I can’t go back to Hell.
I don’t want to fight my way through the darkness looking for scraps of energy, being under the rule of a merciless demon who sees Ennubi like me as lesser beings.
I can’t, and I won’t.
I’ll remain on Earth and figure out a way to survive. Even without the band, without the fans. I’ll do whatever it takes.
But for the moment, I’ll absorb every drop of power I can. I’ll snap these fucking drumsticks in half from banging them with every bit of my damned soul, because tomorrow isn’t promised.
Halfway through our set, I see her again. The human. She shifts through the darkness, getting closer to my drum set, and I try to ignore her. I look at Sebastian, who’s stomping across the stage while singing the chorus. At the twins, who are currently locked in a guitar battle. At the crowd, which I can barely see because of the glare of the lights.
I do my best to keep my eyes averted from the human who doesn’t belong on my stage, until she’scrouched next to my instrument, her camera pointed right at me. I stiffen at the closeness, wishing I could tell her to fuck off, but there’s no way she’d hear me. The urge to look is strong, growing until I can’t ignore it anymore.
Finally, I shoot her a glare. At the same time, one of the lights overhead swings by, making my drum set glow for a beat. She lowers her camera, our eyes locking for a brief moment, before she slips away again.
As much as I don’t want to, I look for her, finding her next to Emrys. She moves around him to get different shots, spending more time than she should photographing him. More annoyance, and something else I can’t quite place, bubbles up, and I roll my eyes.
Why didn’t she spend more time on me? Does she hate me that much? So much that she’s going to prove a point by taking a few quick shots of me while lingering on everyone else, getting the perfect pictures?
Whatever.
This is stupid.
I shouldn’t care—I don’t.
If she doesn’t want to be near me, that’s fine, because the feeling is mutual. If she doesn’t want to post pictures of me, so be it. I can post my own. The fact that I’m giving thoughts of her any energy at all is beyond me. I shouldn’t be wasting my time.
By the end of the show, I’m fuming, itching to get away from the stage. There’s still a meet and greet to suffer through, even though all I want to do is go back to the tour bus and drown myself in a pint of whiskey. Or bourbon.
Hell, I’d take tequila at this point.
“You good?” Daire asks as we head backstage.
I shrug him off.
I’m fine. Everything is fine, or it will be, once I’m in bed for the night and I can sleep off all this pent-up frustration.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I try to summon any shred of a good mood. It isn’t the fans’ fault that this human woman is ruining my life, and I shouldn’t take it out on them. Not if I want to maintain appearances and not raise suspicions.
I take a deep breath, then another, trying to settle the rage compounding in my veins, threatening to make me combust. It’s just another hour or so.
I can do this.
Then, it’ll be me, a bottle of whatever liquor I find on the tour bus, and my cursed thoughts.
This backstage area is smaller than a lot of the others we’ve been in, but there’s enough room for a little crowd to gather. It’s always the same song and dance; we wait backstage, welcome the group, sign autographs and take pictures, then we leave.
We’ve barely gotten situated when a door opens, and my ears perk up.
That was fast.
Normally, the staff gives us a little more time to get settled and relax after the set, but the sooner we get this over with, the better. I’m ready to be done for the night.
My head snaps up, eyes searching for the VIP crowd, and a stone drops into my stomach. It isn’t the meet and greet crowd.
It’s the goddamned photographer.
“Had to grab another battery!” she squeaks as she hurries over, a smile curving her plush lips.
