The Prince & The Popstar

Helena

"Burning on
Just like a match you strike to incinerate
The lives of everyone you know
And what's the worst you take
From every heart you break?"
— My Chemical Romance

    Okay. Let's rewind a bit—before dropping in on The Crew and their magnificent treehouse, before extensively touring every corner of the majestic kingdom, before traveling across the Atlantic Ocean at 30,000 feet in the Verastorian royal jet.

     Now, press play.

     Quinn and Vincent stood in the lobby of The Marriott Marquis. This was the moment Vincent had been anticipating—the moment where he would finally step out into one of the country's largest cities.
     "You should get going," Quinn told the prince. "The world awaits."
     "Thank you, Ms. Gunnerson," Vincent said, grinning. "Until we meet again."
     "Yes, until we meet again," she replied, slightly bowing her head.
     Vincent pushed on the glass revolving door, feeling the warmth of a late August morning in Houston. He climbed inside his first Uber, a Honda Civic that had pulled up next to the vacant valet stand.
     "You must be Greg," Vincent said, finally making use of his carefully honed American accent.
     "Yes, sir," he replied, adjusting his rear view mirror. He quickly turned in his seat after catching Vincent's reflection. "Oh, my God. Are you Rufus Spencer?"
     Vincent pushed the side of his index finger against his lips and winked. "Don't blow my cover."
     "Of course," Greg said, shifting out of park. "I'm guessing 'Vincent' is an alias of some sort."
     "Excuse me?" Vincent asked.
     "My driver's app—it has you registered as 'Vincent'," Greg explained.
     Vincent hadn't thought about the information that would be shared through the app. He simply went with Greg's assumption. "Yeah, yeah... it's an alias."
     "And I see we're making a stop along the way," Greg said, glancing at his phone anchored to his dashboard. "Krispy Kreme—is that right?"
     "That's correct. I thought I'd indulge my craving this morning," Vincent replied. "I figure I should take advantage of my metabolism while it's still in tip-top shape."
     "Smart," Greg said before rubbing his stomach. "Enjoy this time; it won't be long until you find yourself fighting off 'The Dad Bod'."
     Within a matter of minutes, they were on the freeway, heading westward on I-10. Once they passed the ramp for The Beltway, they took the next exit, which led to a feeder road, just outside the major metropolitan area. Greg turned into the parking lot next to the giant green sign in front of the nationwide chain's newest location. A glowing neon light with the word "FRESH" shone brightly in the window as the sun began to rise. Vincent hopped out of the vehicle and entered the bakery where he watched a conveyor belt take a batch of raw dough through the entire process necessary to produce the heavily glazed, tasty treat. He picked up a half-dozen of these decadent delights, giving a couple to his grateful Uber driver. They tasted like sugar-laced freedom; Vincent couldn't get enough.
     They continued west for about 30 miles, crossing the border of the populous Texas city, Katy. Soon after, they pulled up to a gated community—Kelliwood Lakes. Greg rolled down the rear driver's side window and Vincent gave a small wave to the security guard sitting in the hut right outside of the lavish subdivision. The guard smiled and nodded, opening the gate and allowing them inside the luxurious, waterfront neighborhood. They turned onto one of the main streets, Autumn Shore Drive, and passed a few properties before arriving at Rufus' palatial, 10,000 ft² estate—a gorgeous, brick and stone manor with a simple façade which boasted many Georgian architectural elements, from its symmetrical, balanced design to its tall, sash windows.
     Vincent climbed out of the car and threw the strap of his satchel over his shoulder, just before tapping on the roof of his Uber and telling Greg goodbye. As Vincent approached the front entry portico, he sifted through his satchel and pulled out a small kit of precision tools. A few years ago, he studied the lock-picking methods of Alfred C. Hobbs, an American from the mid-1800's who shocked Victorian England by beating the world's most elaborate iron vault, which was secured by three bolts and six tumblers. This made a single deadbolt on a door in the middle of suburbia a piece of cake. Vincent easily disengaged the locking mechanism in a few seconds.
     The entryway opened into a large foyer which had a winding staircase that led up to the second story. Off to the right was a sitting room with a 20-foot ceiling, a number of tall windows composed of rectangular panes, and a polished Steinway grand piano. Vincent set his bag down on the blue suede sofa and began looking around the 5-bedroom, 8-bath custom residence. As he made his way into the sumptuous and sleek summer kitchen, he heard the back door open and shut.
