Founded on Goodbye: A Rockstar Romance

by Kat Singleton

  We were spoiled the entire flight, and it shocked me how huge the plane actually was. I didn’t expect Nash’s band and entire professional team—dancers included—to all fit on one jet, but we did.

  It was mania as soon as we landed. I thought I’d have the day to explore New Jersey, but we had plenty of things to do in preparation of the first show. All the dancers had final fittings with wardrobe to make sure our costumes were perfect for opening night.

  Looking down at my costume, I find it perfectly hemmed to custom fit my body. The dark, black jeans are skintight, a pair of thigh-high boots looping all the way up my leg. A red button-down shirt covers the top half of my body. It’s expertly tied above my belly button, a black bra peeking out from between the undone buttons.

  As I move in the outfit, the shirt rides up over the high-waisted jeans to show off my stomach. All the girls will wear the same outfit, the guys in something similar. They’ll be in red button-downs, unbuttoned with no shirt underneath, and a pair of black fitted joggers.

  I haven’t seen Nash yet. He gave us all a pep talk before the first opener went out, but he hasn’t been to wardrobe yet. Now that both openers have performed, the hyped crowd is cheering for the montage playing on the screen. It’s only minutes before Nash is set to go out there, and we’ll be following him soon after.

  I’m standing with some of the dancers, waiting for our cue to take our places, when a warm body comes up behind me. I startle, getting ready to dart until I look over my shoulder and find Nash standing there.

  Oh, holy fuck. He looks hot—majorly hot. He shouldn’t be allowed to be famous and still be that hot. The first thing I notice is the red bandana that’s tied around his head. It holds back the unruly curls at the top of his head.

  I let my gaze travel down the rest of his body, to the simple white T-shirt and pair of black jeans that are ripped all the way down both legs. His feet are covered in a pair of stark white sneakers.

  “Excited?” he asks, those perfectly hued lips enveloping a perfect smile.

  “Nash!” a stage member shrieks, running up next to us. They’re decked out in all black, a headset attached to their head. “You’re supposed to be under the stage right now. You go on in two minutes.”

  “I’ll be there,” Nash assures the man, then focuses his attention back on me. “Are you excited, Rose?” Reaching out, he wraps a piece of my chestnut hair around his finger. He lets the strand fall, watching me until I answer.

  “Yes. But, Nash, you’ve got to go.” I point to the stairs that lead below the stage. Down there is a network of small tunnels that allow the performers to get around quickly. Toward the middle of the show, I have to run through one of the tunnels before Nash and I perform our duet together.

  He adjusts the bandana on his head, turning to show off a microphone on the other side of his face. It’s almost the exact shade of his skin, something I wouldn’t have noticed unless I was up close with him. “Yeah, I better get down there before the whole stage crew comes after me. Break a leg, Nora.” He walks backward, grinning at me before turning around and disappearing into the tunnel entrance.

  Hello, butterflies. You shouldn’t be here.

  I take a deep breath, trying not to think too deeply of why he went out of his way to say good luck to me before the show. I wish I would’ve yelled it back at him, my mind too preoccupied with why he wasn’t where he was supposed to be to give him a proper response. He probably doesn’t even need good luck; performing in front of thousands is just a typical day for him.

  The stage in front of us goes dark, smoke starting to billow out of the cannons that surround the stage. Nash’s voice comes over the speakers, to which the screams get even louder. A minute in, lights drench the stage in red as Nash’s words appear on the screens behind the stage.

  Then…it’s time for Nash.

  He pops out from the bottom of the stage, the crowd going absolutely insane.

  “What’s up, New Jersey?” he asks confidently, the band picking up the music until it’s our cue to go out there.

  “Let’s do this,” Ziggy says excitedly next to me. He takes the earpieces from around his neck and puts one in each ear.

  I do the same, afraid the screams from the crowd might drown out the music.

