A white-hot spotlight finds me and tracks my every move, each of the guys having one of their own as they join me on stage.
The first downbeat hits like a bullet. Keaton’s snare, ruthless and surgical, splitting the silence into raw electricity. It’s thecount-in, the old reliable, the four-stroke gospel that’s gotten me through every show since I was sixteen. By the third hit, Nash’s bass kicks in, so deep it rattles the hollow of my chest. It’s not only a rhythm; it’s a hand at my back, pushing me forward into the glare.
I step up to the mic. My boots are black and heavy, toes scuffed, the only thing keeping me rooted to the floor. The new outfit is a dare—a tangle of black leather, rhinestones punched into the seams, and a crop top Nash made by slashing up one of my old concert tees. I can’t feel the cold anymore, only the hungry pull of the spotlight, the world collapsing down to this one perfect point.
The band slams into the opening riff: Darius and Blake, a latticework of sound that’s sharp enough to draw blood. There’s a rush of air from the monitors at my feet, the first vibration in my lungs, and—
I sing.
The sound that comes out isn’t the perfect notes of an angel. It’s lower, meaner, threaded with gravel and heat. The old voice would have sweetened the melody, layered it in candy glass. This one claws its way up the scale, each note a blade. I almost flinch, but then I see the front row—girls in eyeliner and thrift-store leather, eyes wide, mouths open, hungry for what’s next. I give it to them. I throw myself into the verse, every line a dare to the people who said I was done.
The lights rotate, blue into red, washing the band in a warzone glow. Nash stalks the edge of the riser, headbanging so hard I worry he’ll shake the piercing out of his lip. Keaton’s arms are a blur, sweat spraying off his knuckles every time he comes down on the crash. Darius, eyes closed, hits the keyboard with passion; Blake’s face is rapt, his fingers dancing over the strings with a technical perfection that would leave his former instructor speechless.
I lose track of the words. I’ve sung them a hundred times in rehearsal, but onstage, it’s pure reflex. My body knows where the hooks are, where the breaks land, and I follow it. When the bridge arrives, Tristan steps into the center of the stage with me, sharing the mic as we sing together.
The lights go out again. There’s a half-second of perfect, terrified silence.
Then the crowd detonates. It’s not applause, not at first—it’s a roar, a surge of raw animal energy that slams back onto the stage like a tidal wave. People are screaming, hands shooting up, phones held high and shaking. The whole front row is jumping, bodies pressed together so tight they move like a single beast.
We move on to the next song of the set, and I cross the stage to do a dance number with Darius. Another song Nash gives me a kiss on the cheek after we have some flirty back-and-forth presence. In another number, Blake and I have practiced a move where I help move his bow across the strings in a sharp sound. And of course there’s a song with Keaton…
We’ve worked a moment into the routine where I sit on his lap, taking a set of sticks and helping him on the drums. It’s an explosive moment that the fans cheer even louder at.
We rip through the rest of the song, energy compounding, feedback curling at the edges of the sound. By the time we hit the last chorus, the audience is singing every word, the echo so loud I almost can’t hear myself. It’s not pretty—half of them are off-key, all of them shouting—but it’s the best thing I’ve ever heard.
I look out over the crowd. The flashlights are up, a constellation of hope and solidarity. There are girls in the mezzanine crying, guys in the pit punching the air, kids on each other’s shoulders screaming my name.
I hold the last note as long as I can, then let it drop, the echo lingering in the rafters. The stage lights flare white, searing the moment into memory.
For the first time in my life, I don’t feel like I’m faking it. I don’t feel like an imposter or a product or a victim. I feel like exactly who I am.
The crowd is still screaming when I step back from the mic, heart thundering, blood electric. Nash slings an arm around my shoulders. Keaton whoops and throws a stick into the pit. Darius bows, grand and theatrical; Blake gives me a look of shy pride before ducking his head, and Tristan simply exhales, like he’s been holding his breath for the entire song, and brushes his knuckles down my arm in a barely there touch that’s only for me.
I close my eyes, and let the noise wash over me.
Backstage is a different universe—no lights, no roar, only the draining high. I stagger into the green room and drop onto the nearest folding chair, elbows on knees, breath heaving like I’ve run a marathon. Feels like I have anyway.
My voice buzzes in my throat, raw and spent. I touch the base of my neck, finding skin and sweat and the echo of that last impossible note. I did it. I fucking did it.
Nash bursts through the door right behind me, bass still slung across his back, shirt clinging to him in wet, see-through patches. “That. Was. Insane!” He grabs the nearest water bottle, rips it open with his teeth, and dumps half over his head. “Baby, you killed it. Like, reanimated and then killed it again.”
He comes over and wraps me in a hug that smells like energy drinks and relief. I laugh, or maybe cry a little, but it’s all the same now. Nash rocks me back and forth until my vertebrae realign, then lets go and paces in a frantic loop, like a dog who can’t believe it finally caught the mailman.
Keaton comes through the door next. He’s quiet, as always, but his hands are shaking so badly he drops his sticks twice before even making it into the room. He glances at me once, dark eyes bright and impossibly gentle, then crosses the space in twostrides. He cups my face and gives me a kiss so quick I have to wonder if it even happened.
Blake and Darius pile in together. The latter picks me up, spins me around, and sets me down with a flourish. “You’re a legend, Lexington!” he crows, accent going full London, and I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it.
Blake is grinning a full-face smile, all teeth and crinkles at the eyes. “That was… I mean, I knew you’d do it, but…” He shakes his head, speechless. “You sounded like nobody else.”
I blink fast, trying not to cry in front of everyone, but it doesn’t matter. Nash is already narrating every second of the show, miming the high note, fake-crying with pride, air-kissing in my direction. Keaton’s watching me from the doorway, arms crossed, but even he looks like he might crack a smile.
“Oh, hey! You guys won’t believe this,” Dare says, cutting through everything. He’s holding his phone like he just stopped scrolling. “A news report just came out saying Carmen has been dropped from Lexington Productions and nobody else will pick her up. Nobody wants to touch someone who was willing to steal from another artist.”
“Sounds like she should cut and run,” Blake comments with a scowl.
I let out a huff. Carmen dug herself a grave. I did my best to help her, but she didn’t want to hear anything from me, and to add insult to injury, she stole my lyrics alongside Dickless. I’m glad she’s away from him and hopefully she never faced the abuse I did. But if you’re willing to cheat to get to the top, then you don’t deserve it. Good riddance.
The room breaks into chaos—noise, movement, love, too much all at once. But through it all, there’s a steady hum of something else. The sense that I’m not alone in my skin for the first time since… maybe ever.
