ambivalent.

Billy played the guitar with finesse; it could be said he was a decent guitarist, not on par with the best, but good enough to play a few songs or be part of a ragtag band with occasional flashes of brilliance. For some time now, he had been singing in French, repeating the lyrics over and over.

-Finished with your little journey?- asked Avril, who hadn't left her studio for a while, busy writing countless songs, among which were those that topped the charts. She was gearing up for another year of competition, hoping to finally win the long-coveted Grammy, which had slipped through her fingers before, losing to artists who, in the coming years, would receive distant recognition but left their mark on the industry. For Avril, the hearts of the people were already hers; the title of 'punk princess' and 'rock prince' was plastered across many tabloids. It was like a blow to some, who still couldn't believe it.

-I'm doing the best I can,- Billy commented, switching languages.

-Why sing in other languages? Can't you be like the rest of us regular citizens and stick to one language? You've already got English and Spanish,-" Avril remarked, settling herself on his lap.

Their room was a mess, cluttered with bags, purchases, and other things… She was much like Billy; for now, they only knew how to compose music and keep at it until the end. She loved his collarbone, which she often traced with her pale fingers, her blue-green eyes locked onto him. They were like two crystal-blue orbs on a white field, reflecting a ray of blue light, forming an irresistible allure. She was madly in love with him, unaware of his flings—first with Gwen Stefani, and the baby on the way, and even beyond, with many other women.

Was it believable? Not really. Billy's intensity was that of an idiot who cared about nothing but living in the moment.

-I'd like you to bathe me,- Billy said, stripping off his clothes with a rebellious grin. She bit her lip. The act was simple, just a private, intimate moment in the bathtub, where they cleaned each other's bodies and then took long naps. Those moments were thrilling for Avril—silent, just the two of them bathing. Once, she asked him why he wanted to do it, and he replied that he just needed someone to cleanse his rough edges. The best way to wash away the past was with a good bath.

She washed him gently, like threading a needle. It was an intimate act that made her blush, her cheeks turning bright red. He closed his eyes, letting her take care of him. He looked so defenseless, so still, that the moment felt eternal. He never bathed her in return, and that hurt her heart, even though he kissed her back. The blonde was, in a way, a captive to the bath he never offered, which was curious, how everything condensed into an eternal instant.

-We should sing a song together,- Avril commented after a while. Billy looked at her but nodded after a moment. They were supposed to be asleep, it was noon, and they should have been awake, but outside of their punctual training and music-making, they were practically locked in. The paparazzi wouldn't stop with their photos and provocations. Going outside was like walking into a furnace.

-Do you want me to play the electric guitar for you? Maybe a jazz tune or some soft rock, after all, you're punk royalty,-"Billy said, kissing her forehead.

***

The editing was in progress; it couldn't be said that it was finished. The Nike commercial was simply a fantasy for the time. It would be considered a mega-production, just the boy's salary for the commercial was astronomical—two years of licensing and a percentage of profits from the collection. It had been a risky decision from the start, that unmistakable trait of Billy doing whatever he pleased, with that slow, smug grin he flashed in front of the camera. They took several shots, almost 90 minutes of specific takes, accompanied by the standout song "Hall of Fame" (The Script). It gave the commercial an excellent finish.

-We've got a great ad,- Jerry remarked, watching some of the four commercials in the process of being approved. Now acquired by the board, he marveled at how the boy's song, already good without the video, was now outstanding with one. He was surprised to see David Kennedy move so quickly.

Michael was beside him, observing everything in detail, just as his father had taught him.

-I like numbers 1 and 3. They capture that sense of danger that can't be conveyed otherwise,- Jerry said.

-Great idea. Now we'll wait and see what the board says. According to the contract, he'll have to do another similar commercial for the next campaign,- commented David Kennedy, handing over a card. -If you're satisfied, I think we could collaborate on other projects. I see the potential for major advertising campaigns.-

-Ohhhhh, I hope we never need to use one of your campaigns… but what do you suggest for our dear Billy?- asked Jerry.

-He's got a great face and could be perfect for slow-motion commercials. Perhaps he'll be invited soon. Numbers 1 and 3 focus especially on him, I can see why you chose them. He's a strong visual presence for actors,- David said, his silver hair striking.

-I dare say it's better. Charisma is what people follow, and the boy stands out best in numbers 1 and 3. You could do two different ones, like 1 and 4, or 2 and 3, which are the opposite. Either way, the campaign speaks for itself,- Jerry commented, with a steady knowledge of this type of commercial, giving the campaign a strong advantage.

For now, Michael Ocklars had to oversee all the details, managing the smallest nuances to be the representative and, in some ways, a producer of the boy's music. The key was knowing when to push forward and when to pull back. Once they were alone, he focused on his son—the brightest of them all and the most skilled in this sort of work. Though sometimes prone to arrogance, unlike him, Michael cared about independence, something Jerry had valued in his youth.

-You always have to take care of the people around you. That man's talented and could be useful in the future for commercials. Never accept or reject anything hastily, son,- Jerry advised Michael, who took the words seriously.

Billy's future would depend on someone who could guide him through any upcoming troubles.

***

The two were eating in a café, talking with a real estate agent about acquiring a small property in Chelsea. The house, priced right for its space and the community's care, was two million, secured by Warner at a lower cost. It even came with some furniture. It was a grand two-story property, with a balcony perfect for morning breakfasts, three large bedrooms for art studios and rest, and a guest room. The ground floor had a kitchen, living room, meeting room with a grand piano, a second guest room, and a garden spacious enough for a small orchard. There was also a front yard with space for sports and a black gate.

-So the price is right,- Jerry said, sealing the deal. A property like this was perfect for Billy, along with his apartment in downtown Manhattan. It was his second property, and neither of the homes was too big or overly luxurious, making them perfect for the boy's needs.

-Well, the property is beautiful. Not long ago, it was owned by a family of lawyers, sold to a boxer who didn't take care of it well and ended up selling it at a lower price before retiring back to Ireland,- the real estate agent explained.

-Well, we'll take it. I believe we have all the documents,- Jerry said, knowing that Billy, as the new owner, would now be more conscious of his finances.