number and time the quick changes for maximum efficiency, with her mother standing by with a stopwatch in her hand, screaming at them to move faster. Bobby always seems to be lurking around backstage on those days, and a few of the dancers make comments over their end-of-night drinks about how awkward it was trying to change in front of him and how Brittany seemed to not even notice he was there.

“Am I just overthinking it?” Nadia quietly asks him when the others have gone for a refill.

The bar seems to be as quiet as they all feel that day. No patrons loiter outside, a few pool tables remain free, and the bathrooms are shockingly clean from the lack of drunk revelers to trash them.

“No, it’s weird that he was there,” he validates her as he toys with the soaked coaster underneath his drink, peeling the logo away from the edges and shredding the paper between his fingers.

“No,” she shakes her head. “Brittany didn’t even notice he was there. It’s like it was normal for her, but it's not.” She emphasizes her frustration by sighing loudly and looking elsewhere. “Do you think she even realizes?”

He frowns when he understands what she's trying to explain, without really saying it.

~ ~ ~

Brittany and her mother sit at the head of the table, talking quietly with glinting eyes and metaphorical sharp teeth, scrutinizing everyone as they walk into the hotel boardroom. He straightens his back, adjusting his shirt over his shoulders before dropping into the nearest chair along the back wall, hiding behind his notebook to escape their predatory gaze. They’re having one last meeting to discuss their schedules once they’re on the road, the best contacts for any problems they run into, and the hotels they’ll be staying at.

As Bobby starts talking about the complexities of her calendar, Matty realizes for the first time how busy she truly is. He’s seen her sometimes, as she's rushed from one room to another, while one of her personal assistants loudly rambles, as if they want everyone in the area to hear how important they are. She ignores him whenever they pass each other, walking straight ahead without stopping or even looking at him once, and he wonders if she even knows his name (or anyone else's).

He writes down where he needs to be and when, ink bleeding onto the page, before his eyes draw to her when she reaches for one of the water bottles in the center of the table. Bony fingers unscrew the cap, and she sips daintily as she listens, licking her lips when she’s finished. One of her glossy, burgundy-colored nails is chipped, the polish cracked along the tip, and it's sick, he knows it is, but he likes finding her imperfections.

He thinks he might be a sadist.

Bobby rambles, detailing how the hours of the day will be filled out, grabbing at loose pages on the tabletop and reading dates and times off Anne's laptop. Sometimes they’re booked down to the minute, radio interviews, phone interviews, live performances on The Today Show in New York, and he doesn’t mean to, but he snorts loudly in bewilderment when it’s announced that some of their bathroom breaks will be scheduled.

Mr. Davis’s knee knocks harshly against his, and all the eyes in the room turn to him, the silence so profound that he swears he can hear the ticking clock in the corner of the room.

Fuck.

Clearing his throat, pretending to have an itch, he looks down at his messy writing and pretends to scribble some more notes. When he’s brave enough to lift his head again, he subtly looks around and notices Brittany’s amused smirk in his direction, with one brow perfectly arched. He gives her an apologetic half-smile, the edge of his mouth turning upwards, and she looks back to the man speaking at the head of the table.

~ ~ ~

The next time he sees her is when he walks into rehearsal, shitty hotel coffee in hand and pushing his sunglasses on top of his head. She’s sitting behind the grand piano with Mr. Davis, talking quietly and pressing a few keys, letting the sound ring out across the arena. They take no notice of him as he stands in the hallway watching them, only looking up when Bobby stomps past him, an assistant behind him carrying an iPad and struggling to keep up.

“Does this look like the press room to you?” He asks the singer condescendingly before grabbing her elbow and pulling her from the bench.

Brittany rolls her eyes as she’s dragged from the stage, twinkling her fingers in his direction with a wink and an innocent toothy grin as she's yanked through the stage door and out of sight, childish giggles echoing down the concrete halls.