     A glistening Savannah rounded the corner, taking a swig from her bottle of Smart Water, looking like she had just stepped out of a lululemon ad. Her icy blue eyes immediately locked onto Vincent and she slammed the water bottle on the granite kitchen island.
     "Where in God's name have you been?" she questioned sternly as she took out her earbuds.
     Vincent held up his hands. "Look, I know you're upset, but I—"
     "Upset?" she replied, her voice becoming shrill. "I am so far from upset; I'm miles away from upset. I am absolutely furious!"
     "I really am sorry," Vincent said calmly and sincerely. "Something came up."
     "Oh, something came up? Do you think that's a suitable excuse? I had to spend the rest of my night rescheduling interviews and refunding money to VIP's, all while worrying about where the hell you were."
     "I didn't mean to—"
     "You cannot shirk your responsibilities and disappear. That's completely unacceptable. You know better. I raised you to know better."
     "You did," Vincent said, trying to diffuse the situation. "And I do, but I had to take an incredibly important meeting."
     "A meeting?"
     "Yes, a meeting. Hang on—give me a second," Vincent replied, fetching a small stack of papers from his satchel which were held together by a black binder clip. "This is the reason I took off. It's an offer I just couldn't refuse." He handed the papers to Savannah and she quickly skimmed its contents.
     "Well, this is... Wow. I can't believe it. This is real?"
     The papers were actually pages of a multi-million-dollar contract—a proposal to make Verastoria the final stop on 90 Percent Ninja's world tour. If accepted, this last concert would be filmed and broadcasted as a Netflix live event, accessible to all subscribers on the streaming service's international platform.
     "It's real," Vincent answered. "We just have to sign the bottom line and have it notarized by the end of next week."
     "This is really an amazing opportunity, Roo. But, you shouldn't have taken a meeting without me. I know we're mere months away from your milestone birthday, but right now, you're still a minor. Any and all propositions need to pass through my hands before they reach yours."
     "You're right. It won't happen again. I promise."
     "Okay," Savannah said, sighing deeply. "Before I forget, is there something wrong with your phone or were you deliberately ignoring my calls and messages?"
     This was a loose end that Vincent had given some thought. "Actually, I accidentally dropped it in a toilet; it just slipped out of my back pocket. But, I managed to get a hold of a burner for now. I'll text you, so you can add the number to your contacts."
     "Alright, well, I need to hop in the shower," she said, pulling on the hair tie holding up her ponytail. "You should start getting ready, too. We've got a jam-packed schedule today, so use this time to mentally prepare yourself."
     "Will do," Vincent replied.
     "And what on earth did you do to your hair?" Savannah asked as she grabbed Vincent's chin and turned his head from side to side.
     "Um—the stylist last night. She wanted to try something high and tight. She said something about it being fashion-forward. Do you like it?"
     "Jury's out," Savannah replied. "I liked the longer locks, but perhaps this will grow on me."
     After an hour of primping, grooming, and centering, a black Cadillac SUV pulled up to the house on the brick driveway. Savannah and Vincent rushed out, as they needed to be on the other side of town in 45 minutes for their first engagement—a meet-and-greet at one of Houston's oldest record shops, Pop Rocks Music.
     Vincent had diligently practiced Rufus' unique signature which embraced the dying art of cursive script with its italicized format and flowing loops and lines. It took Vincent 116 attempts before he could create a passable imitation which met the high standards of authentication.
     Throngs of loyal fans had lined up outside the well-known, family-owned establishment, waiting eagerly to have their memorabilia and merchandise signed while also capitalizing on the opportunity to have their picture taken with the phenomenon known as Rufus Spencer. For the most part, all Vincent needed to do was sign autographs, smile widely, and shake hands; it really wasn't taxing work. He did find it funny when a few superfans wanted him to record their outgoing messages on their voicemails, digitally marking the moment when they met the wildly massive popstar.
     As Vincent tended to his admirers, Savannah noticed that "her son" seemed more poised, more enthusiastic than he had been in quite some time. It felt like the early part of his career when he was hopeful and far less jaded. This brought a smile to Savannah's face as she watched Vincent happily cater to his immense fanbase.
     After wrapping up at the signing booth, Vincent and Savannah headed to River Oaks where the iPic Theater was hosting a Rufus Spencer film retrospective, offering up screenings of three of his most noteworthy performances, according to IMDb—Faith On Fire, The Last Gatekeeper, and The Articles of The Hustler. As soon as the credits started rolling on the last movie, theater staff started setting up a table with a dark linen for an AMA with the beloved star. Vincent answered question after question, utilizing all of his Rufus Spencer knowledge and managed to keep the audience entertained with his slightly self-deprecating humor.
