Page 12 of Unholy Confessions (The Paper Rings Trilogy #1)

RJ

" I 'll see you in a few weeks," I tell Montgomery, hugging her tightly.

We're used to saying goodbye in the pickup and drop off areas of airports. Wearing a hat faced to the front typically gets me out of having to say anything to fans, but I've noticed a few people pointing cameras in our direction.

"We're going to be on the internet," she whispers, burying her face in my neck. "People will be talking shit about me, and asking why we're together."

"And you know to ignore that. They're just jealous."

She nips at my neck. "That's easy for you to say. You're not the one they talk shit about."

"Oh my God, lie again, babe. You know people call me the less popular brother."

We normally joke about this every time we leave one another.

But this time the words I've just said to her hits a bit deeper than they ever have.

It's never bothered me that I'm not the popular one of the two of us, but along with everything else happening within me, the last thing I want to do is get resentful.

In this moment, I'm jealous though. He doesn't have to say goodbye to his girlfriend every few weeks. Granted, he doesn't have one, but he also doesn't have to put himself through it. Not like I do.

"RJ..." Montgomery pulls back to look at me, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. "You know that's not true, right? About being less popular?"

I force a smile, but we both know she's being kind. EJ's the frontman, the face everyone recognizes. I'm the guy who stands in the shadows with my guitar, content to let him have the spotlight. Or at least, I used to be content with it.

"It's fine, really," I say, kissing her forehead. "I prefer it that way."

But even as I say it, something bitter twists in my stomach. The cameras keep flashing, and I know by tonight there'll be articles dissecting every angle of this goodbye, wondering what Montgomery sees in the quiet Thompson brother .

"I love you," she whispers against my lips, and for a moment everything else fades away. Just her warmth, her vanilla perfume, the way she fits perfectly against me.

"I love you too." The words come out rougher than I intend, heavy with all the things I can't say in public. Like how much I hate these goodbyes, how they're getting harder each time, how sometimes I wonder if this distance is slowly killing us both.

We both know it's time to go, especially when her alarm goes off. Montgomery's grip on my shirt tightens.

"Go," I tell her, even though every instinct screams at me to keep her here. "Don't miss your flight."

She kisses me one more time, quick and desperate, then grabs her carry-on and disappears into the airport. I watch until she's completely out of sight, ignoring the cameras that are probably capturing every second of my pathetic longing.

My phone buzzes with a text from our driver: We've gotta go.

I pull my hat lower and make my way through the crowded sidewalk, trying to ignore the whispers that follow me. By the time I slide into the black SUV, my jaw aches from clenching it so tight.

"How'd it go?" EJ asks from the passenger seat, not bothering to turn around. He's scrolling through his phone, probably checking social media mentions.

"Fine." I buckle my seatbelt and lean back against the leather. "Just dropped her off."

"Cool. Radio station's about twenty minutes away. You ready for this?"

Am I ever ready for interviews? For sitting next to my golden boy brother while strangers ask us the same questions we've answered a hundred times before? For pretending I'm not slowly unraveling at the seams?

"Yeah," I lie. "Let's get this over with."

The radio station is smaller than I expected, tucked into a converted house in downtown Denver with a giant satellite dish on the roof.

Inside, it smells like stale coffee and the kind of carpet that's seen too many spilled drinks.

The host, a guy named Marcus with an overly enthusiastic handshake, leads us into a cramped booth lined with foam padding and outdated equipment.

"So we've got the Thompson brothers here, EJ and RJ from Grey Skies!" Marcus announces into his microphone with the kind of energy that makes me want to crawl under the soundboard. "Thanks for joining us, guys."

"Thanks for having us," EJ responds smoothly, leaning into his mic like he was born for this. Which, honestly, he probably was.

"Now, I have to ask the question everyone's curious about," Marcus continues, his eyes lighting up with that familiar gleam. "What's it like being the sons of Garrett Thompson from Black Friday and Harmony Stewart? That's some serious music royalty right there."

Here we go. The question that follows us everywhere, the reason half our interviews get booked in the first place. I shift in my chair and let EJ take the lead, like always.