~ ~ ~

He seems to be on her radar now, the same way she’s on his, and he can feel the weight of her stare settling on him the moment she steps into rehearsals that she’s begun attending with fervor, sometimes even arriving early. None of them understood her sudden eagerness to be part of the show when, up until this point, she’d elected to sleep in or be photographed getting brunch at Catch in West Hollywood with her other famous friends.

It’s hard not to become hyper-aware of how he looks, straightening his posture and brushing the curls off his sweaty forehead constantly to appear composed. She parades around in designer clothing, pressed linen pants, and little silky tops; hell, he’s sure that she wears 6-inch heels to go to the supermarket in. He’s not sure she’d ever owned a pair of Converse in her life.

Keeping these thoughts to himself during another show run-through, he strums his guitar and keeps in time with the click track playing in his ears. They've consistently had issues with sound since moving from the sound stage to the arena, and he's not the smartest guy around, but he knows that if the two techs in the booth could get their heads out of their asses and off their phones, then things would probably run a lot smoother.

This was their best run-through yet with minimal mistakes from the band and only one dancer stumbled during their routine. The risers had smoothly elevated Brittany from beneath the stage and hadn’t dropped at random times during the performance, leaving a gaping hole large enough for someone to fall through.

They pause to get a drink during a segment where Brittany pulls the imaginary crowd’s focus while stagehands drag the grand piano to the center of the stage. He unscrews the cap on his bottle of water, taking a sip and watching as she leaves her mark and makes her way across the stage, looking like she’s heading in his direction.

“Can you turn me up?” She asks over the microphone, and he can see the sound techs scrambling behind the desks on the floor.

Standing in front of him, she turns so her back is facing him, brushes her hair to the side and points towards the wire running down her spine. The cord has become slightly unplugged from the sound pack clipped to the back of her jeans, so he presses it back in firmly until he hears the click. She pulls the monitors from her ears when high-pitched feedback sounds obnoxiously with a gasp.

“Jesus Christ, down! Turn me down!”

Without a thank you, she stomps down the stage, still ranting down the microphone and he tries to ignore the scent of vanilla and something sweet that will probably haunt him for the rest of the day.

~ ~ ~

On the opening night of the tour, they don’t have rehearsal, only soundcheck in the afternoon, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself with all the free time. He’d spent the last two months playing until his fingers bled, practicing and adjusting and trying to soak up everything he could. He calls his best friend, George, and gets his mind off the nerves building in his stomach and onto updates about everyone at home instead.

Brittany Jackson, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to have the same problem. She’s so busy that she misses soundcheck altogether, and by the time she arrives at the arena, she’s lying down in the back of the Sprinter Van, vomiting cocktails all over the leather seats. He supposes it’s 5 PM somewhere.

“I’m not drunk, I’m just car sick,” she’d slurred as she was carried into her dressing room by venue security, screwing their noses up at the smell.

It seemed like everyone had watched the scene unfold from the hallway: the assistants that ran in and out the door with soaked towels, the doctor that arrived wheeling in an IV pole, her mother’s shouting voice with no response. It seemed that nothing was working to get the star ready, and it dawned on him that there was a possibility that the tour would not be going ahead.

Just as panic was beginning to make a home within his veins, Bobby Reynolds rounded the corner and knocked on the dressing room.

“Don’t you all have places to be?” He snapped as the door swung open.

He never finds out what happened in the room once Bobby went inside, even years later. All he knows is that Brittany Jackson stood triumphantly on stage that night, on time, with the crowd roaring her name, and he knew his life would never be the same.

~ ~ ~

Tequila burns down his throat as he throws back another shot, quickly wedging a slice of lime between his teeth and sucking the juice from the flesh. The club was loud, with the DJ mixing live at the desk, and although it was nothing like the dive bar they hit up at the end of every day, Bobby insisted they deserved a reward for pulling off what was seemingly impossible.

“Well done on an excellent show. Tomorrow, we do it even better!” Bobby cheered, smiling from ear to ear as he corralled them into the Sprinter Van (the clean one, not the other one), ready to take them for an unforgettable night on the town.

