Nash sucks in a sharp breath of disbelief, and I catch Blake’s dropped jaw from the edge of my vision as I stare into Keaton’s eyes. His hand presses against my ribs, fingers splayed over my heart. The pressure seems to hold my frantic heartbeat inside my chest, the pain of it trying to break free reduces as my drummer holds me together.
“Take all this pain,” he says, flexing his fingers. “And channel it into breaking this. You need to release it.” He steps away, giving me space that I suddenly don’t want.
“Do it,” Nash whispers. I glance in his direction and then to Blake, who nods his head in encouragement.
Keaton crosses his arms over his chest and flicks his gaze to the stick in my hand, telling me without words that he hasn’t changed his mind. I don’t look away from him as I move my hands to hold the ends and break the stick… or not. It doesn’t even crack.
I stare at the offending piece of wood. It’s certainly not the same one he used on me in my kitchen. It’s beaten and well used beyond the show tonight. It’s had several hours of use, and I can feel tiny little divots in the grain as I tighten my grip until my knuckles go white. My eyelids flutter closed as I work to gather all the negative energy swirling inside me. Gritting my teeth, I bring my arms up and slam the stick on my knee.
“Oww,” I moan, rubbing on the spot that’s sure to bruise. This is supposed to be an outlet for my anger, but it’s only adding to it. I step toward the dressing table and slam the stick against the corner in frustration. Over and over, I repeat the movement, trying to break the fucking thing, but at best, all I’m doing is weakening it.
Warm arms wrap around me, and Keaton’s hands cover mine.
“Together,” he growls in my ear.
Shivers race down my spine, and goosebumps spring up on my neck. Keaton’s arms flex and I add my strength, though I’m sureit’s not even needed. At first nothing happens, but then, like a snap of the fingers, the wood splinters and snaps in half.
A sudden surge of emotions burst forth from my chest, like a dam breaking after years of holding back. The heavy weight that had been pressing on me disappears, allowing me to finally breathe freely.
I’m still angry and pissed the fuck off, but it’s no longer overwhelming me. Nash steps forward and grabs the broken halves out of my grip, his tongue flicking at the lip ring.
“Better?” Keaton asks, his hands releasing mine now that I’m not holding anything.
“Actually,” I reply, leaning against him so he doesn’t leave me. He might be sweaty from ninety minutes of constant banging on the drums, but his nearness seems to settle me. “I didn’t think it would do anything, but somehow it helped.”
The mirror in front of me at the dressing table reflects his cocksure smile. The man might be my silent, broody giant, a source of safety and comfort, but nobody can accuse him of not being confident in every single thing he does.
Sound suddenly penetrates our bubble as Alyssa opens the door. Her gaze instantly narrows in on Keaton’s arms embracing me and the way I lean into him. Blake winces as he glances from her to the door realizing he didn’t lock it as the last one to come in.
With it being too late to pull apart, I stay where I am, not wanting to appear guilty—like she caught us doing something we shouldn’t. Fuck her and whatever conclusions she jumps to. “What?” I snap. She’s literally one of the last people I want to see right now.
Alyssa smirks, making it clear she knows exactly how unwelcome she is and how she enjoys every spark of pain she inflicts. “Show will be over soon. Mandatory afterparty in thepenthouse of the hotel next door. There’s an entrance from the venue to the back hallway to avoid the crowd outside.”
I quickly glance at the clock above the door. There’s no way the show could be ending so soon, Carmen has only been on stage for fifteen minutes tops. My hands clench, the anger I worked so hard to get under control building to a new crescendo.
“Listen, Alyssa,” I spit, having fully met my extent of dealing with the bullshit they throw at me left and right. It’s no wonder I resorted to the blissful numbness of self medication. “Why don’t you take your award for shittiest manager and shove it up your ass along with that afterparty and my uncle’s dickless ballsack. I’m not going to some event where you’ll undoubtedly try to further besmirch my name.”
The bitch isn’t phased at all, her smirk doesn’t wobble or crack. In fact, I think her eyes gain an extra sparkle as she crosses her arms over her chest. “If you miss the party, you owe us another show.”
At this point, it’s better I owe another performance than to risk being at a party. “Fine,” I growl. I don’t even spare a glance as I grab my bag holding my phone and notebook off the table and storm from the room. I don’t even give a fuck that I’ll be leaving in my final costume, someone will have to get it from me later. “Let’s go.”
I’m not sure if my guys are following, but I’d be surprised if they aren’t. The sound of Carmen’s voice reaches me, but what catches my attention is the distinct lack of music backing it up. “Wow, Chicago! You’ve dazzled me tonight, and I hope I’ve done the same for you. Make sure you pre-save my album on your streaming service. I promise to be your next favorite star!”
There’s no way… she doesn’t even have enough content right now to fill a set, and yet they bumped me to give her the headliner?
Hell hath no fury like a songwriter scorned.
My fingers are already twitching with the need to take pen to paper, to spill the lyrics to a song that releases my anger better than breaking any stick could—even if that was exactly what I needed in the moment.
I snap my fingers at the first runner I see, quickly recognizing her as the same woman who brought me the coffee before the blind auditions.Man does that feel like a lifetime ago. Her eyes go wide, but I don’t wait for her to respond, it’s clear I have her attention, and I’m barely holding myself together right now.
“Take me to the exit where my bus is.” My voice cracks, but I hold my head up confidently, pretending it never happened. If I don’t bring attention to it, maybe nobody else will realize it happened either.
Denial is a girl’s best friend.
It doesn’t take long for her to navigate the halls and take us to a door, opening it and ushering us outside. Frigid air smacks me in the face, the sweat clinging to my skin freezing almost instantly. February in Chicago is no joke.
My arms instantly cross my body, my hands running up and down, trying to fabricate some semblance of warmth. Clearly, my rush to escape the venue wasn’t well thought out.
