Riot shrugs. “I could use a break.”
I give them a grateful smile and run my hand down Cove’s arm. She’s been worried about letting them down. Having their assurance that they won’t hold it against her should help set her at ease.
It feels like we’re making real progress.
“It’s good to know there’s a plan,” Declan says, coming into the living room with wet hair. It’s impossible to see the door to his room from where I’m seated, so I’m not sure when he started listening. “While I have you here, I want to make something clear.” He comes to a stop at the end of the coffee table and glances between us. “I’ve ignored a lot of questionable shit during this tour. The garbage that was being handed around here last night is not something I’ll be ignoring in the future.” He turns to glare at the twins. “Pick your party guests with care, orI’ll unleash Issac and Vince on your asses.” He references two of the twins’ family pack, and a shiver runs down my spine.
That would be enough to scare my ass into submission.
It’s a rare occasion that we’re at the same venue multiple nights in a row, but it’s nice to know our way around. It would be even better if I could shake the weird pit in my stomach.
I should be on top of the world.
Cove and I bonded.
She even agreed to see the doctor.
We just have to make it through the shows tonight and tomorrow. I even asked Simon, our tour manager, to keep McMillan on alert that he’s going to be needed.
I stand around backstage, trying to shake off the nervous energy. There’s always a buzz that comes before we step on stage. This isn’t that, and I’m not sure if I’m picking up residuals through the bond from Cove or Damian or what the hell is happening.
Let’s hope you’ve kept your reflexes honed, a low male voice says close to my ear. It’s familiar, but it’s been so long since I’ve heard it that I start to question my sanity. I was sure he’d moved on like…fourteen or fifteen years ago.You’re going to want to throw yourself back toward the stage…
The screams of the audience get obnoxiously loud, drowning out whatever else the whisper was trying to say.
That’s inconvenient.
We tear through our set. Excited energy vibrates through the crowd. It’s one of those dream performances where everything clicks. At least, until our second to last song. That’s when the anxiety in my chest becomes almost unbearable.
I try to shake it off to stay focused on finishing out our set, but the world gets hazy and muted to the point I’m not even singing my lines.
It feels like I’m underwater.
My head swims. I’m dizzy and uncoordinated in a way I’ve never been, at least not while I’m on stage. The adrenaline always kicks in, slowing everything down until I can hyperfocus.
The stage lights burn my eyes, and no matter how many times I blink, my vision stays fuzzy.
I know better than to ignore a warning like the one I got before walking out on stage. If I blow the show, so fucking be it. I’d rather be looked at as the asshole who had a psychotic break on stage than to disregard something that could be serious.
Glancing around, I check on my bandmates.
My brain is in disaster mode.
Something is coming, even if I don’t know what it’ll be.
Maybe I’ve seen too many scary movies because my line of sight immediately moves to the rafters to make sure none of those heavy lights are about to snap and take one of us out.
I use an electric bass for this song, and my Rickenbacker hangs around my neck. Without my addition, the song soundswayoff.
That’s not the only strange thing.
Cove mumbles into her mic. It’s nothing like the vocals she normally produces, coming off as an incoherent slur of words.She leans toward the crowd, which is a pretty standard move, but she wobbles, losing her hold on her guitar.
Something is very wrong.
Twisting toward the backstage area where Simon supervises, I bring my hand flat over the other that stays vertical. I played soccer for like two minutes in high school, and all I remember is that’s the universal sign for timeout.
Hopefully he takes it for what it is—a cry for help.