As they all piled inside, across the lot he could see Mr. Davis and Brittany walking slowly to their car with a lone security guard. Clutching the band leader's arm, she gingerly shuffled into the backseat looking frailer than her almost 70-year-old counterpart. Her face was bare, and for once she wasn’t donned to the nines. Instead, she wore an old, knitted jumper that looked straight out of the '70s and a pair of jeans that looked like they could fall off her hips at any moment.

“Drinks are on Britt!” Bobby called out before sliding the door shut, and everyone inside the van cheered. Matty wondered if she knew that.

At the end of the evening, when his vision spun and he spilled more beer than he’d been able to get into his mouth, Nadia, one of the dancers, offered to go back to the hotel with him. They walked quietly up the street, ignoring the crowds covering the sidewalk wearing merch for the tour they were currently performing on. She gripped onto his arm, wrapping herself around him. It was a little annoying because it was hot out and he liked his space, but he thought he might like how much she seemed to like him more.

Stepping out of the elevator at the end of the night, he held the sliding doors open for her and let her walk through first. He had no doubts about why she chose to come back to the hotel with him instead of staying out with the rest of their crew. She had always been a bit flirtatious, finding excuses to touch him, picking off imaginary lint from his shirt, and asking for his help when he knew she didn’t need it.

"Did you want to come in?" she asked innocently. "We can talk? Have another drink?”

He leaned against the frame as she fumbled with the keycard in the lock. When he went to follow her inside, the sound of desperate, heaving sobs broke through an open door at the end of the hall. A hotel waiter quietly wheeled a cart with a silver cloche on top out of the room and towards them, heading for the elevator. His brows furrowed in curiosity about who it could be.

"You get used to it after a while," Nadia murmured. “She’s been better lately, but I think the show was probably too much for her tonight.”

It took him a second to realize that she meant Brittany, and he looked back down the empty hallway.

"You coming?" She opened her door wider, giving him space to walk through, and he normally would, but something internally stopped him.

"I’m um," he stuttered, trying to think of an excuse. "Raincheck?"

She hid her disappointment well, nodding and telling him she’d save him a seat on the bus the following morning before closing her door with a click. As he stepped closer to his room, he could hear the crying through the walls. He knew she was alone; everyone in her band and crew were still out, drinking on her dime, and her mother had gone straight to the airport, flying to their next show before the night was over.

He wasn't the kind of guy who could stand by and listen to anyone crying without trying to help; his mother raised him right. If she was upset about the show, he wanted to do something to help. He was the lead guitarist; he could fix it. He took a few steps and knocked on her door lightly. There was some shuffling and the click of a glass being placed on a table before the door was violently swung open.

"What?!"

She looked like a mess, her eyes bloodshot and her nose pink. Without all the stage makeup, fake lashes, and big hair, he was struck with how young she truly was. They were close in age, but the way she was done up every day made him feel like she was older sometimes.

"Are you okay?" She gave him a look like she thought he was an idiot, and he was beginning to think he might be.

"Why wouldn’t I be?!" She slammed the door in his face, and he swore to himself that it would be the last time he did anything for her.

~ ~ ~

The promise he had made the night before barely lasted 8 hours because when he exited his hotel room the next morning, bag in hand and ready to check out, he could see Brittany Jackson at the end of the hallway trying to pull her stupidly large suitcase over the tracks of the elevator with little success. He sighed, shrugged his bag over his shoulder, and moved down the hallway. He had slept like shit, listening to her cry through the hotel walls until she must have passed out sometime around sunrise.

She was fully done up again, like how he was used to seeing her, with a full face of makeup and hair perfectly straightened. Some of the wispy pieces got into her eyes as she tugged the handle of her bag, and she blew them away with a harsh breath from the side of her mouth. When it barely gave, she let the bag hit the ground and stared at it resignedly. The doors kept attempting to shut, only to open again when the sensors detected an obstruction, and he sighed.