  When it’s our cue to go on stage, the rest of the world fades to black. There’s nothing on my mind except the present. The feeling up on stage is like a drug. I haven’t been on stage for a whole track before I’m completely in love with being up there. The feeling is unlike any other in this world. The way the screams from the crowd shake the entire stage, making me want to give every ounce of my soul to each move of my body…

  As much as Nash has confided in me that he doesn’t feel the same performing like he used to, I would never know by the way he lights up the stage. He griped a lot about having the dancers on tour and having to dance with them, but that’s just another thing the crowd wouldn’t be able to tell right now.

  He moves as gracefully as the rest of us, giving just as much energy.

  It’s the most incredible feeling, watching him perform for thousands and thousands of people. He has small conversations with them throughout the show while we change backstage, allowing time for everyone involved to prepare for whatever is set to start next.

  Nash makes sure to walk up and down the stage, getting close to as many fans as possible. His shirt gets thrown into the crowd halfway through the show, leaving only a thin tank top on his upper half. It shows off every sculpted ab along with the intricate artwork etched permanently on his skin.

  It’s halfway through the show when it’s finally time for me and Nash to perform Preach. Suddenly I’m anxious, nervous to witness how the fans will react. It’s different than him just standing up there with his guitar or sitting at the piano when performing his slower songs.

  Another video montage plays on the screen while we get ready backstage. I’m running underneath the stage, a stage assistant walking fast behind me as I strip out of my top layer of clothes. She hands me the flowy piece of fabric I have to wear for this song.

  I pause for a moment, pulling the gossamer fabric over my head and letting it fall down my body. It’s a sheer red color. You can still see the black bra and high-waisted underwear I have on underneath it. It isn’t too see-through, but it also isn’t thick enough to fully hide the dark color that shields the most intimate parts of me from the world.

  The fabric falls all the way down to my mid-calf. Two slits run up my legs, the opening going all the way up to my hip bone. As soon as I have the dress on properly, I pull my hair out from under the fabric. My hair cascades down my back, falling all the way down to the small of my waist. Next I slide off the pair of heels I have on, trading them for a pair of nude dancing shoes.

  As soon as I’m fully dressed, I’m racing through the tunnel to make it to my mark on time—which I do, thank god. I find Nash already waiting on the rig that will lift us onto stage.

  A stage crew member helps adjust his microphone pack on his pants, while having a small conversation with him. “How’s that?” the stage member asks.

  “Great,” Nash responds, fiddling with his guitar strap. “I want to take one of my earpieces out to be there with the fans but fuck, I forgot how loud they were.”

  The stage member laughs, finishing messing with Nash’s equipment and looking over at me. “You good to go?”

  I nod, running my hands down my legs to help ease some of the nerves, the anticipation of this performance eating away at me.

  Nash looks up from adjusting his guitar, giving me a smirk. “You ready to make all those girls out there jealous for three minutes and forty-six seconds?”

  “If I say no, will it make a difference?”

  He shakes his head, reaching up to fix a piece of hair that’s still managed to fall over his eye. There’s a sheen of sweat coating his body as I step closer to him on the rig. The tattoos running up both of his arms seem even more defined under th
e harsh lights from the stage.

  “Nope. You’re stuck with me at this point. Deal with it.” His eyes make a slow cascading motion down my body, and it feels like he’s undressing me with them.

  There’s a handful of people underneath this stage with us, but they all disappear with Nash’s eyes on me like that.

  “You look hot, Rose.” He says the words nonchalantly, a mischievous gleam in his eye as he waits for my reaction, totally unaware that he’s sending my mind—and heart—into overdrive.

  Meanwhile, my heart is thumping against my chest, trying to compete with the bass of the music playing above us. He can’t be saying those words to me. He’s supposed to be saying those words to me. I’m supposed to flirt back. I want to flirt back. I also want to run far away from this stage and not start this thing with Nash that can only end with at least one broken heart.

