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Chapter3
LANDON
“Landon Paige, Landon Paige!”
The energy in the concert hall thrummed as the crowd chanted his name. The syllables echoed in a thunderous roar. Whistles and whoops punctuated the air as the spotlight held him in a golden glow. He stilled and gave the crowd space to release the tidal wave of emotion. Breathless, his heart hammered and sweat soaked his T-shirt as he absorbed the adulation.
He used to live for this.
Yeah,used to,before the anger and clawing regret had taken over.
He used to peer into the crowd and rejoice in the phenomenon, savoring the moment when a group of perfect strangers ceased being individuals. Once he strummed his guitar and the lights hit the stage, the crowd became a single organism. It swayed to the beat, singing along and devouring his every move. The power that came with being a pop star used to leave him blissfully punch-drunk. The rush had him riding an endorphin high that could sustain him for hours, even days. Akin to being plugged into an IV of pure adrenaline spiked with unwavering creative energy, new melodies took hold. Lyrics buzzed around his mind in a flurry of activity.
He’d play a full set, then spend hours with the two people he loved the most in this world making music.
But not anymore.
It had been almost eight years since the stream of sweet euphoria had flowed through his veins.
Eight damned years.
Eight years ago, nothing seemed out of reach. Now, he knew what the future held. And it had nothing to do with spirit-affirming invincibility or harnessing inspiration.
He also knew when and where this reminder of his past life would rear its ugly head.
He sensed the crowd readying itself for the dreaded transition.
The boom of his name died out as two words took their place.
“Heartthrob Warfare, Heartthrob Warfare!”
He stared into the lights and softened his gaze, allowing his vision to grow blurry. He did everything in his power to zone out, disappear, and keep the sound from tearing him apart.
But it always got him.
Every damned time.
It didn’t matter where he was performing. From New York to London to Dubai, and now to Las Vegas, the crowd always did this.
They thought they were paying tribute to two lost souls. They thought it brought him comfort.
It didn’t. It did the opposite.
It was the ultimate reminder of what he’d lost.
But he couldn’t show it.
He had to play the game, be the star, sing the songs, and accept the crowd’s collective condolences.
He ignored the ache in his chest. With the encore complete, the torture was almost over.
Stand there and let them drink in the star. Let them shoot a video. Let them snap pictures.
But don’t let them see the real you.
He swallowed past the lump in his throat.
Every person in the audience had paid their hard-earned money to see a pop star and feast on the pop god. He could be that for them, not because it was his passion, but because it was his job. And blessedly, it was time to bring tonight’s performance to a close.
