“I don’t want to talk about it with my partner. I just want the drama to end.”
I can almosthearher rolling her eyes at my petty antics. “Really? Exaggerating much? I had a three point eight GPA, for crying out loud. Why am I handling spoiled rock stars?”
I look up, but she’s all innocent smiles. “You know you’re only getting away with that because I like you, okay?”
“I know. Now shoo. You stink, go shower.” She waves me away. “And you have to practice ‘Blackest Heart’ because I’ve already sent a response that we’re going to do it.
“We?” I ask, squinting at her. “I’m the one who has to get on that stage and pretend tolikethe dude.”
“Have I already told you I think you would do great in acting? You know, I believe I saw an email the other day about a minorrole offer in a soap opera.” She flashes me an innocent grin again and cackles when I flip her off on my way to the shower, ready to call Ty once I freshen up. This daycannotend soon enough.
THREE
Halfofmyheartis performing, the other half is back at Summerset. Half my stuff as well, since me and Missy had to give up our small apartment when we left college. All my possessions that I didn’t bring with me on the tour are in two boxes stored in Ty’s room. Who, if we’re being honest, has my whole heart if it comes to it.
But right now, I try to put all of that heart into the last song of this performance; Ihaveto nail this if I want to give our career a boost.
We were already done, our set was amazing. We almost have as much stage time as Six of Hearts now. And even thoughour album will not officially release until next week, we already launched a couple of singles and it seems the audience already knows our material by heart.
Once again, it was a blast. Missy was killing it with her solos, Ava was steady as ever on her trusty bass, and Asher was still the best drummer I’ve ever encountered in my musical career. I’m so happy and damnproudto call them my bandmates. I would love to say that since I’m leading this band, it’s because of me that we’re killing it, but it’s not. It’s us, together, we justfit.
However, for this encore, the label only wantsmeon the stage with Six of Hearts.
The last hour and a half, I’ve watched Mick’s set from the sidelines. I know it off the top of my head now, know every line, every song, and every riff. They’re pretty consistent in their gigs, not mixing their set up that much.
Tonight is an exception.
The lights are out, the last song from Mick and his band has been played, the cheers and screams and whistles from the audience begging for an encore, a finale from their idols are deafening. And they’re going to get one.
I close my eyes, fuckingbreathe. I got this; I candothis. I don’t like Mick, and I don’t like that I have to do this, but I talked to Ty about this, about the duet, and he reassured me that it’s fine. That it’s just a song, just an act, and I need to keep that in mind. Shit, I love how he can make me see some fucking perspective.
Because he’s right. Performers do this all the time, it’s in the damn name; weperform.Whatever happens on that stage, we know it’s nothing. We know we’re solid. We know its like he said: just a fucking act.
It’s all for the sales.
So I do exactly that, put on my stage smile, steel myself, before I dart on to the stage when the intro hits on the drums, thespotlight only on Bowie, Mick’s drummer and brother. Some of the technical crew is shouting directions in my earpiece, but it’s muted when they switch channels for me. I get in my designated spot on the spray painted redX, right next to Mick, and only hear my fellow musicians who are on the stage.
And like Mick, Jodie, and the label predicted, when the light hits, and it’s me who belts out the first lines of Six of Hearts’ song instead of their trusty frontman, the crowd goesberserk.
I smirk; I can’t help it when I feel the rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins as their cheers reach a deafening roar. Even if Ireallydon’t like it that I have to do this withMick, the high of performing never changes.
Mick takes over like a pro, stepping in and singing his lines in that deep baritone of his. Even his voice is all dark edges, and I hate to admit that it complements mine perfectly. The audience is loving it, the two of us together on stage. Him, their favorite dark rocker, clad only in black leather pants and nothing else, his tanned, tattooed, pierced upper body on display, the bad boy from the industry.
And then there’s me in my white tee and unblemished skin, the new guy, theshiny toyas Jodie described me.
Yeah, he’s toying with me alright. He comes closer, the crowd roaring, pushing his dark chin-length hair out of his face when I sing my verse, keeping eye contact like we rehearsed.
Mick winks at me as we sing back and forth, bodies moving to the rhythm, and I want toflinchwhen he first touches me, but I keep it together. I have to. And I do.
Maybe Ishouldthink about that acting career.
Playing into it, into this chemistry that’s flowing between us—becausefuck, I can’t deny it when at least on stage that’s definitely true—I let him andsmilewhen his hand trails over my stomach, my side, before he stands behind me and sings the filthy lyrics of their song in my ear, pressing way too close. I dropthe back of my head on his shoulder as I chime in at the chorus,actingand pretending to like this. Which I don’t.
Sure, Idolike it to some extent. I like how the crowd goes wild, how they jump and scream and go crazy when he moves in closer, turns and presses our backs together. I like it when we’re shouting the lyrics alternately, giving this our best, and it feels like I’m soaring.
I like thehighof it all.
But I really don’tlike the hand that’s holding on to my jeans-clad thighnotbelonging to Ty, how I can feel Mick’s sweaty back pressing against mine, invading my space. At leastIhave a shirt on, so there issomefabric between us.
