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“But I’m not the victim.”

“I’ll bring Meg onto the team if you want. Sit down with her and she’ll craft a strategy to clean up your image.”

“Did you not hear me? I’m not talking about the last five years. You can send out a press release if you want everyone to know that.”

Leslie clamps her mouth shut and puts her hands on her hips. She paces thoughtfully in front of the coffee table. Liam squeezes my upper arm while Sam gives me a silent nod of support.

I’m grateful the guys have my back. I haven’t told any of them about the last five years either. None of them have asked directly, but during one rehearsal, we had a conversation about exactly this.

“No one can force you to speak about things you don’t want to,” Mike said diplomatically. “But you should keep in mind that other people will talk, and you might want to be prepared.”

I’m aware of that. But I also know that no matter what I say, the public image of me won’t change anytime soon. I’d have to compete with Mother Teresa to get real absolution from the tabloids.

“Fine,” Leslie says, stopping in front of the coffee table again. “You know I’ve always been on your side, Aran. I made sure your boundaries were respected. But if Douglas gets involved, even I can’t do much. That’s why it’s important you meet me halfway. The people upstairs want numbers.” She points her index finger at the ceiling, meaning Douglas Clarke, the big boss at Picot Records, a few floors up. “Not to mention you’re kind of on probation. It’s not just the concerts that decide if you get a new contract—it’s the streams too. As much as I hate it for all of you, right now everything rests on you. If you don’t give me something, you’re not only ruining your own chance—you’re screwing the whole band.”

“We could do a group interview,” Liam suggests.

“You’ll have to do that sooner or later anyway,” Leslie replies, trying to stay calm. “But right now, the press wants Aran. Alone.”

“I can’t do it alone,” I choke out. Just the thought of a solo interview makes me nauseous.

Leslie’s face lights up because she hears what she wants to hear.

Yes, I’m meeting her halfway, and my heart thanks me by nearly exploding out of my chest.

“Okay. I’ll see what I can do.” There’s a restraint in her voice that makes me feel like I’ve won a battle. But I know better: give them a finger and they’ll take the whole hand.

“I meant it,” I warn her. “I’m not talking about prison.”

Leslie rolls her eyes. “Then what the hell are they supposed to talk to you about?”

“Them?” I’m getting fed up. I bolt to my feet and pace a few steps. “No. You said an interview. One! I’m not sitting down and repeating the same shit fifty times in one day.”

“Ha!” Liam laughs. “You thought you had him, didn’t you, Leslie!”

Liam hasn’t slept either. His eyes are glassy and sweat glistens on his forehead—the classic post-all-nighter look.

“All right! I’ll fight for it,” Leslie says, throwing her hands up. “But I’m not promising anything.” She grabs her bag and checks her phone. “I’ll leave you guys to it. Maybe add some new songs to the set.”

A moment later, she leaves the rehearsal room. Mike already has his guitar on and starts playing a solo through the amp. Sam is still on the couch typing on his phone when Liam comes over to me.

“Hey, you okay? You’re a little pale.”

“Yeah,” I answer.

Only when Liam glares at my hands do I realize I’m punching my wrist again. I used to do that when the pressure got too much. It’s my way of handling stress.

“If you need anything,”—Liam gives me a meaningful look that tells me exactly what kind of “anything” he means—“just say the word. I can get you whatever.”

I just nod and try to ignore how tempting the offer is.

“I’m good,” I mutter, stepping up to the mic. “But thanks.”

I can handle this.

Only four more shows.

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