No.

No.

Nononononono.

"Scott! Can you open the door? I've got Candice on the phone and I need a fag, oh, I mean cigarette...I guess I can't say that now, can I?...I mean...my balcony door broke and now I can't smoke on my balcony...shit...just open the door, yeah?"

I stare at the picture. It's not me. It doesn't look like me. No, it is me. It looks exactly like me. My jaw line, the sweep of my hair, my long fingers, the bridge of my nose. It is most definitely me.

I don't do things like this. I don't kiss boys at parties. Boys who wear fucking backward baseball caps who smirk at me like we have a secret. Because, we don't anymore, do we?

My hands ball into tight fists, but not before they catch more tweets, more instagrams, the photo set to every fucking filter there is, even the ones that cost like £4 each. I make millions and I still don't bloody buy those.

I'm everywhere. I'm trending. There are more tweets talking about me and Parker and my sexuality than there ever was about the Luke – Candice – Oliver love triangle, which has become old news. There's nothing about the other guys now, except within the context of me.

@purplenvgoals omg if he's slept with any of them i might die

@lukeisbae no fuckin way its parker x scott 4 lyfe

Instead of turning the notifications off like a normal person, I throw my phone across the room. It hits the wall but it doesn't smash. It's so deeply disappointing. I open the door to Demitri, whose hand is red from all the knocking. One hand is pressed to his ear where his phone is. He shoves it into my hand and heads straight for my balcony, fag almost lit.

"Hello?"

"Scott. Oh my GOD, Scott."

"It's not...it's not that big of a deal."

"It isn't?"

"Ok, it is. It fucking is. Christ on a bike, Candice."

Demitri leans on the sliding door panel, half in and half out, smoke curling around him and into the morning air. I put Candice on speaker phone.

"I mean, you were just smashed, right? We all do silly shit when we're gone. I can't say I've ever made out with a guy but...you're not actually gay, are you? So there's nothing to worry about." I look at him. "Oh."

"Yeah."

He nods, looks at his feet where my phone is, blinking and squealing and beeping like it's a full on living thing. He starts flicking through tweets, instagrams, Facebook messages. I'm trending on Facebook, he says. Who gives a shit about Facebook anymore?

I feel dizzy. I can see red, and I sit back on my bed, carefully, and put Candice on the bedside table. She's talking, about something, about what I can do, about what I can say to everyone. But what the Hell am I supposed to say? The messages aren't exactly supportive; they talk explicitly about my sex life, about me sleeping with other members of the band, about how I've lied to them.

It is not my responsibility to report everything about my life. This is supposed to be mine, it is not for them.

"So, is Parker also...?"

"Yes."

"And did he actually...you know, pop your..."

"Demi, fucking Hell." Candice's voice comes through the phone.

I grind my teeth. I need to punch something.

I'm about to pop Scott Connors fucking cherry.

Crackin' headline.

I remember the way he wasn't bothered about hiding, about how he didn't care if there were people around. How did he do it? How did he take that picture? Did he get someone else to do it?

I'm changing frantically, throwing on a shirt I wore last night. It smells of Oliver.

"Wait, where are you going?"

"I need to have a chat with a douchebag."

.....

I don't think about the overwhelming embarrassment that comes with self hatred. I push it down along with everything else I feel; dread, fear, shame. But one thing I don't push down is anger. I let anger boil my blood and move my legs as I manage to coax a roadie to bring a car to the back entrance of the hotel and drive me to a studio in Hollywood, I can't remember which one.

I bite at my nails, leaving them red and raw as I control the itch to pick up my phone that's slid in my pocket. I've turned off the notifications; the sounds making me go insane. I have no peace anymore, no privacy.

And it's all Parker's fault.

And I'm going to strangle him.

Funnily enough, he hasn't tweeted a thing about this whole fucking mess, and instead mentioned that he, along with the rest of the douche brigade, will be filming a performance on Leonard Baxter's talk show this afternoon.

I told you my geography is bad, but I'll never forget where that studio is.

I try not to think about Oliver, about his lips, his forearms, how eager he was to kiss me. Every day that boy surprises me. Will I ever know what it means? What will happen when he finds out I'm gay? He must know by now. Surely that'll make it better? Or was he just screwing around? Will one of us being gay make it too serious?

Will he stop? Christ, what if he doesn't talk to me again?

No, no. Don't think like that Scottie.

Suddenly I'm walking down an empty hallway. I can hear the buzzing of camera equipment and overhead lights and even the annoying shrill of Leonard Baxter's put on flamboyant voice. A TV against the wall shows that Dawn Senate have yet to appear, and I remember the dressing room we waited in before Demitri humiliated us on live television.

Dawn Senate are lucky, this won't air for another few days.

I can hear Parker on the other side of the door, talking. I didn't expect other people to be there, but my anger fuels me, and I knock on the door.

When he opens it, he's surprised to see me, phone pressed to his ear. But when he realises it's me, and why I'm here, his body relaxes and her smirks that over-confident thing that oozes out of him.

"Back for more?"

That does it.

I punch him square in the nose. He stumbles back, phone clattering to the floor like a piece of plastic. His eyes are wide as he clutches his bloody nose. "What the fuck?" He tackles me to the ground in anger, smacking my head against the floor as I struggle, getting more punches in as he does the same.

I feel the skin on my knuckles split as they scrape the floor as I get up.

"Scott, Scott, stop!" He shouts.

"How fucking dare you?! How fucking dare you out me? That belongs to me you fuckin' prick!" I lose count on how many times I swear at him, kick and punch as he does the same to me. Parker's under me, grappling for control as I pin him to the floor. The blood from his nose makes a stream line to his lips, and when he smiles, they drip onto his teeth.

And he begins to fucking laugh.

"You can't punch this back into the closet, Scottie. Don't tell me you're scared are you?" He stares up at me, his eyes on fire and his teeth red. Yes, I'm scared shitless, and for the first time I realise, so is he. We share something; both knowing that everything is different for us now. We're in this together.

My grip on the front of his shirt (I'm surprised he's wearing one) softens as the back for his head slowly presses against the ground, and I feel his bloody hand slowly reach up a rub a thumb under my jaw line.

Suddenly, I'm grabbed from the collar from behind, and reared back. I'm practically chucked back into the hall where Mitch Simmons moves around me and violently slams Parker's dressing room door shut, but not before Parker yells back to me, spitting blood to the ground.

"And FYI, Scottie-boy, I didn't do it! I wouldn't wish this shit on anyone!"