Dropping his own duffel on the floor of the elevator next to her with a thump, he grabbed the handle of her suitcase and pulled strongly once. The wheels came unstuck, and the doors were finally able to close. He pressed the button for the lobby and picked up his bag again, throwing the strap over his shoulders. She didn’t say thank you, and he didn’t expect her to, so the ride down was filled with awkward silence as they both stared at the screen telling them how many floors there were to go.

When the doors opened, he lifted the bag over the tracks and held out the handle for her to take. Her fingers brushed his for the briefest of seconds, and he noticed her nail polish wasn’t chipped anymore. As she walked away, he hoisted the strap of his bag higher over his shoulder and ignored the electricity that surged through him from her touch and the scent of her perfume that seemed to be lingering in the air.

~ ~ ~

By some cruel twist of fate, or luck, depending on how you look at it, he’s assigned to her bus because the label wanted to cut costs and Bobby always wanted eyes on Brittany. They’re a week into the tour, but ever since that first night in the hotel, he’s noticed her more. He doesn’t mean to, but his body seems to be attuned to every move. Her eyes crinkle in disappointment when her suggestion for roadside stops is turned down, and she huffs in her seat when her mother starts describing recipes she’d found online that she wants the venue to start providing.

“This one is made with almond meal, and no sugar, so it’s healthier,” Anne holds the iPad up to her daughter’s disinterested face.

“Sounds great, mum,” she sighs, watching the countryside fly by through the window.

She always sighs, like she’s carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, and he supposes she kind of is. All their jobs rely on her getting up on stage every night, and they’re not always confident she will. She hasn’t let anyone down yet, though, so that's a plus.

He thinks he’s beginning to figure out her fake smile, the one she uses in interviews, and her real one apart. The first time he ever really could see the difference was during a show. There’s a moment when she’s the only performer on the stage, and she gets to play a ballad on the piano (or at least pretends to; there’s a backing track that plays over the top of her, and he doesn’t know if she’s realized yet) that she fought tooth and nail for. Her cheeks turn pink from how wide she grins while performing it, and her eyes sparkle as her fingers dance over the keys. When she thanks the crowd at the end, it's with genuine awe, and he doesn’t see her look that happy ever.

(Except once when he sees Mr. Davis slide a peppermint candy between her fingers as he passes her by in the hallway of one of the venues. She stifles her smile behind a cough, and her mother calls a doctor immediately to ward off any illness.)

They move from one state to the next, playing shows back-to-back every single night without a break. He’s beginning to feel exhausted, and he’s wondering how she's done this for years on end, especially with all the added work of press and events. It’s one of the longer days on the bus, and he can’t sit in the back lounge anymore. His back is killing him from the uncomfortable seating, and everyone is annoying the shit out of him with their endless chatter about nothing. He couldn’t give less of a fuck about which Jonas Brother was getting divorced and which Kardashian was doing something problematic.

Brittany is working in the front booth, doing interviews on an iPad, smiling politely, and answering questions with practiced, charming responses. She’s media-trained to within an inch of her life, and it shows. Taking a seat by the small kitchenette opposite her, he puts on his headphones to quiet the noise and opens his book.

“Next one is Teen Vogue,” Bobby instructs, and Brittany dials out with a frustrated groan.

“How many more are there?”

“A lot,” Bobby answers, not even looking up from his phone.

He can feel her eyes on him, and she snaps back into character when the interview begins.

~ ~ ~

Stepping onto their freshly built stage, he grabs his guitar from the stand, swinging the strap over his head and fiddling with the tuning. The rest of the band was messing around in the green room, drinking and having a laugh, and normally he’d be all for it, but he’s been feeling a little overstimulated lately and longed for some solitude that wasn’t in the form of his hotel room at the end of the night.

He strums four chords that always run through his mind, and when he’s satisfied by the sound, he finally looks up and sees Brittany perched behind the grand piano watching him with curiosity, and he freezes.

“Sorry, I’ll come back.” Embarrassed, he goes to put the instrument back in the stand when she tells him to stay with a half-smile.

“What was that you just played?” They’re the only ones around, and her voice echoes throughout the empty stadium.

