Page 26 of Toxic Kiss

STAGE ACCESS – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

The words are painted bright white like a warning.

The noise explodes around me the second I push the doors open.

Declan sounds irritated—what else is new? He was the same in high school. He was two grades older than us and graduated before Cy and me, but even then, his nickname was Dickhead Declan.

Anita’s tone drips icicles from the iPad balanced on a chair. And in the center of it all…the man of the hour, Cyrus.

Shirtless, tattooed chest slick with sweat, hair a storm of dark brown and highlights under the lights. He’s pacing, fists flexing, the kind of beautiful chaos that makes you want to watch even when you shouldn’t.

My breath catches.

“You want me to what?” He shouts. “You want me to auto-tune my voice? Have you all gone fucking insane? What’s next? Do you want me to lip-sync?”

“It’s about consistency and sound quality,” Anita says, calm and cold as steel. “Everyone does it and with your…current issues, we can’t risk another walk-off.”

“I don’t give a fuck what everyone else does. So, what exactly is the plan? You’re going to play a track for the audience even if I’m not on stage? No, screw that. And what the hell do you mean by my issues? You mean the ones I genuinely have going on or the ones you created in your head for a great headline?”

His voice is so raw and human that for just a moment, I forget that he is a demon in disguise.

“How dare you talk to me this way, Cyrus?” Anita is fuming, and I roll my eyes. Some things never change.

Declan steps forward, palms up.

“No, of course not. We will only use it so that, if your throat is sore or you’re not feeling a hundred percent, the quality is still what fans expect. Think of it as a safety net⁠—”

Cyrus laughs, the sound bitter.

“My voice is all I’ve got. The fans don’t come for fake. They come for real. They come for me.”

Anita’s tone sharpens.

“You certainly give real emotion, son. Just not the kind we need.”

The bottle leaves his hand before anyone can stop him. It smashes against a lighting rig. Luckily, it’s a plastic bottle, and the water is the only victim of the outburst.

No one moves while Cyrus seethes in the middle of the stage like a bull ready to charge. It’s just silent.

Then he turns…and our eyes lock.

The world stutters and tilts on its axis. My stupid heart skips a beat, and I stop breathing.

His chest heaves, his jaw is tight, and his eyes are wild. I feel the past rush up my throat like a ghost.

Every wound, every word, every look that told me I wasn’t enough. That I was worthless. That he hated me. That I wasn’t worth loving. Words I buried and thought were forgotten, but I was wrong.

It all comes rushing back.

I thought fat girls floated better.

You’re a loser with no friends.

You’ll never get a boy to fuck you.

You’re unlovable.

I bet your mother died to get away from you.