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The bright lights summoned, and the crowd screamed my name, their feet pounding the outdoor stadium.
I walked on stage as Xoan Kennedy, not having a clue who I really was anymore, but knowing I wanted the girl waiting in my dressing room with clever hands and berry flavoured lips.
The girl I thought I might write a song for, maybe.
Every damn word grated through my throat like it tore, every lyric torture. Not a physical pain and certainly not the one the audience seemed to notice. They screamed and clamoured as loud as ever, while their roared seated deep in my soul, an energy ball pulsing and ready to explode.
The lights came on and I saw the one thing I didn’t want to acknowledge: faces.
A sea of them, hands raised, reaching and grasping. My throat grew raw on hard breaths, and I closed my eyes, seeking peace.
The joy of being a rock star – I could do whatever the hell I wanted and the crowd would call it cool. I’d be tagged as having a spiritual moment, and it would go viral when all I wanted was to hide.
Indi’s face slipped across my vision, the way her lips parted when she thought I was going to kiss her. My breath halted then but came easier now. Hell, even I thought I was going to kiss her. But the tiny goth girl held to my rules, didn’t fight me, and did what I asked.
I even shared lyrics with her–albeit in the midst of desperation–but I’d never done that with anyone, especially not in such a raw form.
I’d never gone back for a second round either, but it looked like I was headed that way tonight.
My voice deepened, smoothing out as the panic attack passed with a fleeting taste of what I had to come. I opened my eyes in time for the song to end and for Lance to catch my gaze from the wings, wiggling the bagel cannon, and gesturing madly.
I nodded, closing off the last note to silence before thunderous applause and whistles. Two more songs and I was done, but first I had to do the merch thing. My mouth moved around the rehearsed words-–no one in their right minds would let me write my own goddam script–and tossed the albums to the closest stagehand, praying none dropped or shattered on impact.
Hands caught them. I didn’t look too closely, staying in the centre of the stage, not too close to the front.
I’d done that, once, and a girl launched herself up the stage, clawing at my feet. Her fingers somehow got through my jeans around my ankle and she’d kissed my feet like I was the fucking messiah.
She was lucky I didn’t vomit all over her.
And so a dozen t-shirts and two songs later it was over. I walked offstage with a wave to the crowd and flashed the finger to Lance, heading back to my dressing room.
But when I got there, the door was ajar, and my goth girl was gone. On the chair where she sat was the completed album cover she sketched, along with a phone number, and an email address.
Under the lines I put on the page before I walked out to the gig, she’d added some of her own.
Any encore is heartless.
All I can have is an offstage fling.
I hummed the words to the music already working its way inside my head, not even angry she’d added her own words to mine. Flipping the page over, I perched in the seat she vacated, scribbling the music and words down as they flowed. I set my phone on record, though the first lines were jumbled but the rest came in a smooth flow the longer I sang and jotted words, playing with the beats.
By the time Lance found me, I had a full new song, thanks to my absent goth girl.
“Jesus man, they want you to sign shit. Get back out there.” He looked around the empty room. “Where’s the blonde I told to find you?”
“Didn’t want her. Your ex. Indi. Where would she be?”
Lance stared at me, his mouth ajar. “My uh ex, yeah? Man, you don’t want to get mixed up with her crazy. Stick with the blonde.” He sent me a lopsided grin, but his eyes were hard.
My crazy matched hers just fine. Better than his, maybe. I didn’t know yet, but I sure as fuck wanted to find out.
“Tell me where she is.”
