Risky Rockstar: A Hero Club Novel, стр. 37

the show ended. Having him come on with me definitely had the crowd amped up, and it was a great show, but instead of feeling relief that we achieved our goal, I felt guilty. I tell myself it is for the greater good, and after that show, no one will ever doubt Kevin and I are a couple, but it doesn’t sit right. I also tell myself that this isn’t permanent. Claire leaves to go home in under a week, and then Kevin and I can decide what we’re going to do from there. We never actually spoke about it, but I figured this was a short-term arrangement, and once it had served its purpose, we’d end it after a reasonable time.

When I don’t find Kevin and Claire backstage after the show, as I expected to, I reach into my bag for my phone to see if I have any messages. There’s one from Kevin explaining that he’ll see me tomorrow, and this makes me smile. I hope he and Claire are having some well-deserved time alone. I say goodnight to my band and the dancers, then grab my stuff and head home. I imagine my fans think I’m at some raging party, but all I want is to get home and relax. I didn’t really anticipate the toll lying to them would have on me.

I enter my home and kick off my shoes at the door. With my ears still ringing from the concert, I head to my room, not bothering to turn on the lights, and stare longingly at the silhouette of my bed a moment before deciding to hit the shower. There is no way I’ll fall asleep now anyway, no matter how weary my bones feel.

I flip on the light as I walk into the bathroom and turn on the shower. Grabbing the makeup wipes from the drawer under the double marble vanity, I wipe off all the stage makeup—something I usually do before I head home—but tonight my need for my own space eclipsed my usual routine. I chuck the dirty wipe into the bin and pull off my clothes. The bathroom is filled with billowy steam as I step under the spray, luxuriating in the feel of the warm water beating against my skin.

I stand there for a good five minutes, allowing the water to slowly massage away the aches from performing for over two hours. Reaching for my cucumber shampoo, I lather it into my hair, washing all the hair products and sweat from the night away. Finally, I squeeze a generous amount of body wash onto my loofa and enjoy the feel of scrubbing my body clean. After rinsing, I reluctantly shut the shower off and step out to dry myself.

Changing into llama-print leggings and my most comfortable T-shirt that’s so well-worn it has a hole at the neckline, I towel dry my hair and brush it out. The shower invigorated me, and I grab my notebook and pencil and head into the living room, stopping off in the kitchen for some red wine on the way. I smile when I place my glass on a coaster and decide to take a pic for Bridget. I shoot it off with a text saying, “Bet you’re glad this isn’t in the white room, huh?”

My phone pings and a GIF of a woman wiping her brow with relief appears onscreen. My LA home is decorated in dark grays with purple accents, way more wine-friendly than my Rhode Island home. I laugh out loud and then read Bridget’s follow-up message. “How was it?”

ME: Great! It went better than expected. Everyone went nuts.

I leave out the part about feeling bad; it’s late, and I don’t want to be a burden. I know we will talk about it later.

BRIDGET: I’m happy to hear that. Call me tomorrow. I’m falling asleep on you and Simon has other plans.

I send a GIF depicting a dog raising its eyebrows suggestively with the text “I’m sure Simon will give you a burst of energy” and put my phone on the coffee table.

♫♫♫

A little after midnight, I exhale a long breath and lean my head back against the couch. My legs are cramping, and my fingers ache from repeating the same chords over and over while I try to get my mind to switch gears. Nothing I write seems right, and I can’t understand where this angsty, lovesick crap is coming from.

Irritated with myself, I place my guitar on the floor next to me and stretch my legs. Intertwining my fingers, I raise them above my head and move my neck from side to side until it pops. My notebook taunts me from where I’ve laid it on the coffee table—a chewed pencil, the symbol of my creative destruction, discarded on the pages—but I refuse to pick it up and read the words I know are scrawled on the sheet music.

Uncurling my legs, I head to the kitchen and grab the bottle of red I left on the counter and head back to the living room. Pouring a little more than a generous amount into my glass, I pull my notebook closer. Maybe if I purge the words, I can move on to the song I’m supposed to be writing with Kade—an upbeat rock song that melds my sound with LP-45’s. Not this angsty instalust song that came out of nowhere. But the words of pain and sorrow jump out of the page.

I know I shouldn’t, but I see you standing there and wonder if maybe. Just maybe.

I know I’m all wrong for you, but I wonder if you’re right for me.

Just one touch. Just one taste. Just one moment is all I crave.

But I’ll mess you up. I’ll pull you under. I’ll ruin you like they ruined me.

But I’ll turn you inside out. I’ll drag you down. I’ll ruin you like they ruined me.

I take a few large swallows of my wine and draw a line