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“It's fine,” I grumbled, shrugging it off despite how much I had hoped I'd see her. “She never told me she'd be here.”
Dave shrugged and dropped the topic quicker than he'd picked it up as he poked his head through the heavy curtain to peer out toward the crowd. Greyson stood beside him, twirling his sticks, eager to get back out there and do what he did best.
Simon, however, eyed me with skepticism, like he expected me to throw a tantrum at any second. I pretended to not notice his side-eyed glare and instead focused my attention on the crowd.
Their incessant screams.
Their eager applause.
They wanted us more than ever, and it occurred to me that they had never stopped. They were loyal to us in a world of five-second video clips, instant gratification, and stunted attention spans.
I had doubted their devotion and taken them for granted. If I had learned anything on this tour, it was that, and I bowed my head with the weight of my shame.
“It's been a wild ride, boys,” Mitch said, coming to stand beside me, his hand on my shoulder.
“Yes, it has,” I agreed, reminiscing on the past three months.
The success of the album. The interviews and shows. The faces I'd met, the hands I'd shaken. It was a beautiful new chapter in our band's career, and I thought I spoke for all of us when I said, it was so much more than we could've hoped for.
“Now, get the hell out there and finish it right,” he said, giving my shoulder a squeeze before letting me go.
***
In my old leather jacket, I stood outside the backstage entrance, under a dark October sky, signing the last of the autographs and taking the last of the selfies. Mom and Dad had come to take me home, standing beside Mitch and chatting while the guys and I did our due diligence for the fans who had been waiting in the cold.
Lennon still hadn't shown, and no matter how many times I insisted I didn't care, my heart couldn't be convinced.
Still, I put on a nice, casual smile for the last person in line—a tall blonde in a skirt so short that she might as well have worn nothing.
“Hey, did you have a good time tonight?” I asked, taking her ticket and scribbling my name in black permanent marker.
She smiled, looking up through thick, inky lashes. “Oh God, yeah,” she replied, nodding and flipping her long hair over one shoulder to reveal a smooth, slender neck. “Honestly, you guys have always been good, but this was easily the best I've seen you.”
“Glad to hear it,” I said, keeping the smile planted on my face as I passed the ticket back into her open hand. “Thanks for coming out.”
“Can I get a picture?” she asked, her eyes rounding with hope.
It was late, my leg was tired, and I was desperate to take the prosthetic off. It was an enormous triumph that I'd worked my way up to being able to keep it on through the duration of a show without tripping, and most nights, I could go hours without experiencing fatigue. But tonight, I was weary and desperate for a break, as if the past three months were finally catching up to me.
Still, I kept that grin planted on my face and nodded. “Of course.”
I took her phone and stood beside her as her arms snaked around my middle and held on tight. Putting my arm around her waist, I swallowed at the feeling of her full, round breasts pressing against my side.
It was nice.
She was hot, and she smelled good.
Like cotton candy.
I snapped the picture while easily fighting off the ancient urge to move my hand just a little lower. She was the type old me would've gladly taken to bed years ago, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't deny the truth of my past.
With the phone back in her purse, she thanked me profusely, then asked, “Um … do you have any plans? Like, right now?”
I laughed, knowing exactly where this was going. “Well, I'm exhausted, so I'm kinda hoping to slip into a coma, to be honest,” I replied.
“But not one that lasts a week, please,” Simon muttered from a few feet back.
“Nah,” I said, laughing. “Been there, done that. Definitely don't wanna do it again.”