“It's just a couple of notes,” he downplays. (He doesn’t know why he diminishes it like that. He’s proud of his music, but something about this conversation, if it could even be called that, makes him want to shrink it down into nothing.)

She tinkers on the keys and then when she finds the right key, she plays the same four chords, smiling to herself. “Pretty,” she offers thoughtfully. “Kind of haunted.”

It’s not lost on him the significance of Brittany Jackson playing something he wrote.

“You’re Matty, right?”

He nods and tries not to be annoyed that the only reason she knows his name at all is because someone feeds her the information into her earpiece every night on stage.

“I’m Britt,” she smiles at him, the real one, and he thinks it's funny how she’s pretending her name isn’t plastered on every bus stop, park bench, and billboard in town. It's cute how humble she’s pretending to be.

He looks down at his guitar and fumbles with the tuning, even though it’s perfect because he doesn’t know how to continue the conversation with her. Thankfully, the clacking of expensive heels walking around backstage became louder, interrupting them as her mother made her way onto the stage. Brittany slinked down from the bench, hiding behind the piano and out of sight of Anne’s wandering eyes.

“You!” Anne points a red polished finger at his chest. "Have you seen her?”

“Who?"

He furrows his brows and plays the part of the dimwitted musician she assumes he is. She scoffs at him before looking around quickly and leaving just as fast as she arrived. Looking beneath the piano, Brittany shoots him a wink before disappearing into an empty riser pocket, left open from where they were still installing them.

They played to a sold-out crowd that night, and it was probably the loudest show of the tour thus far. Brittany performs with a vigor he hasn’t seen from her before, and he’s brutally reminded of how she’s kept herself in the industry for as long as she has. She’s a seasoned professional, and she’s captivating. When she introduces the band and all the dancers, everyone notices that she says his name before it’s fed to her over their in-ear monitors. When she looks back at him and throws him a wink, he's not sure what the point is or who she’s trying to prove it to.

~ ~ ~

“Wait!”

When they’re standing around the parking lot, waiting for the vans to take them to whatever bar has been chosen for the night, they all turn when they can hear echoes of heels running along the concrete. His eye-line meets Brittany’s as she stops by the group, grabbing his arm and puffing from exertion. She’s changed out of her stage costume into a slinky black dress that probably cost more than his entire outfit put together. Its cut low and short, barely touching the middle of her thighs and he has to push away his meandering thoughts of how fucking hot she is.

“Can I come?” She bites her bottom lip as she asks him, the plump flesh turning pink when she lets it go.

He doesn’t know why she assumes he’s the leader of their nights out, but he finds himself nodding anyway, ignoring a few of the dancers making subtle glances at one another. She crawls into the back of the van when it arrives and declares that she’ll pay for the evening as a thank you to them for such “an amazing show!” Bobby’s words flash through his mind again, the manager’s declaration that the first night would be on Brittany’s tab. Subsequently, every night had fallen onto her bank account, and he wondered how much of her cash was being splashed around like that.

Barely an hour had passed sitting in the booth of some dirty club she’d chosen, and he wondered what the hell he was doing there. Most of their group had separated; the dancers had taken over the dancefloor, and he and the band resorted to hiding out in the smoker's area to get away from the god-awful music and the scene unfolding before them.

Influencers and other fame-adjacent people filled the space. Brittany’s on the other side of the room, taking pictures with the crowd that’s gathered, her drink full on the bar behind her. This is the last place he wants to be right now. He heaves a sigh, running a hand through his hair and wonders if this is what the others warned him about. Was he now a fly caught in her trap without realizing it?

Throwing his cigarette on the ground, he uses the toe of his boot to crush the red embers and heads off without saying goodbye. Stepping through the doors leading to the street, he nods at the security guards lining the entrance and pulls his lighter out of his pocket, igniting the new stick already between his lips. He takes a long drag before opening his phone to order an Uber, exhaling the smoke through his nose when the wait time for a ride increases.

“You’re leaving?”

Brittany’s hair is blowing in the breeze when he looks up. Her dress is short, barely covering the middle of her thighs, and he can see the goosebumps rising on her tanned legs.

