The sun sets on the journey over green open spaces, giving way to shadowy night. Eventually, the dazzle of city bright follows after soft darkness. Emerging from the station to rain-slicked streets, I’m blindly trusting my phone to give me details of the venue and how to get there.
A series of sparkling emojis arrive. Along with:Will tell security to bring you in. xxxxx
Relieved, that’s one less thing to worry about. I actually have a chance to see Ben after all of this mess, at Jasmine’s encouragement. Who in their right mind does this sort of thing? This isn’t some sort of rom-com but real life. After three hours of travel, I’ve had plenty of time to go from “what a great idea”to “what a shit idea” and end up somewhere in between. I’m uneasy, wary of this impulsiveness, the sort of thing that’s led me to danger before. I’m way outside of my comfort zone, in a strange city.
I’m also half starved. I’ve eaten some crisps along the way and a bit of fast food, which does little to settle my rebellious stomach, but I needed more than the brioche I had for lunch. When I stopped home briefly before my dash to the station, I didn’t think to eat, throwing myself in the shower instead before chucking a couple of things for overnight in my bag, including the cologne he bought me for Christmas and a small dab for the road. Food didn’t make the shortlist in my rush.
Outside of the venue, I’m daunted as I stand in the cold, with the nearby queue growing for the club doors that will open soon. After letting security know at the door that I’ve arrived, I wait for Ben. Or for someone to take me to Ben. As I wait, I notice an article taped to the box office window.
Up-and-coming band Halfpenny Rise are stealing some of the spotlight from headliner Maximus St. Pierre. Frontman Ben Campbell’s molten guitar is not to be missed. He puts on a show that people will be talking about for years to come.
Halfpenny Rise are on NME’s Essential New Artists list and Time Out’s top 50 albums of the year. They are destined for big things. Could Grammy Award–winning St. Pierre’s gritty influence be rubbing off on the talented Ben Campbell? Will the tour rekindle the romance between the former lovers, reunited in music?
What? Aside from Ben’s rock swagger appearing to be ticking closer to manifesting, what’s this nonsense about Maximus St. Pierre and a romantic reunion?
I grimace as I stare at the article. Not Maximus St. Pierre again. However, I personally haven’t heard of any reference to him and Ben in the media before. Just what Emily’s told me, and Ben himself. But then again, what do I know? Apparently nothing. I don’t actually pay the slightest attention to so-called entertainment news or tabloids, to be fair. And Ben definitely hasn’t mentioned anything about his ex-boyfriend being part of the upcoming tour, or being double-billed tonight, or whatever the hell’s going on.
All I know is that my stomach knots, the sudden rush of air deflating my lungs. I’m drowning with the lack of oxygen when a security guard arrives to escort me in. We make our way through the quiet club, the house lights on as the venue gets the once-over before the doors are opened to ticket-holders.
We make our way down through a door and corridor, then another set of doors and another narrower black corridor. There’s a sign on a door that saysgreenroom, but we keep going past that to a door with Ben’s name on it. It’s slightly ajar.
Inside, Ben stands with his back to me, a cascade of long-stemmed roses in the arms of one Maximus St. Pierre, who leans in presumably to give Ben a kiss. He’s all smolder and intensity, and intention is written over his body.
The world creeps in sudden and dark around the edges of my vision, blood draining from the remnants of my brain. The last thing I remember is running out of there like my life depended on it.
Chapter Forty-Two
Get away. Just get away.
The cold night air is a shock.
“Oh God. Oh Shit. Fuck. Double fuck. Shit fuck.”
As taut as a string about to break, I go hard into the night. Walking blindly in a strange city, it’s a blur of streetlamps and streetlights, tears caught on my eyelashes. Or it could be rain. Maybe both.
Fuck. How was this a good idea? Fuck ideas.
Fuck surprises too.
“Fuck!”
My fists clench. I shove them into the pockets of my coat.
Oh God, what the hell was I thinking? What was going on in there? I mean, who’s Ben really? And fuck, Maximus St. Pierre is a god and I’m a nobody.
Why didn’t Ben tell me he was touring with his ex-boyfriend? Or boyfriend? Or—
About to hyperventilate, I grip an ice-cold iron rail, forcing a breath into my lungs. Blood pounds in my ears. One breath. Two breaths.
Get it together.
God. If only I could get high.
No. Terrible idea. The worst idea. Worse than whatever this is.
I’m dying. Am I dying? No.
Panic attack.
