“You look more nervous than I feel,” Max told her in his consistently subdued voice. The only time she ever saw him excited was onstage. She wondered if he was naturally quiet or if he just saved up his energy for performances. Was he this calm when off tour? She added a couple of question to her list. She didn’t have to wonder—she could ask.
Toni glanced up from her recorder and the pages of neatly written questions on her lap to Max’s face. He was staring at her questions, trying to read them upside down. She shifted the legal pad against her chest to hide the words, and his hazel eyes lifted to meet hers. She hadn’t noticed how much green was flecked inside the light brown irises. Maybe his green Save the Wails T-shirt brought out the brighter hues in his eyes.
“You’re nervous?” she asked.
His laugh was soft and low-pitched. “I have no idea what you’re about to ask me.” He raked a hand through his hair, drawing her attention to his wrist brace. She had several questions about his surgery but was really wondering how it felt to watch Reagan play guitar in his place. Would he tell Toni something like that, or were those feelings too personal?
She grinned at him. “I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
She switched on her digital recorder and set it on the shiny white surface of the coffee table.
“I’m surprised Logan let you talk to me in private,” Max said, his gaze on the stack of neatly folded blankets behind her. She’d hoped he wouldn’t notice that they were sitting on her makeshift bed—the one that Logan had shared with her the night before. She flushed as she recalled all the dirty things they’d done on this very sofa. She was still tender between her legs, so all she had to do was shift slightly to be reminded of how it felt to have him deep inside her.
“He didn’t want to leave us alone together,” she admitted. “But I reminded him that I had a job to do and that if he wouldn’t allow me to do it, then I’d have no reason to stay.”
“So you have him figured out already,” Max said with a chuckle. “I guess he isn’t very mysterious, is he?”
Would it be wrong to pump Max for personal information about Logan when she had no intention of including it in the book? This was supposed to be a formal interview, but how could she resist learning more about the man she loved—as a friend—from those who’d known him almost half his life? “Why do you say that?” she asked, hoping he didn’t recognize her eagerness.
“Logan isn’t very good at hiding things, so I guess it’s only natural that he says exactly what’s on his mind and puts his true self on display. I don’t know how he gets away with it. Maybe it’s because he’s the bassist and there’s less pressure on him to maintain a certain persona.”
“The way there’s pressure on you?”
Max shrugged. “I guess.”
“Who puts the most pressure on you? Your band? The fans? Your manager? The media?”
“Myself mostly, but yeah, I feel it from every direction.”
Toni leaned closer, interested in his unexpected response. “Why do you put pressure on yourself?”
“If I tell you, I’m sure you’ll slant it in such a way that I end up looking bad.”
She was surprised that his lack of trust stung her feelings. She’d come into this experience expecting the guys to be cautious around her—especially at first. She supposed Logan was to blame for her thinking she’d already gained their friendship and trust. Perhaps his throwing caution to the wind and being open and honest with her was more unusual than she’d realized.
“I would never do that,” Toni said, touching the back of his hand to press her point. “I’m here to write a book that shows all of you in the best possible light. My goal is to make you human, but not bad. Or scandalous. Or weak. But real.”
“That might be even worse,” he said.
“How so?”
He glanced away as if searching for the right words. “When the world believes you are the persona you display to the public, that perception allows you a certain layer of protection. So you feel like the criticism and hate isn’t directed at you—not the real you—it’s directed at the man they all think you are, who isn’t really you at all. Otherwise . . .” He shook his head slightly, his hazel eyes dark with gloom.
She’d never thought about that side of fame. Accepting criticism was hard, and feeling that someone hated you was completely demoralizing. She didn’t know if everyone took such things personally, but for Toni, negativity never just rolled off her back. It stuck deep in her heart. She fixated on it until even the smallest negativity sometimes blotted out all the good around her. So she understood why someone in the spotlight would need separation between the cruelty of the outside world and their day-to-day reality. But much of the world thought this man was the moon and stars, so that had to feel good. Didn’t it? Or did he only apply the praise to his public persona and not to the real him as well?
“Is it the same for the adulation?” she asked. “Do you also keep that at a distance from the real you? Or do you allow that to touch you?”
His gaze shifted back to her. “Why don’t we start on the questions you brought with you?” he said. “I didn’t intend to get this personal.”
“I could shut off the recorder if you don’t want it on the record,” she said.
He shook his head. “Just ask me something else.”
But her prepared questions seemed so superficial in comparison to what they were talking about. Regardless, she forged ahead. Susan wanted certain questions answered, and Toni had a job to do. As a for-hire writer, she knew the book wasn’t truly her own, even though she would place her personal stamp all over it.
“When did you know you wanted to be a singer?”
Max grinned, some of the tension releasing from his broad shoulders as he answered a question he’d no doubt been asked a thousand times before.
“I never wanted to be a singer,” he said. “I just wanted to play guitar.”
“Oh.” Her gaze dropped to the brace on his wrist.
“The band decided that out of all of us, my voice was the least offensive to the ear, so they made me sing.”
Least offensive? “You have a spectacular voice,” she said, knowing she was gushing, but anyone who listened to him knew that he’d been born to sing.
“Thank you,” he said, the fingers of his right hand toying with the brace on his left wrist.