     Once the event came to a close, it was time for a late dinner with top-tier VIP's at Houston's renowned steak house, Taste of Texas. This was, by far, a snootier crowd, but they became easier to tolerate after a few glasses of Mouton Rothschild, a vintage cabernet sauvignon specifically set aside for the city's high-rollers. After savoring every delicious bite of his 24-ounce bone-in ribeye, Vincent began to feel the weight of exhaustion. He wondered how Rufus dealt with this feeling day in and day out; he was positively spent. Savannah recognized the diminishing energy from Vincent's blank facial expression. She politely thanked the VIP's for their monetary support and bid them all goodnight with a forced smile.
     As soon as they arrived back at home, Savannah started on some time-sensitive paperwork while Vincent dragged himself up the stairs and headed to his bedroom, accidentally opening the door to a bathroom and a closet before finding the right room. He immediately crashed on Rufus' four-post, California King canopy bed and felt himself sink into the Tempur-Pedic mattress. He threw the down comforter over his head and fell into a deep sleep.
     Around 4:30 a.m., while Vincent was in the middle of a REM cycle, a thin, strawberry blonde with a pixie cut tip-toed inside the bedroom, crawling underneath the covers, starting at the foot of the bed. Vincent began to stir, feeling this indescribable sensation; it was warm and inviting, but at the same time, it was also jarring and complicated with a weird touch of shame. His eyes fluttered open as he slowly woke. That was when he realized he not only had company, but he was smack-dab in the middle of his first sexual encounter.
     Vincent jumped to his feet, standing on the bed, his back against the mahogany headboard as he hastily pulled up his pants. "What the—" he began to say as he tossed the comforter to the side of the bed. His eyes, wide with panic, focused on the misleadingly doe-eyed, strawberry blonde who was wiping the corner of her mouth. His brain went into overdrive as he instantly recognized the stunning spitfire.
     Helena Redding, born October 31, 2005, daughter of lauded film executive, Edward Redding, the man who discovered Rufus Spencer in 2013. Helena gained fame through a number of social media platforms, showing the world what it's like to be a member of "The One Percent". Her posts are colorful and surprisingly imaginative as she takes pictures from uncommon, but quite interesting angles.
     "My penis," Vincent said, trying to slow his breathing. "It was in your mouth."
     "Yeah, so?" she replied, picking a stray hair off her tongue. "Did you stop manscaping while you were on tour? It's a disaster down there."
     "You're Helena Redding. Why are you here doing... Why are you here?"
     "'Helena'? You haven't called me 'Helena' in years. What's going on?"
     It finally dawned on Vincent. "You're Lena. My God, you're Lena."
     "Yeah... What's with the accent? You're not doing some method-acting exercise again, are you? Because the last time, you were... Well, you were a handful."
     Vincent cleared his throat and adjusted his accent accordingly. "Sorry. I don't quite feel like myself. Things are a little upside-down at the moment."
     "Well, I tried meeting up with you after the concert the other night, but I was told you fell ill and left early. Are you alright? What happened?"
     "It's kind of a long story," Vincent replied, slowly sliding down into a crouched position.
     "I've got all the time in the world," Lena said, leaning back on her hands. "C'mon, talk to me, Goose."
     "The tour just really stretched me to my limits and after the homecoming show, I went out and made a bold decision."
     "Which was...?"
     "That's a little tough to explain. Long story short, I feel like a new person."
     "You do seem different," Lena said, slightly squinting.
     "Is it a bad 'different'?" Vincent asked, actively curious.
     "No, no. It's just 'different'."
     "I suppose I can live with that."
     "Now, please tell me about the tour," Lena insisted. "I wanna hear all about it."
     Vincent started putting together a story on the spot, drawing ideas from Mötley Crüe's insane adventures in The Dirt as well as Dave Grohl's autobiography, The Storyteller. Vincent was able to cite dates and cities effortlessly as he spun a completely fictitious, epic tale that left Lena truly captivated. He invented groupies, leaning heavily on the standard stereotypes and the written confessions of other popular music artists throughout the years. He referenced various city hotspots that he had read about and desperately wanted to visit. He went on and on, thoroughly entertaining Lena, not realizing how long he had been talking until the sun started peeking through the window.
     "So, I think that brings you up to speed," Vincent said, incredibly proud that he wove together a believable story, albeit outrageous at certain points.
     "It really sounds like you had an amazing time," Lena replied with her well-known Cheshire smile. "But, I am beyond thrilled that you're back."
     "Yeah, it feels good to be home."