“You seemed preoccupied.” He takes another drag of the cigarette for something to do with his hands.

“I’m not anymore,” she comes closer, looking down at his phone.

“So, where are we going?”

He finds it funny that her smile evokes the same butterflies in his stomach as the crowds at her shows do.

~ ~ ~

He takes her to a pool hall he only kind of knows. It’s a place that one of his best friends, George, had raved about when he’d backpacked throughout the US after school ended. He’s kind of nervous that it might not even exist anymore, but when the car pulls up to the bar that looks like it's seen better days, she looks excited by his choice. When they’re waiting to order some drinks, she stands close to him, biting her lip and trying to read the faded menu written in chalk behind the bartender. He pays for her tequila soda as well as his beer, and when he passes her the glass, she accepts it with a wide smile, a real one.

There’s an empty table in the back of the room, and he knows she’s going to be rubbish when she picks a cue based on the color of the handle and not the length. He grabs a shorter stick for her use when she nearly takes out the couple playing on the table over from them, smiling apologetically as he passes them by. She’s hopeless when she plays; every time she lines up a shot, the ball somehow goes in the opposite direction, or she manages to smack it off the table altogether.

“Well, help me then!” She stomps when she shoots the cue too hard, and the white ball flies off the table again.

He likes knowing he’s found something she’s not perfect at, something that she has to try a bit harder to learn. He tries to correct where her hands are placed along the stick and let her figure it out, but then she locks her elbows and tries to shoot the ball like she is paddling in a kayak, and he has to stand behind her and guide her movements.

Attempting to keep his mind blank as he presses up against her, he tries not to think about how nice she feels between his arms and how soft her hair is brushing up against his jaw. He definitely isn’t thinking about how this position might feel if she wasn’t wearing her tiny dress and if the pool hall was his hotel room instead. Holding the cue around her hands, he gently presses it forward, and she turns her head, smiling at him when the white ball clacks against the colored ones.

Clearing his throat, and stepping back, she leans against the table as he takes his turn, crossing one tan leg over the other. He’s trying to distract himself from thoughts of her, that smile, and the other ways he can get it sent in his direction, but her bare thighs are in his direct line of sight, and she’s not playing fair.

“So, London boy, huh?” She swirls her tongue across her straw, sipping delicately. He’s not from the city, but he doesn’t bother correcting her because it's semantics.

“What gave it away?” He snorts.

She grins at him again, and his heart beats faster.

“You ever been on a tour like this before?” she wonders.

“Not really,” he scratches behind his ear uncomfortably. She sips and waits for him to continue. “I’m in a band,” he reveals. “We tour around the UK, I played a few shows in Europe. Nothing like this.”

“How’d you get the gig, then?” She laughs, confused.

“Mate of mine, Jamie, knows Bobby from way back.” It’s an uncomfortable admission, one that makes him almost reach into his pocket for another cigarette.

“Ah, nepotism,” she smirks.

“It wasn’t like that,” he defends.

“I’m not judging,” she promises. “What’s the point in having connections if you can’t use ‘em, right?”

He supposes that’s true but would rather push the conversation onto something else. Luckily, she does it for him.

“Bet your girlfriend loves that you’ve been away for so long.”

It’s coy, and he can’t keep the cocky grin from spreading across his lips. He knows exactly what she’s fishing for.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he answers before downing another mouthful of his beer.

“Oh,” Brittany sips from her tequila, pretending to be surprised.

~ ~ ~

The door to his hotel room slams open, and his lips are attached to hers as they spin into the space, their tongues dancing against one another. Her hands pull at his belt, tugging his shirt out from beneath the leather belt and dipping her hand inside his trousers, squeezing him until a groan spills out of his mouth. He buries his hands in her hair and her waist, pulling her dress higher up on her hips, and it’s frenzied. His head is spinning, and he’s only had two drinks tonight, but he feels drunk off her.

