The day passes by in a blur, from sound checks to a radio sponsored meet and greet, lunch with Bedo and the guys, and all the preparation in between. Trent’s undeniably cheerful. His smile accentuates his already beautiful features as he converses with everyone but me. I’m not jealous, or even hurt, because even though he works to keep his focus on the job, his eyes always find their way back to me. And that smile, it grows each time he catches me staring back.
My doubts about this thing between us—how it will work and what happens in the next few months on the road, and even beyond the tour when we inevitably part ways—try to overtake the joy that fills my mind each time he pins me with that magnificent smile. But I don’t let them. I don’t let myself become consumed with worries. I don’t overthink, just roll through the motions, and before I have more than five minutes to myself it’s time to head onstage.
Music is where I find peace. It’s where I get lost, and for one blissful set, exactly forty-seven minutes, I forget all my troubles, all my blessings. I live in the rhythms I tease from my guitar, the words that pour from my lips, and I exist in nothing other than the moment at hand. It affirms that I’m exactly where I need to be. Tonight’s crowd is no different than any other, but their cheers amplify and feel altered—or maybe it’s me who’s changed. The rush from playing onstage takes me higher than before, and energy thrums through my body. My arms quiver as I exit the stage and head for my dressing room.
Trent, Austin, Sean, Iz, and Bedo come around the corner, heading for the stage, and what a sight they are dressed in tight jeans, heavy boots, and shirts that will probably come off within the first fifteen minutes of the show.
“Lex.” Trent tips his head to me, his eyes burning with a heat I feel down to the tips of my toes.
“Have a good show,” I say with a wave, trying to act normal, even though my body wants to jump his bones. I focus on my feet so I won’t stare at him like some obsessed fan, and breathe a sigh of relief when I make it inside my room without embarrassing myself.
As soon as the door clicks shut behind me, there’s a knock. I pull it open a few inches to reveal Trent’s lean body blocking the space.
“Hey.” I chance a peek up from under my lashes. Fuck. This is why he consumes my thoughts. Why I can’t look away. His eyes, so bold and honest, hold everything I want right now.
“Hey.” One hand grips the doorframe, the other slides up my side until his fingers lift the hem of my tank to rub circles on my hip. It’s a move that’s both innocent and erotic.
I flick my tongue across my lip ring in a silly attempt to calm my racing pulse. “Don’t you have to play?” I raise my brow.
His soft chuckle tugs at the desire already pulsing through my veins and washes over me with delight. “Yeah. I just . . . I wanted to kiss you first.”
“So, kiss me.”
His lips crash with mine and for a few seconds everything but the taste of his kiss fades away. We aren’t in a crowded arena. He’s no one famous. I’m not a music artist trying to make it on my own. We’re just Lexi and Trent.
It’s everything.
He pulls back with that arrogant smirk and a lift of one eyebrow while I struggle to catch my breath. “Tonight, Lexi. Us.”
I nod because I can’t speak at the moment, even if I tried.
“Come watch me play.” He backs away and the door drifts shut. I reach out to catch it and keep it open.
“I’ll try,” I manage, but he shakes his head.
“Come watch me tonight. Please.”
“Okay.” I can’t refuse when he asks so nicely.
His face lights up with that radiant smile and I shut the door before I’m tempted to chase after him. Instead, I settle in front of the mirror, reapply my makeup, and fix my hair until I look as beautiful as I feel. As ready as I’ll ever be, I pack the rest of my stuff in my bag and leave it by the door to pick up after the show.
Making my way toward the stage is strange because I’m not here to play. A different kind of excitement, one that’s even more anxious, settles in my gut. I want to see him, up close and personal, while he performs. It’s his craft and one I have so much respect for when done right, but I’m no good at being a spectator on the sidelines. Jitters overtake my thoughts the closer I get. The screams of the crowd. The wail of the guitars. The crash of the drums. They’re already onstage so I need to hustle. Walking down the hallway that leads to the side of the stage reserved for those with exclusive passes, I find the door that leads to the show.
