I know about Revel’s past. Parents died when he was four, raised by a strict Christian grandmother in El Paso, Texas and I think she must have beat the gentleman right out of the boy because I don’t see a single ounce of southern charm left in him.
Cliff, Revved’s tour manager, stands next to me on the side-stage minutes before the call goes over the radios to kill the lights. With Bella occupied going over security for my performance after Revved’s, I find a moment to pry into the reason why Revel is Revel. “Why is Revel so mean?”
Amusement shadows Cliff’s distinct features as he snorts. He’s one of those guys who has very pronounced cheekbones and lips. Makes me think he’d make a very pretty girl, should he decide to wear makeup someday. “He’s shy.”
“Revel?” I snort, looking at him as if he’s lost his mind. Clearly, we’re not talking about the same guy. The one who said I probably suck cock better than I sing. Don’t think I’ve let that statement go. Nope. It’s burned in my memory. “Yeah, right.”
“He actually is. This guy on stage, that’s not Revel. That’s an image he’s created and hides behind.”
“Why?”
“Can you honestly say you’re the princess of pop even in the shadows?”
I don’t answer him because sadly, I don’t know the answer to the question. Most days I don’t know who I am. The only certainty in my life is that day in and out I know I’m lonely.
“So if he’s shy, why is he mean? That doesn’t make any sense to me.”
“Everyone he’s ever let in has either left him or destroyed him. That kind of attitude doesn’t just happen overnight. It happens when you’ve been pushed too far.” Someone in the distance calls Cliff’s name, and he turns, nodding to them before turning back to me. “Good luck out there.”
I’ll need it.
Nervousness claws at me and my heart thuds like the short, sharp sounds of a snare drum. It’s not the venue that’s intimidating for me tonight. It’s not even the fact that I’m stepping out of my comfort zone completely. It’s because he’s here and if there’s anyone I want to prove I’m more than a pop princess to, it’s him.
I’ve been everywhere, toured the world, and seen nothing. Arenas, stadiums, intimate venues, they’re all the same when they’re framed by a hotel window, limo, tour bus or high above the sky. I’ve never even seen the Eiffel Tower, yet I’ve been to France eight times. My life is essentially sheltered, and while I wish I could say differently with all the touring I’ve done, nothing compares to seeing Revved perform live, from the side-stage.
Nothing prepares me for it.
Nothing.
A heavy drumbeat thumps wildly in my chest, hitting harder with every second. My mouth dries, every muscle in my body preparing me for what’s to come.
Clearly drunk from boredom, Revel stumbles on stage late due to a wardrobe malfunction. His pants were on backward which had gone undetected until he was walking to the stage. And then he’s there, with the eyes of a fallen angel, center stage, and the image he’s created for the energetic front man of Revved shines through, and his personality morphs into someone you’d never know existed, had you encountered him backstage.
Equal parts charming and volatile, there’s no doubt Revel’s an American rock legend with his iconic rough growls and jaw-dropping vibratos. With him on stage, you feel the energy and the sensory bombardment, the hum of the amplifiers, the taste of the smoke biting your throat. You feel the vibrations of the speaker cabinets and the kick in your chest as the bass drum pumps. The buzz of energy radiates from them, and for me, it’s so much more than being on stage yourself.
I keep every bit of my attention on the one commanding it. Soaked in stage lights, he brings the microphone to his lips. “How ya doin’, Portland?”
The audience screams in response as he moves from center stage to the right, unleashing his signature smile to the unsuspecting women in the front row. My throat bobs, my heart erratic with anticipation for hearing him sing live. Sure, I’ve heard him on the radio, but never live.
The entire audience belongs to him. It doesn’t matter who they thought they came to see because, in this moment, every single person belongs to Revel.
Breckin approaches me, smiling as though nothing has happened between us, as though we’re still together. Snaking his arm around my shoulder, he draws me into his side. “Nervous, T?”
“No.” Though my tone is unwavering, it’s pliable and evident my mind is elsewhere.
His stare follows where mine refuses to stray from.
“Is he being an ass still?”
Revel begins their set with Revved’s number one single, “Violent Heart,” and I really want to listen to it, get lost in the lyrics and his voice, so I shrug. “He’s Revel.”
Pushing away from Breckin, I create some distance between us. “Go away.”
Crap. Revel’s starting to wear off on me, but damn it, I’m missing the song.
The sound around the side-stage is deafening, but Breckin senses my mood is off, his brow dipping as he yells, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
