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And my name was called.
Bright lights shone down on the stage, the band scooted around me, making their way up. My drummer—Sean—stopped to see if I was okay as I bounced on the spot.
The others didn’t care. They’d barely spoken to me through rehearsals. I’d been too much of an asshole in the past. And I shouldn’t have been. These guys were good people, having known absolutely nothing about what went on after gigs—always feeling disappointed over us not having after-parties. If only they’d known.
“You good, man?”
I nodded, swallowing and moistening my dry throat. I still croaked. “I’m fine.”
He handed me a bottle of water, still sealed, and then he ran up the steps on to the stage, waving to the crowd. I took a swig and followed him.
The lights shone down on me, bouncing off my black tee. Rabid teddies stared out into the crowd as I waved my arm, and they cheered.
“How y’all doing tonight?”
They went wild, most of them just screaming or whistling, but the odd declaration of love entered my ears.
“I missed you, too!” I did…I missed singing. Performing. My old life. It just wasn’t worth trading so many others to keep a hold of it.
A pink pick strummed the guitar, reflecting with my logo under the lights. The bass picked up, the drum beat, too. The band was ready before me.
The crowd went crazy. My heart did the same.
“Impatient bastards, aren’t they!” I laughed, shrugging off my nerves as I spoke to the crowd about my band, pushing my luck with them because they already couldn’t stand me. “Anyway, we can catch up between songs. Let’s have our first.”
“And the dream became a nightmare,
Torturing me with the despair.
But I saw her again…
And it’s worth the pain.
Fuck, yeah, she’s worth the pain.”
I retracted the mic from the audience who sang the last verse of my song.
We were at the midway point, and I’d have relaxed into my role of rockstar if not for half of the fucking lyrics reminding me of all the shit I put Cat through.
I couldn’t enjoy being on stage, even though I wanted to. My body was still jumpy like I’d taken a shitload of drugs—I hadn’t, but I felt like I needed to do exactly that to take the edge off—as my ears were tortured by fans singing words I’d written.
For the dozenth time, my eyes scanned every dark corner for an unfamiliar creep lurking, every beam for a fangirl to be hanging from. Lights flickered, and I waited for one to become a red laser, causing my blood to spray the faces of those in the front row.
Another song started.
The Decoy.
I’d been following the band all night, having been neglected of viewing the actual playlist, even in rehearsals, where we just rallied through a handful of songs before deciding it was best to avoid each other until the show. I signaled cut, a finger dragging across my throat as I refused to sing it.
The guitarist rolled his eyes.
Another song began, the drums—and Sean, who played them—steering us away from the disheartened crowd.
They liked The Decoy.
“Sorry, folks, but I am not singing that shit. I’m sure you can forgive me.” Following all the recent allegations and the magazine articles painting me as a decoy for a giant trafficking ring, untouchable to the police.
That was too close to the fucking truth.