“Lexi! Over here!”
I turn at the sound of my name and work to veil my shock at who I find waving. It’s Cora. Jealously I can barely contain rushes alongside the myriad insecurities that bubble up with her unannounced arrival.
She jogs over, though it should be impossible in those heels. Her lips are painted cherry pink and her long locks are pulled into a high ponytail. Her dress is a throwback to the ’60s, but looks designer and trendy. She’s the epitome of feminine perfection.
Did Trent know she would be here? Why didn’t he at least warn me? Maybe he didn’t think it’d be a big deal. Why are her legs so goddamn long and flawless? Is she better than I am at sex? If he has the choice between us both, who will he pick?
“Lexi!” Cora’s smile is easy, her joy at my arrival almost believable as she pulls me in for a hug. She backs away and her beauty is only further showcased when she opens her mouth to speak, her hands animated. “Girl! You are like my new favorite artist. Please tell me you have a new album coming because I’ve worn out your EP!”
“Oh, thanks. I’m hoping to record after this tour, but we’ll see.” Her compliment throws me off, and even though she looks every bit the Hollywood starlet, she doesn’t come across as anything other than down to earth.
She hooks her arm through mine as though we’re the best of friends, and leads us backstage. “Now, let’s go watch our boys.”
I’m at war within my head because as much as I want to push Cora away with a mean or snarky comment, I can’t seem to do so. She’s genuine. If I lash out, I’ll be the petty one. I’ve never been that girl.
The moment we find our place backstage, the live music captures my attention. Cora works us closer and closer behind the curtain, where roadies await potential problems and others hold guitars, ready to switch them out between songs. There’s an organized chaos to it all, but the biggest show is standing center stage.
My eyes find Trent, and once they do I cannot drag them away.
He’s the star. He commands every eye in this arena.
It’s mesmerizing.
It’s addicting.
This is his life.
I let myself enjoy the show, sinking into the lyrics he owns, watching him dance and move. I almost feel guilty for the way my eyes eat him up—like a voyeur—taking in everything about him and the way he works the crowd. He wanders to the edge of the stage, moves his hips in an illicit, delicious manner, and the screams of the crowd increase. Between songs, a woman at the edge of the crowd screams, “Fuck me, Trent Donavan!” and lifts her shirt, flashing the stage as well as anyone else standing near.
Trent’s chuckle washes over the crowd, a sound that breathes sex and intimacy. A sound that should be reserved for the woman he’s fucking. For my ears. And that’s when it hits me . . .
The fame, the fans, the notoriety, it will always be Number One for him. It’s so damn tempting to get caught up in the rush of it all, of the band, of Trent. But . . .
I’d be exactly like my mother.
That attacks like a sucker punch to the face.
What the fuck am I doing?
I swore I’d never be like her. I’d never fall for someone like him. Yet isn’t that exactly what I’ve done?
Fuck.
They start the next song and Cora shouts along to the chorus, dancing with the wailing guitars, but she’s not the only one. Thousands and thousands of women in the audience do the exact same thing. They all regard Trent with that same infatuation, that same look of desire, and instead of jealous, I feel . . . defeated. Because part of me wants to do the same thing. Wants to cheer and smile and sing with the famous rock star. There is power in his presence, in the way he owns that microphone. It’s sexual, the way he belts out lyrics, his voice filling me up from the inside out.
But the other part of me, the one that knows what happens next, she’s not fooled by the grandeur of this scene or the man onstage.
She knows this only ends one way.
I can’t leave the stadium fast enough. My boots almost snag on the mounds of electrical cord when I turn to run, and Daryl, one of the roadies, steadies me with a hand. I mutter my thanks and dodge the seemingly closing walls of this space. Trent’s lyrics haunt me and follow me as I escape. I wish they wouldn’t. I wish I could go back and erase all the moments that led me here. The promises made. The affection I feel for him in my heart. It’s all crippled by fear and the acute knowledge that this man will break me. He won’t be able to help himself, and I’ll be left. Just like my mother.
But I’m stronger than her.
