Page 181 of The Comedown

“Come with us,” leaves her mouth in a rush.

Holter frowns. “On the stage?”

“Backstage. I won’t be able to see you.”

He takes in our surroundings. “I’m literally in the front row, Mom.”

“He’s fine, blondie. Leave him.”

Even with his hands weaved in front of his mouth, I can see Bodee’s face get this smug expression on it. What kind of fuckery did he pull now?

On the short list of things Collette’s actually afraid of, Bodee’s at the top followed closely by his right-hand man. Luckily, John Davies is supposed to be out of the country until tomorrow.

Throwing around a quick glance just in case, I search the sea of tuxes for anyone with a nasty scar, but all these douchebags sporting sky-high hair plugs look alike. No visible scars as far as the eye can see. Too much makeup hiding the imperfections.

I don’t know why Collette’s freaking out and I don’t need to. This is better anyway because my original plan involved Bare being nearby, but he’s currently seated by the back doors with the rest of the bodyguards. It’s a good idea, keeping all the beef next to the entrances…until you realize the evil’s already inside.

“Come on, man,” I say to Holter, sticking a hand out to him. “Your mom’s right. We need you up there with us. You’re our good luck charm.”

He looks from my hand to my face, asking, “Are you guys gonna make out again?”

“It’s yinz. Are yinz gonna make out again.”

We both laugh as I pull him to his feet, then I offer for him and his mom to go ahead of me so I can keep an eye out. If John is in here, I hope the motherfucker’s got a seat close by because if what I’m about to do doesn’t kill him, I’ll do it myself.

It’s pitch black except for my lighter’s flame as I hold it to the tip of the blunt between my lips causing weak murmurs from the audience below to break up the silence. Inhaling, I pocket the lighter, then remove my black suit jacket, dropping it by my feet. I roll the sleeves of my black dress shirt up, one arm at a time, all the way to my elbows, before undoing the top three buttons at my chest. This isn’t how we rehearsed it, but if I’m doing this, I’m doing it my way.

I remove the blunt from my lips to ash that shit on the floor, blowing out a huge cloud of smoke over my head.

Behind me, Collette’s breathing increases as she tries to build up her frame before the apparatus strapped to her yeets her body diagonally at thirty miles an hour.

I hear my cue and perch down directly on top of my floor marker, picking up my mic while twisting the lit tip of my blunt into the hardwood until it dies out.

“What are you doing?” Collette hisses, but the next words I say are into the mic as I freestyle in front of millions of people…live.

Luckily, production agreed to let me switch up the intro, spitting a rap acapella before the song actually starts. All I had to do was give them the lyrics beforehand so they could make sure they weren’t explicit or offensive in any way.

Collette has no idea.

And honestly, neither do I, because the lyrics I gave them aren’t the ones I’m using. They were only a decoy to get approval.

I’m making this shit up on the spot.

The spotlight aimed at me and only me flicks on after my first line, and I keep going, bobbing as the energy churns inside me, looking for its way out. I’m not used to staying still while rapping—I like to fucking rock—but this is different. This one’s full of emotion, too, just not the crazy, jump-around-the-stage, smashing-shit kind. It’s everything I’m thinking, everything I’m feeling. As I think the words, I say the words, and soon I’m rapping so fast, bobbing so fast, my shadow beneath me practically vibrates.

On the last line, I feel a huge shift, like all my energy finally found its escape, and I fall forward, landing on my knees, my head hanging low.

Fuck.

The light cuts off, and through my gasping, I hear Collette hiccup.

Before I miss my next mark, I shove to my feet, taking the choreographed three steps back to find Collette in the dark.

“Julian.” Her whisper grips my heart, squeezing.

Did she like it? Hate it? Did she understand it? It was the first goodbye I’ve been able to give. Because of my music, the women I love usually get ripped away before I can give one. Since I’m the one doing the killing this time, I wanted to make sure my music was the goodbye. Before Collette, it was the only thing keeping me alive, so I guess it’s my goodbye to them both.

Music’s vital to me, but performing it isn’t. Not the way I’ve been forced to anyway, because that’s not for me, that’s for others, and the moment my label took away any choice I had over its distribution, it no longer felt like a gift at all. It felt like it was being sold for cheap entertainment, like I was being sold for cheap entertainment—like a whale being kept in an animal theme park. A pool is not a substitute for the ocean. It’s a prison with a shiny surface to hide the forced isolation.