"It's incredible, honestly," EJ says, and I can hear the genuine enthusiasm in his voice. "Growing up around that level of talent, that work ethic – it really pushed us to be better. The pressure could have crushed us, but instead it made us stronger. I thrive on it."

Marcus nods eagerly. "And RJ, what about you? Do you feel that same pressure to live up to your parents' legacy?"

I clear my throat, aware of how my voice sounds compared to EJ's confident tone. "It's... different for me. The pressure's definitely there, but I handle it differently than EJ does. I don't really thrive on it the same way he does."

"Really? Tell us more about that."

Great. Now I have to elaborate on why I'm the disappointment. "I guess I just prefer to stay more in the background. That's why I don't sing lead vocals, even though I can. I like being the foundation, you know? Letting the others shine while I hold everything together on the lead guitar line."

"But surely with pipes like your parents, you must have considered taking the mic?"

EJ jumps in before I can answer. "RJ's got an amazing voice, but he's being modest. He's the heart of our sound. Without his guitar work and song writing, we'd be nothing."

I appreciate him trying to save me, but it just makes the contrast between us more obvious. He's confident, charismatic, born for the spotlight. I'm the guy who needs his older brother to rescue him from interview questions.

"Well, that's what makes a great band," Marcus says diplomatically. "Different strengths coming together. So what's next for Grey Skies?"

The rest of the interview blurs together – questions about our tour, upcoming album, favorite venues. EJ handles most of it while I nod and smile at appropriate moments, counting down the minutes until we can leave.

When it's finally over, Marcus shakes our hands again and asks for a quick photo.

I paste on my best fake smile and try not to think about how many times this picture will be compared to other shots of EJ looking effortlessly cool while I look like I'd rather be anywhere else.

It always is, which is why I don't spend much time on the internet anymore.

There's always comparisons and competition between fans.

It's a popularity contest that I prefer not to be a part of.

Outside, the Denver air is getting cooler as nighttime approaches.

Our driver is waiting to take us to dinner with the rest of the band – Jake, our drummer, and Mitch, our bassist. They've been doing press all day too, hitting up local TV stations while EJ and I worked the radio.

Being a newer band, we're grinding for everything we can get, even with the power of our parents and last names.

"You okay?" EJ asks as we settle into the backseat. "You seemed a little off in there."

"I'm fine." It's my standard response, the one I've perfected over months of people asking that exact question. "Just tired, and already missing Montgomery."

He studies my face for a moment, and I can see him debating whether to push. We used to talk about everything, back before I was a teenager, before the band, before the pressure started building, before I started needing little white pills just to get through the day.

"You know you can talk to me, right?" he says finally. His eyes reminding me so much of our dad's. "About anything."

The concern in his voice almost breaks me. Almost makes me want to tell him about the extra pill rattling in my pocket (just in case), about how I haven't slept more than three hours straight in weeks, about how sometimes I feel like I'm drowning while everyone else is swimming just fine.

Instead, I nod and turn to look out the window. "I know. Thanks."

The restaurant is one of those trendy places with exposed brick walls and Edison bulb lighting that makes everyone look vaguely orange.

Perfect for social media photos, I guess,when I see our marketing person setting up to take a few.

Jake and Mitch are already there, looking not as drained as I feel.

Touring takes it out of all of us, but they handle it better than I do. Always have.

"How'd the interviews go?" Mitch asks as we slide into the booth.

"Same old questions," EJ says, flagging down the waitress. "Legacy stuff, what's it like being Thompson kids, blah blah blah."

"At least they're still talking about us," Jake points out. "Better than being ignored."

"Speak for yourself," I mutter, then immediately regret it when everyone turns to look at me. "Sorry. Just... long day."

The waitress appears with menus and that practiced smile service workers perfect. She's probably in her early twenties, cute in a girl-next-door way that reminds me painfully of Montgomery.

"Can I start you off with some drinks?" she asks, her eyes lingering on EJ just a beat too long.

They always do. I can't tell you the number of women who flirt with my brother, along with how many he takes back to his hotel or the bus.

Literally one in every town. He's having a great time while we're out on tour.