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“What?” I snap. “What’s not worth it?”

“That asshole out there. Just ignore him.”

I stare at her, incredulous. “Ignore him? The fucker threw his cup at my head.”

“Still a drama queen, I see,” Douglas sneers. “Suck it up and get back on stage, or I’ll sic the lawyers on all of you.”

I glare at him, my lower eyelids twitching, fists clenched. I’d love to punch him right in his smug face.

“Give him a minute,” Leslie says, easing her boss aside. “Aran, breathe. Do you need anything? Want me to get you some water?”

Leslie knows me too well. She knows exactly how to calm me down.

I take a shaky breath and look around. “Let me just hit the bathroom and wash this shit off.”

Without hesitation, she puts a hand on my back and steers me past Douglas. Before I disappear into the restroom, I see her signal the band. The guys start playing again.

I lock the door, stick my head under the faucet, and scrub my face. Before I leave, I pull the coke from my back pocket, cut a line on the counter, and snort it. I need it. There’s no way I can pretend everything’s okay without it.

The coke hits my brain like fireworks. Every trace of insecurity, doubt, and fear gets washed away. I’m floating.

I head back to the stage entrance with fresh determination. Leslie is waiting with a plastic cup. I snatch it without looking at her or Douglas, wipe my nose, and step back onto the stage.

The guys are still playing. They look relieved when I take a sip and set the cup down before walking up to the mic. I flash my most charming smile and drag a hand through my wet hair.

“Sorry, had to wash the dirt off,” I say casually. “So… you guys in the mood for ‘Stroker’?”

The crowd greets me with applause as if the earlier scene never happened. They cheer as I launch back into performer mode.

I avoid looking in the asshole’s direction and put on one hell of a show. The high makes it possible. For the next half hour, I feel like a god. I own the crowd and forget—for a little while—that I’m still a slave.

When I drain the vodka from my cup, Sam approaches me with a worried look, keeping his back to the audience.

“Easy, man… You don’t want to lose control.”

“Pretty sure I already did,” I mutter into the empty cup.

“We’re all in the same boat. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

Sam has no idea how his words scrape against the thick walls I’ve built around my feelings. I drop my head and swallow hard. Maybe he senses it, because he puts a hand on my shoulder.

“Together, Aranator. Don’t forget that.”

I nod, pull myself together, and turn back to the audience. I can’t help that it only makes me come across as an even bigger arrogant asshole.

“Everything good?” I ask.

Mike and Liam start the next song, while Sam joins on bass. The crowd cheers, shaking the whole venue.

“Dive! Dive! Dive!” several people in the front rows chant.

I used to stage-dive at almost every show. I hadn’t felt up to it during the last two gigs, but with the cocktail running through my veins, I stand at the edge of the stage and can’t resist.

The jerk from earlier is gone, so I glance at Mike, who grins wide. The crowd screams and reaches for me. I take a running start and jump. Twisting in the air like I’m diving onto a bed, I land on my back and get caught by dozens of hands.

Microphone still in one hand, arms and legs spread, I’m carried over the sea of people while the band stretches out the intro.

“You guys are fucking amazing!” I shout into the mic.