“I understand your reluctance for after parties. Trust me, I’ve seen some of the ones you’re thinking of first hand. But this one is something I planned myself with the assistance of my team. This will be a clean party to go along with your new wholesome image of being in the industry purely for the love of music. Only alcohol allowed, no drugs or sex.
“If these functions weren’t so important, I wouldn’t even suggest it.” An expression quickly passes over her face like sheknowswhat I’ve been through, and I suddenly wonder what other clients she has or had in the past. “It’s a grueling but necessary part of your job, Raina. It gives you a chance to schmooze with critics and industry bigwigs who can help support you once you’re free of that monster.”
I’m more convinced than ever she really knows what’s happened to me.
“It will give them a glimpse of the real you without the label painting a false narrative. This will be good for you, I promise. If it’s not, I’ll let you dump a bucket of blue dye on me. Stain my skin so I look like a Smurf.” She smiles, and I can’t help but laugh at the image she painted.
“Okay, I’ll give it a try. But only for you, Izzy. If it sucks, I’m leaving.” I finish my coffee and leave the empty cup on the counter. “Anything else before I finish getting ready?”
“We set up a fan meet and greet. Would you be willing to meet with them? Our plan is to snag some from the line outside before they open the doors any minute now.”
I freeze for a moment, remembering the last time I had a meet and greet. The sleazeball guy who thought he could touch me and the women who threw themselves at any man they could. I glance at my guys, worried I might rip some hair out if anyonetries to get near them. As far as any fans are aware, I’m only dating Darius. And that’s fake as fuck.
Darius moves to my side, his body blocking my view of Izzy as his lips brush across my ear. His hand lands on mine and Keaton’s hold tightens on my shoulders like he wants to push him off. The guys might be closer, but they still don’t like the idea of the fake dating bit.
“I know what you’re worried about. The team will choose true Raina fans. It won’t be that bullshit they brought in before. It’ll be like the other day when we talked to fans after the show. I’ll be there with you.” He pauses, then adds, “We all will be.”
I’m not sure how many more times I’ll need to be reminded that I’m no longer alone, but apparently it’s one more.
“Meet and greet it is. Let’s do it.” I’m not sure if I can handle anything else new being thrown at me today, but I might as well add insult to injury. “Is there any news on Tristan?”
The swishing beads on my costume click together as I stride toward the small group of carefully selected fans. My heart pounds against my ribs like a drum, matching the rhythm of my anxious thoughts.
Izzy, Nash, Keaton, Blake, and Darius trail behind me, their combined presence forming a protective barrier around me. I’m not sure I’d be able to do this without them, not without resorting to drugs again. It was the only way I could get through it in the past.
At the same time, it feels like I’m walking on air. We might not have solid information about Tristan, but his name has come up on reels. Someone on Izzy’s team has messaged the account, but they haven’t received an answer yet.
There’s hope though. And sometimes that’s all you need.
Entering the room, I catch sight of the excited fans looking across the room, waiting for me to walk through the door, and I’m abruptly struck with guilt. When I first started touring, Iused to love getting to meet them. It suddenly feels like one more thing Dickless has stolen from me.
Gill meets us right inside the doorway of the room. “We decided to keep things small. Only a few fans are waiting to meet you. We have them lined up on the far side of the room. If things go well, let me know and we can try a few more next time.”
I give her a thankful smile, feeling less overwhelmed already.
The first fan, a freckle-faced redhead sporting one of my old tour t-shirts, steps forwards hesitantly. She clutches her sketchpad tightly in her hands, the universal symbol of an artist. When she meets my gaze, tears well up in her eyes and she stammers out praises for our music, her words stumbling over one another in her nervousness.
As our conversation continues, she shows me some of her art, things my music has inspired her to draw. I’m hit with a wave of understanding more impactful than the one I experienced the other day with Darius.
They’re more than fans; they connect with my—well now it’s becoming our—music on a deeper level. It’s comforting to know how much the lyrics mean to them… to her.
The music is bigger than just us on stage.
The next fan is a tall young man with a shy smile. He tells me how our music has helped him get through tough times, and I feel Nash’s hand press against my lower back in support. His genuine gratitude is enough to warm me from the inside out. I reach out and give the guy a soft smile, offering a hug. His eyes widen, as if he can’t believe I’d do something so personal, but he wraps his arms around me carefully. “Thank you,” he whispers, almost too quietly for me to hear.
When I pull away, he’s still smiling, but his eyes shimmer like he’s holding back emotions he doesn’t want to show. My chest tightens. I can’t believe I’ve been missing out on interactions likethis for so long. It makes me fucking angry how these meet and greets got tainted over the years.
I glance over at Darius, standing beside me. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a hint of pride in his eyes. Maybe this won’t be as bad as I thought.
The line moves forward, and another fan steps up. She’s bouncing on her heels, clearly bursting with excitement. “Raina, oh my God, I’ve waited so long to meet you!” she squeals, practically vibrating with energy.
Her enthusiasm is contagious, pulling a genuine laugh from me. “I’m glad you’re here,” I say, meaning every word.
She hands me a poster to sign, her hands trembling as I scrawl my name across the glossy paper. “You saved me,” she blurts out. “Your songs... they saved me.”
My pen halts mid-signature, and I look up at her, stunned by the raw vulnerability in her voice. “I’m so glad the music helped you,” I tell her, but the words feel a little disingenuous when my music wasn’t enough to save myself when the time came.
Behind me, I feel Keaton’s silent support, his presence grounding me as the weight of these interactions sinks in. It’s as I walk to the next waiting fan that I see her sign says #TeamDarius. I’m surprised she didn’t say anything about it at all, but I suppose she had other things on her mind.