     "Well, I am absolutely famished. Are you hungry?"
     "I could eat."
     "Alright, let's go hit up Bob's. I haven't had a decent breakfast taco in ages."
     "Um—sure. Let's go to Bob's."
     Vincent quickly changed after grabbing a fresh t-shirt and pair of well-worn blue jeans. He and Lena quietly walked out the front door, trying their best to not wake Savannah. Outside, parked in the driveway was Lena's custom, candy-apple red Tesla Model X. They climbed in and zipped down a few farm roads to the historic side of Rosenberg, Texas, pulling into the community staple, Bob's Taco Station.
     Inside, the establishment embodied the definition of a dive. The walls were covered with a plethora of framed pictures, vintage road signs, and long banners representing the high schools in the surrounding area. The tables and chairs were very dated and rubbed smooth at the corners; they were a part of the original design, which traced back to the year 1982. The dining room was filled with the mouth-watering scent of freshly made tortillas which were loaded up with a variety of made-to-order items, ranging from fried country potatoes to savory homemade chorizo. What really pushed the signature breakfast tacos to the next level was the authentic Tex-Mex salsa, made with just the right amount of cilantro.
     In the middle of Vincent and Lena's morning feast, a strangely familiar voice called out to them.
     "Well, well, well—as I live and breathe, the dynamic duo, Rufus Spencer and Lena Redding."
     Vincent turned in his seat and met the pale blue eyes of a strapping, young man, his long, blonde hair thrown up in a man-bun. In a split-second, Vincent's mind began to race.
     Eugene Tyson Joules IV, widely known as "Tyson Joules", born on August 5, 2005, son of Eugene Michael Joules III, the head of Joules International, a private distribution company which specializes in the sale and delivery of rare items, ranging from antique furniture to priceless artwork to vintage cars, as well as precious metals and gemstones. Tyson met Rufus in 2013, where he was Rufus' understudy for the title role in the musical Oliver! While Rufus went on to dominate the silver screen, Tyson was pushed towards television, appearing in a number of supporting roles in several different series. In 2018, he and Rufus tried forming a garage band, but ultimately split up due to creative differences. It is widely believed that the split was due to the fact that Tyson grew tired of living in Rufus' shadow; since the beginning of their relationship, Tyson had always been the JV to Rufus' Varsity.
     "Hello, Tyson," Vincent said, after quickly swallowing a mouthful of his taco. "What brings you to town? I thought you were living out of LA."
     "Oh, I'm here taking care of a little bit of business," Tyson explained before turning his attention to Lena. "And how are you, babe?"
     Lena twitched. "Please don't call me 'babe'. It sends a shiver down my spine."
     A little over a year ago, Tyson and Lena were plastered on a number of tabloids while they dated for a brief time. Lena broke it off suddenly, telling absolutely no one why, even though she was constantly pressed for a reason.
     "So, Rufus, I've been meaning to ask you something," Tyson said as he attempted to rub Lena's shoulder. She shook him off immediately.
     "What's on your mind, Tyson?" Vincent asked.
     "I need to know—the song, 'Douchebag'—is it about me?"
     "Actually, no, it's not," Vincent replied behind a smirk. "I did write something a while back about vanity. That one—that's all you."
     "Zing!" Tyson exclaimed. "You're a little feisty this morning."
     "What can I say? You left your nose open," Vincent said, balling up a paper napkin.
     "I came across The Billboard Top 100 this morning," Tyson said, picking a piece of potato off one of Vincent's breakfast tacos and tossing it in his mouth. "How does it feel to know you'll never take down Taylor Swift?"
     "I don't know, Tyson. How does it feel to have never been a part of a television series that lasted longer than two seasons?"
     This elicited a giggle from Lena.
     "You got me there, Mr. Spencer," Tyson conceded. "Enjoy the spoils while you can. I'm here to tell you a storm is coming. And it's about to rain down hard on your parade. Just thought you should know."
     Tyson tapped the tabletop and then headed over to the service counter to pick up a to-go order. Vincent and Lena sat in silence until Tyson left the restaurant.
     "What do you think he's up to?" Lena asked.
     "I'm not sure," Vincent replied. "He could be bluffing."
     "Wait a second," Lena said, holding up her hand. "You can't tell?"
     "What do you mean?"
     "You can't tell if he's lying?"
     Vincent could see exactly where this was heading. "No, I can't."
     "Okay," Lena said with a stern expression. "Rufus Spencer would be able to tell if he was lying." She folded her arms and pursed her cherry lips. "Who are you? It's time for the truth."