I am stronger.
That’s the mantra I repeat all the way back to the bus. The words I repeat as I wipe the charcoal liner from my eyes and the lipstick from my mouth. As I wash away the makeup and slip from my skintight clothes and into my oldest, baggiest, most comfortable sweats, I repeat the words.
I am stronger. I am strong. I am not her.
I won’t be.
It’s the promise I make to myself. Consequences be damned, I will not waver. I will not become someone I do not recognize or respect. I steel myself for his smile, his charm, his beauty, and honestly spoken words that are sure to put my resolution to the test.
While I wait, I go to the place I know best. My music.
Pulling out my acoustic, paper and pen, I settle into the kitchen nook under one shining spotlight and pour out my soul onto the page, into the notes, and all over the melody that chants along with my breaking heart.
I’m lost in the creative madness that lets me flee a reality I don’t want to face, feeling stronger by the second, when my phone wails from the kitchen counter. Letting it go to voicemail, I attempt to get back in the groove but the damn thing goes off again.
“Fucking hell!” I shout aloud to no one. My concentration is history as I stomp to where I have the device charging.
My mom’s face lights up the screen and I debate picking up. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to talk to her after tonight’s realization, when my thoughts and hurt are fresh. But her persistence gets the better of me.
“Mom.”
“Hey, sweet girl.” Her voice is strained, tired. “How was your show tonight?”
“Good. It’s always good to play. Is everything okay?”
“Been a long week.” She pauses, and through the distance I hear a sniffle. She’s emotional, sometimes a complete wreck, but it’s been years since she called me just to cry.
“Mom, what’s going on? Why are you crying?”
“Oh, Lexi.” More sobs, but I wait patiently, “Time is so fleeting, you know that? I’m just . . . I’m sitting here thinking about how I could have done better. I love you, sweet girl. You know I love you?”
“I know, Mom. I love you, too.” I tread carefully because she’s obviously upset and I don’t want to fuel her sadness. But I don’t understand what’s bringing this on. “What can I do?”
“You need to talk to your father.”
I walked right into that. “Absolutely not.”
“Lexi—”
“No. Mom. Look, I get why this is upsetting. I understand. I’m empathetic.” Or at least I’m trying to be. “But I am not calling him. I won’t reach out just to make him feel better about being a crappy father. He didn’t give two shits about me or what I was up to until last month.”
“That’s not fair and you know it. He always wanted to have a relationship with you, but respected your decision not to. He loves you, Lexi.”
“No.”
“He’s dying.”
“That’s life.”
Her gasp fills my ears and I cringe because I know how harsh that sounded.
“Mom, I can’t do this right now. I’m sorry. I promise I’ll think about it.” I won’t change my mind, but I don’t want to discuss this any further. Not tonight.
“One week, maybe two.”
“What’s in two weeks?”
“That’s how long he has. Maybe less. Don’t wait too long. Don’t make a decision you’ll spend the rest of your life regretting.”
“Mom, I have to go.” In a daze I walk to the kitchen, opening cabinets, searching. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Lexi. Just think about what I said—”
“Bye. Love you.” I cut her off and end the call before all my anger, sadness, and frustration erupts and I unload on her, saying hurtful things I don’t mean. Or rather, that I do, but are best left unsaid. I want a drink. I want to get shitfaced drunk and pretend today never happened. But I won’t. Mostly because Trent will walk through the bus door any moment and I won’t be able to resist him, not when all reason is stripped away.
“Fuck,” I mutter to myself. Taking the smarter, responsible route, I pull down a mug, grab the coffee pot and fill it with water to brew coffee. Inhale, deep breath. Exhale, let it go. I won’t feel guilt. I won’t grant my father absolution simply because he’s met an untimely death. I won’t repeat the sins of my mother, either. I am strong. I am stronger. As the aromatic roast trickles out, burning black, the scent fill my nostrils, and for what might be the first time since I was a child, I pray to a higher power, for peace, for guidance, and for strength.
I am strong.
If I repeat it enough, maybe I will believe it.