When he steps back, Spencer has an awkward smile. It reminds me of the goofy look on his face after we danced around the hotel, and I catch myself smiling, too.
“Well, fuck,” Fox says. “Didn’t realize you’d have such a lovesick puppy thing going on.”
I force a laugh and run my hand through my hair. “Fuck off,” I joke.
Spencer swallows. “You decide on a song?” he asks, changing the subject.
I nod. “'Double Trouble.'”
Fox leans back on the dresser. “I was rooting for ‘Last Man Alive,’ but he thinks it’s still too raw.”
“Yeah, I wanted to hear that again, too,” Spencer says.
I wave my hand, dismissing that. “Last Man Alive” is a great song, but ever since I played it for Spencer, it feels too emotional. Borderline emo, in fact. “Trust me,” I tell them. “I’m sticking to what works.”
Applause sounds from the stage, and all four screens in the dressing room start broadcasting the live show. Fox gives a quick nod before excusing himself to watch from up front, and Marco stands, too, mumbling something about using the bathroom.
I give my husband an admiring eye. “He cleans up nice.”
He laughs. “Excellent shirt from the collection.”
I look down at my tight jeans and worn Nirvana shirt. “I did put on a little eyeliner,” I say. “You know. For style.”
Spencer tilts his head up, examining my eyes. “Not even too smudged,” he says, impressed.
“Just the appropriate amount.”
He smiles, something he does a lot more easily lately, thank fucking god. “It looks good on you. You ready for the show?”
“I’ve done enough live TV. It doesn’t faze me,” I say because I’m working hard to not admit the fact that I am nervous about this new direction. There’s no guarantee my fans will follow me as my sound evolves.
My fake husband, luckily, provides a nice distraction.
“You ready for our big social debut?” I ask him.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“I won’t be on for a while, but they’ll need me for sound check and prep soon. You need anything to be comfortable back here?”
“I’ll be fine. It’s not that different than the rooms at a Grand Slam.” He glances around. “More booze and makeup, fewer protein bars and lockers.”
“Help yourself to anything. The vodka and lipstick are both exceptional.”
“I wouldn’t want to leave lipstick marks on your cheeks,” he deadpans, and we both laugh.
A knock on the door tells me it’s time for me to go, and I’m disappointed that I didn’t get to chill with Spencer more, although I’m the one who told him to wait and come at the last minute. Backstage, surrounded by sound equipment and people rushing about with clipboards and headsets, I listen to the laughter from the show up front and work on getting my head in the song.
“Double Trouble” was one of my first hits, and it’s still one of my highest-energy songs. It carries itself, which is why I figured it would be a safe pick for my debut without a four-piece backing band and multiple overlaid guitar solos.
When my time comes, I saunter out on stage with my usual bravado, and the crowd goes wild. Their energy surges through me. It’s a bigger reaction than I expected, and I wonder briefly how much it’s for my music and how much they’re reacting to my recent marriage to a widely beloved tennis star.
It doesn’t matter, though, because as soon as the lights dim and the spotlight finds me at the mic, my instincts take over, and my mind clears itself. I strum hard and fast, letting the familiar chords rumble through my body while Marco accompanies me with subdued drumming. Just like I’ve been working on, I let my guitar skills and my vocals take center stage, powering through.
And leaning in, the metal of the mic at my lips, I can feel the energy sizzling across the audience. What started as a roar slows, and I’m hit with the undeniable sensation of losing a crowd.
I lean in harder, pushing my voice near the breaking point, and I feel some of them coming back. My hair falls over my face, and I swing with the guitar, squeezing righteous anger and joyful rebellion from the song. When I hit the triumphant last notes, the crowd responds with applause, but it’s nothing like what I got at the start.
The announcer repeats my name, and the lights go black.