  “One-minute countdown,” a stage crew member shouts next to us.

  The words return me to my senses, even though Nash’s eyes are still roaming all over me as if he’s imagining what I look like without any of this on.

  I step closer to him, turning my body around until our backs touch. Between his thin tank top and my bare shoulders from the dress, our skin is pressed against the other’s. Both of our bodies are warm, but I find goosebumps starting to raise on my arms.

  Nash’s breath is hot on my neck when he turns to speak over his shoulder. “Let’s go show them what they’re missing.”

  “Let’s do this,” I respond, taking a deep breath.

  Above us, the music from the video goes silent, and for a brief moment, so does the crowd. Then, it erupts in madness. I imagine the band coming back onto the stage above us, the lights shading them in black. The focus is supposed to be on Nash and me up there, the band only there to enhance the experience.

  My body shifts as the rig begins to raise. As soon as Nash’s body is visible to the crowd, the screams become deafening. His shoulders press into mine as he shifts the guitar, his body leaning forward over the instrument.

  It’s his cue to start the song, the band waiting for him to start before they ease into the song as well. I stand there, pressed against Nash as he strums the opening chords. His voice fills the stadium when he begins to sing.

  I take my cue, turning around and running my hands over him as the words captivate the crowd.

  One November night, you stumbled into my life

  I didn’t want you

  I barely even saw you

  But two weeks later, you were the only thing that felt like mine

  You told me you loved me

  I told you I hated me

  My words didn’t faze you

  You just kissed me and lit me

  On fire, on fire, on fire

  On fire, and preach

  The words to the song continue to leave his mouth in an addictive and repetitive raspy tone. I can’t make out faces in the crowd, but I can see the countless lights in the crowd, swaying in rhythm to the music.

  We make it to the chorus. Once the guitar is handed off to someone on the side of the stage, I resume my position before him. His voice is sexily serenading the crowd when I drop down to my knees. The cheers get louder and louder when Nash spins me, my body falling back against him and dipping down.

  I can’t hear myself think for the rest of the song. The crowd is just as loud now as when Nash had first appeared at the beginning of the concert. The red lighting washes over his face, the vein on the side of his neck visible from the strain of singing.

  My legs wrap around his firm middle, and he sings the last bit of the lyrics looking into my eyes before I flip backward onto the floor.

  Oh baby, could you practice what you preach?

  You lit the match then stepped out of reach

  Oh baby, won’t you practice what you preach?

  You lit the match that’s still burning here at your feet

  The spotlight shines hot against my back as I slide down Nash’s body as he sings the haunting closing lines. His fingertips making a searing brand through the thin fabric of my costume. Without a doubt, I know he can feel the racing beat of my heart underneath his burning touch. Now that the song is over, I feel incredibly vulnerable, his small touch sending heat throughout my whole body. We stand there, locked in an embrace as the world around us erupts in booming screams.

  After a few beats, I attempt to step back, but Nash doesn’t let me go. He tucks me underneath his arm, spinning me to face the crowd.

  We stand there, waiting for the crowd to get quieter. As soon as the noise is manageable, Nash begins to speak over the people still cheering.

  “Everyone, please give it up for this incredibly fucking talented dancer—a good friend of mine, Nora.” He steps aside, holding onto one of my hands as the other one lifts up to get the crowd yelling once more.

  Nash unexpectedly spins me, pulling me into a tight hug. As the crowd around us loses their damn minds, he kisses the top of my head, turning to face the crowd again.

  I take it as my cue to leave and run off stage. I lean against a speaker as soon as I’m out of sight.

  Holy shit. That feeling was insane.

  It was so unlike the first chunk of the setlist, when all eyes were mostly on Nash. It was still fun and nerve-wracking to be out there on stage with him, regardless. But just now, with me and Nash performing Preach, so many more eyes were on me.