He tries to slow them down, wants to take his time with her, but the way she whines with every touch of skin makes him strip faster than he ever has before. Before he knows it, he’s throwing her underwear somewhere behind him and burying his face in her dripping cunt, making her come undone with his teeth and tongue.

It’s like fireworks exploding when he’s finally inside her, bursts of lightning under his skin, and he wonders if she feels it too. Her hands grab at his biceps as he rocks into her, and she hitches her thighs higher up on his hips so he’ll hit deeper. He finds it really hot that she’s not afraid to tell him how she wants him, whining “faster” or “harder” against his lips and gasping when he complies.

She’s gone in the morning when he wakes up. The only evidence of her is the smell of her perfume and tequila on his pillows.

~ ~ ~

“I give it two days.”

“You reckon that soon?”

“I would’ve bet sooner if Bobby wasn’t always around.”

Matty doesn’t mean to eavesdrop on the conversation between the crew, but it's hard to ignore as they load their bags onto the bottom of the bus. There’s been quiet conversations and murmuring all throughout breakfast and he can’t exactly figure out what's going on.

“Mornin’,” Nadia yawns as she wheels her suitcase over to them.

“What's your bet?” The conversation between the crew is now directed their way.

“For what?”

“For how long it takes Jackson to go off the rails now that mommy dearest has left,” they explained. “She left at the end of the show last night apparently. Took a private plane to Nickonos.”

“Mykonos, do you mean?” Matty corrects, hiding his smile behind his paper coffee cup as he takes a sip, and they look annoyed at him for focusing on the wrong part of the conversation.

“Whatever. Eric and me guessed two days. What say you?”

The crew looks eager for their response and luckily, they’re saved from having to answer when the woman in question exited through the lobby doors, an assistant trailing after her. She looks pretty, tailored denim covering her legs and what might be the same knitted sweater from the first night of tour. Her bag thuds onto the ground in front of them with the expectation that someone will load it for her, and she steps onto the coach without paying them any mind.

He doesn’t know why he expected her to act any differently before him. They don’t owe each other anything and he knows the night before was nothing more than a one-night stand, her first act of rebellion since her mother departed apparently. Still, as he takes a seat in his now usual spot opposite the little kitchenette, he can’t help but watch her throughout the drive and attempt to figure her out.

“What’s up?” she asks when she can feel his stare boring through her.

Bobby is in the back lounge, loudly laughing at whatever is playing on the tiny television and her eyes dart between the iPad and the notepad on the table, meticulously ticking things off her list, never looking at him once.

“Nothin’,” he quickly looks away from her and opens his book.

She puts her headphones on, beginning her next interview, and he’s a fucking idiot for feeling disappointed and hurt.

~ ~ ~

He skips going out that night after the show, still bone-tired from the night before, and pretending that he wasn’t in a foul mood all day because he allowed Brittany Jackson to get into his head. Nadia kind of hung all over him when they arrived at the venue for the soundcheck, wrapping her arm around his and pressing against his side when they sat next to one another. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that it felt like she was marking her territory, but he was positive nobody knew what had transpired in his hotel room the night before.

That didn’t stop the fire in Brittany Jackson’s eyes every time he caught her staring at them.

There’s a knock on the door after he’s finished showering, and sometimes room service gets confused about which person on their floor has ordered, so he doesn’t think much of it when he swings the door open, wearing only his sweatpants and still towel drying his hair.

Brittany Jackson stands there, propped against the frame like a piece of art before throwing her hand around his neck, pulling his face down and kissing him like she had something to prove. She’s such a headfuck and he can’t figure out what she wants from him, then her hand dips into his pants and he manages to figure it out pretty quickly.

He stays awake after she falls asleep, studying her like a creep. Her brows get a little line between them as she dreams, and stress is permanently etched across her forehead. He smooths his thumb between her pinched skin, and she sighs deeply as it melts away. Her hand spreads across his chest as she sleeps, and he closes his eyes.

She’s gone when he wakes up.

Part 2 coming soon.

#YAYYYYYYYY #SO EXCITED #matty healy x brittany jackson #matty healy fanfiction #matty healy

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