Page 41 of A Tragic Melody

Maybe when her back is against the wall, she will see there is a way out for both of us. That she can get better, and we can both survive. I just have to hope that once we get to that point, she lets me take control of the situation. I just fear once I have control, her drug-fueled brain might not care about going down with the ship.

Time will tell, but for now, I’m playing the long game.

I can’t remember the last time I felt this nervous about going on stage. It’s not that I don’t know how to play Tuesday’s music. I spent two weeks learning her songs when I was considering joining her. That was a few months ago, though, so I’m nervous that I won’t play as well as I did then.

Also I was high when I was learning her stuff. Who knows how much of it stuck. Now that I’m sober, with little time to practice including no sound check, there is a good chance I go out there and make her look bad. That would be horrible, but making myself look bad would suck more.

“I’m sure you’ll do great,” Quinn says, patting me on the shoulder as I hold a guitar against my chest, lightly strumming the notes of her opening song before we take the stage.

“Yeah,” David, the drummer, says. “I mean, it’s not like anyone cares about us. They just come to see her.”

“Exactly. We are just mindless drones who play whatever Tuesday says,” Kellen, the other guitarist says. “We honor her whims and hope she doesn’t replace us, like Lenny.”

“How are my boys doing?” Tuesday asks, walking up to us. The shiny, black dress she has on grips her body like a second skin. “Ready to play pretty for me?”

“Yeah.” David nods.

“I made some last-minute changes to the set list.” She passes out a few pieces of paper with Sharpie markings all over them. “Shouldn’t be too hard to manage.”

I glance over the list. She replaced a few songs, but kept to her more popular songs overall. Aside from one lesser-known song—Silent Rage. It was off one of her first albums, and not something most of the fans listen to.

She smiles smugly at me. “That isn’t going to be a problem for you, Wyatt, is it?”

“No.”

“Good. Now let’s all go break a leg.” She strolls off toward the stage as the lights begin to dim.

I know what she is trying to do. She is hoping I’ll make a fool of myself out there. Joke’s on her, though, because that’s probably one of my favorite songs she’s ever written. It was the first song of hers I ever learned to play, way before I even considered joining her.

I can’t wait to see her reaction when she realizes her little plan backfired. Not only can I play that song by muscle memory alone, I know how to make it even better. I’m going to add a little flare of my own to the song. Whatever punishment she planned on dishing out for my mistakes isn’t going to happen.

I focus on keeping time, letting my mind stay on just the bass line and drum beat. If I try to follow along to her voice, I might lose my rhythm. Instead, I try to push all other thoughts out of my mind. I don’t focus on what I’m playing, I just let my fingers take over, put my mind on autopilot.

My eyes stay on the crowd. Watching her would probably cause me to lose focus. From the corner of my eye, I can see her, though. She glides around the stage, almost impossible to track, dancing to the beat and singing her heart out.

She sings flawlessly, though. Her voice sounds better from the stage than when I’ve watched from the side. Up here, she is impossible to ignore. Even as I keep my eye directed at the rows of people in front of me, I can feel the pull of her confidence.

When I finally let my eyes look toward her during a pause between songs, I find her with her hand on her hips, staring out towards the fans. I can just see her side profile, but it’s hard to deny how amazing she looks right now.

Here she is, careless, wild, free, and utterly amazing.

“Let’s give it up for the boys who came before me. Black Cat and Honey Hive,” she says into the mic. The crowd cheers. “And the boys behind me.” She looks towards me. “As sad as I am to see Lenny switch sides, I can’t help feeling like I got the better end of the deal.” I can only watch as she walks up to me. “Let’s give it up for Wyatt-fucking-James, the latest and greatest.” She rests her arm on my shoulder. “Isn’t he just so good with his fingers?” She laughs. The crowd joins her. “I’m glad you could join us, Wyatt. It feels great playing with you. Have anything to say to the crowd?”

“I’m just happy to give you something to dance to.”

“Aw. Isn’t he the sweetest?” She smiles, patting my shoulder before walking away from me. She sways her hips, and for a moment, I forget she is the enemy. “This next song is called Silent Rage. It’s off my first record, and I don’t think we’ve played it live before, so you’ll have to forgive Wyatt if he makes a mistake. I’m certain he will make it up to us later.”

She flashes me a toothy grin before turning back towards the crowd. I keep my eyes on her as David starts drumming. I want to see her when she realizes I know the song. When she finally sees I’m not that easy to take down.

I begin playing my part perfectly. She looks my way, our eyes meet as she starts to sing.

For a moment, there is no one watching. No other bullshit, just her voice and my guitar strumming. I’m lost in the moment as I let myself sway just slightly, playing just a tick slower to match her voice better. Her smokey eyes light up as she begins to sway, too.

There is no denying we sound great together. It would be extremely hot if she wasn’t the devil incarnate in that tight dress. It would be the best form of intimacy if she wasn’t out to get me.

When the song finishes, she claps.

“Well done, my friend. Well done.”