“Oh.” She frowns. “I wish I could say something to make that go away. I can’t help but want to take the blame even though I know it’s not my fault.”
Nash draws away, holding her by the shoulders at arm’s distance. “You didn’t do this. It’s all on him. He was the one acting so vengeful that we believed he’d do something like that.” He cups her cheek and slowly closes the space between them.
His lips are barely a hair’s breadth away when the door is swiftly ripped open.
Nash and I jump apart. I take small solace in knowing he moved as much as me, I don’t want him to ever think I’m ashamed of him, or want to hide him, but the media is fucking brutal. I don’t want his life to be as torn apart as mine. Although, I fear it’s inevitable.
“Heard of knocking?” I snap out instinctively before even glancing at the door. When I do, I find it’s Keaton. Relief rushes through me as I wince. “Sorry, big guy. I didn’t realize it was you.”
He tilts his head, and I’m able to read his expression as if we’re having a full conversation.Don’t worry about it, Peaches. I wouldn’t have let anyone else open this door with you inside.“Sound check,” he says, then he shuts the door again.
I let out a sigh, knowing I’m fixing to put on the plastic smile once more. The past month was so freeing for me. Really, the past four months. I was slowly able to find my love for music again. Even after what Tristan did, my passion wasn’t crushed for long. But being here… after what they’ve done in only oneday… I’m not sure how I’ll keep the spark from getting crushed again.
“I’m guessing Tristan isn’t here if he didn’t come out already, but we should probably check just in case,” I say, running a hand over my hair to make sure it’s still in order.
“Tristan,” Nash immediately calls out. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” He moves to the back of the bus where the bunks are, and as he passes, his hand glides along my lower back. His strides are long and in no time he’s sliding the privacy curtains aside, checking all the bunks, then peeking into the bedroom.
It’s not surprising at all when he finishes searching and shakes his head. “He must be in the venue.” At least I hope he is. Would he throw a fit to screw me over? This is all the label would need to tack on more repercussions. What happens when they run out of the tour dates they built in?
“Come on, sweetheart.” Blake holds his hand out for me to take. He draws me close and brushes a kiss over my temple. “You’ve got this. Everything will work out for the best.”
My heart skips a beat as warm fuzzies tingle through me. Why do I feel like he’s the only one I’d believe that line from? Something about Blake’s quiet confidence bolsters my own. He studies every situation with silent precision before assessing it and analyzing it to excessiveness.
“Deep breath,” he whispers. “And say it with me.”
I do as he says, watching him as he inhales with me. He’s still wearing his glasses since he took out his contacts to sleep, and it somehow adds a softness that’s missing when he doesn’t have them on.
Letting out the breath, we both speak at the same time. “Everything will work out.”
A full smile stretches across Blake’s face, making me suddenly breathless. He’s so damn gorgeous, but it sneaks up on you,which I love. “Good girl. Now let’s go find Tristan.” He steps away, and Nash opens the door. The sunlight shines in, making me squint.
It’s go time.
Pushing my sunglasses onto my face, I follow Nash and Blake off the bus. Keaton is waiting for us, and they hang back to give me the lead. The waiting fans grow more excited since I’m in view once more. Their screams fill the air, and I give them the smile they’re wanting. With a wave, I flash them the pucker perfect. Whoever came up with the stupid duck face pose for me was clearly on some heavy drugs. Same with everyone else who approved it. Then again, I was high as a kite so I don’t have room to judge.
My whole brand is so fucked.Sigh.
Security works to keep people off me, but it doesn’t stop the Storm Chasers from reaching around them. Their open hands stretch toward me, hoping to get a simple touch. I’m not really sure what they get out of it. Bragging rights?
They aren’t the only ones here. Reporters yell questions while holding out recorders, trying to get a sound bite out of me. After all this time, I’ve learned to not listen to what they ask. It’s never flattering, almost always a lie, and typically worms its way into my mind where it festers. It’s inevitable that one catches my attention, though.
“Raina! Do you care to comment on the headlines circulating?” one woman shouts. It’s probably the lack of information that makes me pick it out of all the other questions being thrown at me. What headlines?
I don’t say anything, because why would I? If I ask her to specify, it will only lead to trapping me into giving them some kind of reaction once they tell me. Which is exactly what they’re looking for.
We make it inside with minimal fans getting around security to touch me, but phantom hands still glide along my skin. It makes me feel slimy and dirty. I probably shouldn’t feel that way. I should appreciate the fact that I still have so many people who still show up and pay to see my shows. Somehow, despite all the things I’ve gone through, I’ve only gained popularity when it seems like my label is doing its best to bury me.
Keaton’s long legs close the distance, and before I know it, he’s behind me. His hands glide up and down my arms, chasing away the crawling sensation on my skin. I smile to myself as we continue down the hall. “Thanks, big guy.”
He drops his touch before we encounter anyone. Even though it’s for the best, I miss it instantly. As we get closer to the greenroom, I find a roadie rushing by. “Hey,” I call, reaching a hand out to help get their attention. They pause, staring at me with wide eyes before darting to each of the men behind me. “Have you seen Tristan?”
I frown when they shake their head and continue on without saying a word. “There you are,” a fed up voice barks out. Turning, I find the same sound check guy from yesterday glaring at me with squinted eyes. “All you performers are the same, thinking everyone else’s lives revolve around you.”
My mouth drops open, but I have nothing to say. We can’t be more than a couple minutes late, and it’s not like it was done on purpose. To be blamed for the fault of others isn’t fair, but at the same time, my excuses mean nothing.
“You’re right, I’m sorry.” Someone’s hand lands on my arm to cut me off, but I wave them away. Sure, the guy was rude, but it doesn’t change that his time is valuable too, and some stars are real assholes to work with.
The sound check guy gives me a double take, probably questioning if he heard me correctly. It’s almost as if I broke him for a moment. He stands there staring, his eyelids blinkingslowly. Then he seems to snap out of it, but his attitude has changed. “If you could get on the stage so we can get started.”
