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All too soon the song’s over and the crowd is pin-drop silent. For a heartbeat I almost think we somehow bombed by the stunned hush, but then the theater erupts and relief washes through me.
“Thank you,” we both say in unison, bowing to the cheering crowd. He smiles at me, but I don’t return it before darting off backstage and handing my guitar to some faceless person. The things I’m feeling about him are unsettling. I don’t even know him! It’s just the rush of a good show, the pull of a magnetic rockstar personality.
I may not know Ian Monroe, but I know of him. I know a little bit about him, but before I can stop myself, I’ve dug out my cell phone and Googled him.
My stomach plummets through the floor.
Ian Monroe to Visit Rehab After Bandmate’s Close Call
Ian Monroe on Cleaning Up His Image
Ian Monroe Says He’s Clean, but Friends Say He’s Back to His Partying Ways
I turn the screen off and lay my phone on the vanity facedown. It doesn’t stop the headlines from racing through my head. I knew his name stuck with me for some reason, and that was it. He’s an addict.
Some people might say “former” addict, but I know the truth. There’s no such thing as a former addict. Once an addict, always an addict. I learned that the hard way with Eric and it nearly broke me.
Ian Monroe is pure trouble and it’s for the best that I probably won’t ever see him again after tonight, even if it does make something deep down inside of me ache. Onstage chemistry is no replacement for self-control and stability. A man like that is only going to rip my life apart
and I don’t need that. Not at this point in my career.
Maybe if things were different, if our lives had gone different ways, I might go poking around backstage to find him, to tell him I want to sing with him again more than I want to wake up tomorrow, but I don’t do that. I just pack up my stuff, sling my bag over my shoulder, and head out to the tour bus without seeing anyone on the way. I text Rosa to let her know where I’m at, and then I turn my phone off before I’m tempted to do more Googling.
Chapter 3
Ian
Ever since the Wish Givers’ show the press has been nuts. Apparently, Chelsea and I were more of a hit than I even realized. I knew when I was up on that stage with her that something special was happening with the two of us, but I never expected this much attention. Especially since I never got a chance to talk to her after the show.
Sure, I’d wandered around the theater like a lost puppy dog looking for her, desperate to catch another glimpse of that smile after our encore, but she was nowhere to be found. I was left with this empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’m only now realizing that there’s always been something missing, because when I sang with her, I felt whole.
That might sound crazy, but we musicians are a passionate bunch, and when we find something we truly want, we don’t rest until we’ve got it. I’d asked Merrill about getting in contact with her people, but he brushed me off, saying he was too busy dealing with the record label. Whatever that meant.
The record label’s been up my ass for a couple of years now for not putting anything new out. In the five years since I got clean, I’ve produced one new album—and it didn’t go over well. Fans didn’t like the new sound, critics theorized that maybe the drugs were the key to my success—and believe me, that kind of comment in Rolling Stone is enough to make anyone reconsider picking up the needle. But I never did, and I won’t.
Still, I can’t help but think that Chelsea Garten is the key to my career’s resuscitation. Her sweet melodies are still in my ears days later. Though that might be because I keep rewatching the YouTube video of our performance. Our little encore banter, the flirtatiousness in her eyes, and I know it’s all just for show. I know the way she sizes me up in that video is for the audience’s benefit, but it still makes my cock hard every time I watch it.
This is fucked. I know I can’t just sit at home pining over something that’s never going to happen again. Whatever magic happened that night was a one-time thing and I just need to accept it. But a junkie can never quit at one hit and I need more. More of her. More of us.
I growl at the screen and toss the phone across the couch, raking my hand over my face like I can erase her memory as easily as cleaning a whiteboard. It’s useless and I know it is.
Just to taunt me the phone starts vibrating, and I lunge across the couch to snatch it up. I don’t know what I’m hoping for, but it isn’t Merrill, even though that’s what I get.
“Hey,” I answer, trying to make sure I don’t sound as messed up as I feel.
“Hey there, rockstar,” he says, and I can hear the grin in his voice.
I groan. He only uses that name when he’s got a proposition for me. There’s been some interest in a new tour with all this press, but every time I ask him if anything’s coming of it, he brushes me off again and tells me to let him worry about that. It’s infuriating, but I know he’s damn good at his job and if I pester him too much I’ll just get in the way.
“What’ve you got for me, Mer?”
“I hope you haven’t already gotten me a birthday present, because this is going to warrant some serious gratitude,” he says, still grinning on the other end.
“You already know I think you’re the best damn manager in the world, so it’s not like you’ve got anywhere to go. Why don’t you stop taunting me and spill it?”
“All business today, then? Fine,” he grumbles and I almost feel guilty. Almost. He is still keeping me from watching the video again.
“Are you sitting down?”