  I’m jealous of myself for the chemistry Nash and I have out there. I’ve performed with other dancers before. It’s not the first time I’ve had to fake emotion on stage, or be intimate with someone to make the performance better. But it felt so different out there.

  When he looked at me like that at the end, I wanted it to be real. I didn’t want to put on a show for the fans, I wanted to be looked at like that and have it be real.

  The thought is terrifying, and as I grip the extra speaker for dear life, trying to get my head on straight, I realize this task is going to be a lot harder than I expected.

  I gave my word to try to get Nash to fall in love with me.

  I didn’t give any thought to what would happen if I started to unintentionally fall for him in the process.

  I’m hungover as fuck.

  As my mind starts to piece last night together, I feel a body press up against mine.

  “Morning,” the girl behind me whispers, cozying up to my neck.

  “Who are you?” I ask, wiping at my eyes. What the hell did I drink last night? All I remember is walking to my room backstage and diving right into the chilled vodka that’d been set out on the table. The band slowly poured in not long after that.

  I think back, trying to recall the details. We were a few drinks in when Monica came stomping in. The vein on her head was protruding, a sure sign she was pissed.

  “Oh fuck,” Troy drunkenly exclaimed next to me, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Monica’s pissed at you.”

  “Actually, I’m pissed at all of you. You’re supposed to be at the meet-and-greet in five minutes. Sober the hell up and get going!” She swiped the vodka out of my hand, putting it on the glass table of my dressing room with a loud clank.

  “Totally remembered that,” I whispered, standing up and stretching my back, steadying myself on an end table before almost toppling over. I could feel the alcohol dripping through my veins, making things slightly fuzzy.

  Though, I probably could have tripled the amount of alcohol I had by then and still been functional.

  Monica stepped around all of us then, walking over to the clothing rack. “Nash, you need to change.” Her back was straight as a board in her suit jacket as she angrily flipped through the clothes on the rack.

  She pulled out a few shirts, turning up her nose and aggressively hanging them back up. She finally found a shirt that appeased her, because she quickly tore it off the hanger and threw it at me.

  “Catch,” she muttered, a little too late, because I had already basically caught it by the time she decided to warn
me.

  I remember not being in the mood to argue with her. The high from the crowd had already worn off, and I was busy trying to catch a new high before I felt the lows when she rudely stomped in and started getting snippy with us.

  I pulled the sweaty tank top off me and threw it onto the couch. Then I pulled the other shirt on, smiling wide at her once it was on. “I’m ready, boss.”

  She let out an annoyed grunt. Walking over to the mini fridge, she pulled out a glass bottle of water. Shoving it against my chest, she instructed me to drink it. “Chug this. Now.”

  I unscrewed the cap and washed down the lingering taste of vodka in my mouth. Once the bottle was empty, I looked at her with my eyebrows raised. “Anything else?”

  Monica held one finger in the air, and then quickly walked over to the dressing room table. She grabbed a bottle of cologne from the counter, spraying it over each and every one of my bandmates before she made her way back to me. “Yeah,” she demanded. “Spray this. You smell like a frat house.”

  “What the fuck, Monica,” Troy whined, swiping at the air in front of him.

  “I’m a grown-ass man,” Poe added. “I’ve had one drink and smell nothing like a frat house.” He held his fingers up in mock quotations with the last words.

  Landon didn’t say anything, he just stood up and took one last swig of his drink.

  After Monica bathed me in my cologne, she snapped her fingers at us—our cue to follow her out.

  The meet-and-greet went well, the small moments with my fans something I hadn’t realized I’d missed. What I could go without, however, were the million questions directed my way about Nora.

  Who is Nora?

  Is she an old friend of yours?

  Are the two of you dating?

  How do I sign up to be one of your dancers?

  The same questions were asked over and over.

  I don’t know when people will understand that I don’t want to share my personal life with the world. Nora and I aren’t dating. We’re both just doing as instructed, and apparently doing it well if their sudden fascination with her is any indication.