Resentment. Shame. And pure fuckingrage. I wish them all well. In hell.
I grab the mic as the instrumental begins to flow from the speakers. While I can sense the audience’s eyes on me, it takes a backseat as I let every ounce of trauma and pain fuel my song. When the first lyric hits, it rushes from me like an ocean crashing over the sands—beautiful but devastating. I pour my very being into the mic, letting my past fuel my present like some sick coping mechanism that's allmine.
My therapist is going to have a field day with this…
“You talk like heartbreak is some big revelation, but baby, I'm the main temptation. Oh, I'm your favorite contraction, sweet addiction that leaves a taste lingering on your tongue. You can try to forget me, but you can't erase chemistry.”
The chorus picks up, engrossing me as I focus entirely on my pitch and the sound flowing from me. I register a few claps and some whistles, but none of it matters. Not when I'mhere.
“I’m pretty when I cry, every tear is a little cinematic. Got the world watching me, and your new fling too. How’s my success taste? Better than you.”
There’s a feminine shout over the crowd, causing my eyes to tear open. A blonde stands near a booth, her friends dressed in sequins and cut-off shorts surround her as they watch me. They’re young, maybe around my age, and look like they're having a night out on the town.
The blonde cups her hands around her mouth before shouting at me. “Get it, girl!”
My lips twitch as she gets a few side-eyes from the quieter patrons who linger around. She doesn't let theirdispleasure dampen her mood as she and her friends pull out their phones and start recording me.
The next chorus of the song shunts me into action, and I nearly miss my part because I'm focused on the small amassing crowd that's trickling in from the busy sidewalk outside. I recognize a few people among the newcomers as Juilliard peers, and quickly regain my composure as I step forward and grab the mic stand.
The last thing I want is to embarrass myself in front of these people. Feeling the stand beneath my fingers is grounding, and I let the next part flow from me as my pitch rises with the high note.
The nerves seem to melt away before my very eyes, and I can't help the infectious smile that tugs at my lips as people cheer. There’s the occasionalwhoopfrom the crowd, and I'm so lost in the music that I don't notice howpackedthe bar has become until the song fades and I take a breath.
Applause and screams cause me to jump, and I'm completely unprepared for the sea of people watching. There are phones recording, men and women pushing to the head of the crowd, and Charlie screaming in the background as she cheers me on.
It’s overwhelming and shocking to see. That feeling from before—the power and control—returns like a welcoming hug. It settles deep into my fibers, rewiring and resetting my system in a way that no amount of night terrors or trauma can. It reshapes, remolds, andrebirths.
Something mended in me that day, and it was only the beginning.
Chapter Fifteen
Rosalie
The next few months are like living a life that isn't mine—it’s bizarre, unfamiliar territory, but welcoming nonetheless. I perform regularly at Varsity Vat and have drawn quite the crowd for my local shows.
The wordcrowdseems like an understatement. The bar has been so swamped that Damion had to hire nighttime security for my shifts. Apparently, I have fans.
Actualfans.
Charlie set up my social media accounts for me, claiming that I needed to make my online presence as large as my stage one. I got over 10,000 followers in two weeks, and it feels like everything is moving so quickly.
There’s been a constant argument among my coworkers about my stage presence. I can no longer serve drinks at the bar because it takes away from the other servers trying to make ends meet. My solution was to start disbursing my earnings from my gigs with the others on shift, and it was quickly shot down by my coworkers.
I’m thankful they want me to keep earning what I do for performing, but I feel bad that I'm taking away from them. Damion seems to think everyone has gotten a pay increase with all of the new customers constantly coming in, but it doesn't stop that part of me that wants to give back as much as I get.
I’ve done little things, like come in early to roll silverware for the servers or work expo during rushes before I get on stage. I’m always run off by someone clocking in for their shift, but I can't help it. These people have been mybiggest supporters in all of this, and I can't let their hard work go unnoticed.
“Rosalina!” Damion shouts across the kitchen as I’m pulling a plate of piping hot food from the expo line. “You’re on in ten! What are you doing?”
Beau, one of the line cooks, smirks through the baker's rack at me. “Little Miss Singer shouldn't be back here with us while her fans are waiting.”
I roll my eyes at him. “This is missing a veggie tray.”
He lifts his brows. “Yes, ma’am. I love a woman in charge.”
Heat spreads across my cheeks as he pushes a veggie tray towards me. I keep my head tucked so he can't see my blush.
Beau is attractive with his easy attitude and surly exterior. He’s large with wide shoulders and a face that could leave any woman swooning. Pair it with the ink climbing up his neck, and he's definitely quite the specimen to behold.
