by Zoey Oliver
It’s just another show. You’ve done this a million times, I tell myself.
And how many of those times were you high as a fucking kite? an angry little voice challenges.
I shove it aside. I don’t need drugs to do my job. Maybe there was a time when I thought it fit my whole “rockstar” persona, but I’ve been clean and sober for five years now and I’m not about to screw that up. Not even for something as important as this event.
Which is a good thing, since this whole gig is supposed to be helping me to rehab my image. At this point, I don’t think there’s anyone in the world who knows who I am who doesn’t know about my struggles with addiction and getting clean. There were some fans that didn’t like my new image—or the lack of touring dates while I spent longer than probably necessary in rehab. But I learned I can’t worry about those people. I can only worry about myself. The fans that really care—the ones that truly want the best for me—haven’t given up yet.
And I’m glad for it. Hell, if I were one of these parents out in the crowd, I’m not sure I’d want my kid screaming and jumping excitedly for some junkie who may or may not be clean according to the tabloids.
But they’re out there. I can hear the crowd, feel the energy thrumming through the very floor under my feet. I’ve played packed venues, sold-out stadiums in tours, but I’ve never been as nervous as I am right now waiting for my turn up on stage in front of all those sick kids.
Originally, when Merrill told me about his idea to have me perform at the Wish Givers’ benefit, I wasn’t sure they’d even want me. After all, these are really sick kids, cancer and shit like that. It’s bad enough that they’re sick and dying, but to offer them a concert with me? It almost seemed like a really bad, unfunny joke. But my manager knows what’s best for me. He always has. He’s stuck by me through thick and thin, helping me up when I hit rock bottom, being more of a family to me than the people I actually share blood with. So when Merrill said it was a good idea, I decided it couldn’t hurt to humor him a bit. Most likely the Wish Givers wouldn’t even want me in their lineup, right?
Well, Merrill’s apparently better at his job than I’ve ever given him credit for, because not only did they want me to perform, but they wanted me to headline this whole event. It was definitely a surprise, but also kind of flattering. When I first walked into rehearsals a couple of weeks ago, I felt like a big shot, probably more than I had any right to. But these kids changed all that. Every day during rehearsals and sound checks, there were kids coming in with reps from the Wish Givers, kids that wouldn’t be able to come to the show for one reason or the other. I’d fooled around with them, given them each a little backstage tour, and one of the kids told me he hoped he got to grow up to be a rockstar.
That really got me. Not that he wanted to grow up to be a rockstar, but that he hoped he got to grow up. I could barely hold it together when I was showing him how to place his fingers on the guitar frets and he shot me the biggest smile when he managed to strum a few chords together after an hour or so of practice. I spotted his mom wiping away tears in the wings and my throat closed up tight.
Ever since then, I really realized how much this show means to these kids, and I’ve been determined not to let any of them down. Not even a little.
And it’s that pressure I’ve put on myself that has me so nervous I’m afraid to go out on stage. Alaina, my handler with the Wish Givers, has already been talking about future benefit concerts and stuff like that, but I haven’t been able to agree to anything because I’ve been absolutely certain I’m going to blow this whole thing.
Thinking like that isn’t going to help me impress those kids or the people watching at home, though. Thinking like that will make me a complete disaster on stage. So I retreat back into my mind, going back to the time I spent in rehab, in therapy and group sessions, remembering how my counselor taught me to control my breathing and clear my mind. “Meditating” has always sounded like some New Age hippie nonsense, but the practice actually helps me control my impulses and cravings more than I would have ever predicted. I still won’t call it meditating, but that’s basically what I’m doing. Long deep breaths in through my nose, out through my mouth, counting to ten on each inhale and exhale.
Yes, these people are here to see me. And yes, I want to give them the best show possible, but that’s only going to happen if I can get myself into the right frame of mind. At least we’ve been through the rehearsals a thousand times. I could probably manage to pull off this show in my sleep, but that doesn’t do a ton to ease my nerves.
My mind is finally blank, a sense of calm washing through my nerves when a sharp, hurried knock on the dressing room door startles me out of my trance.
“Yeah?” I call from the couch, still sitting with my legs crossed, my elbows on my knees.
The door opens and a wall of sound rushes in with it, the crowd sounding like they’re right at my door even though I know they’re still a couple hundred feet away.
Merrill comes in and closes the door behind him looking down his nose at me. “Doing all right?” he asks, his face stony.
“Yeah, just trying to get my headspace right,” I say, frowning. Merrill’s usually much more chipper pre-show, trying to pump me up and get me ready to go. But his mouth is tight and he looks a little pale.
“What’s up?” I ask, the worry creeping into my voice before I can stop it. I’ve been at this a long time and Merrill’s been with me from the beginning. I know him too well to believe him when he shrugs.
“What makes you think anything’s wrong?” he asks, pushing his gold-framed glasses further up his nose.
I uncross my legs, planting my feet firmly on the floor, and arch an eyebrow at him. I don’t need to say anything else. He knows I know something’s up.
He sighs and takes the few steps to the couch, sinking in next to me. “Julia was in an accident.”
Ice washes through my blood, my eyes going wide. Julia Venn was supposed to join me on stage after a couple of songs for a few duets. I don’t know her all that well, but she’s been pleasant enough to me through rehearsals and the thought of something happening to her doesn’t sit well. “Shit. Is she okay?”
Merrill holds up his hands as if to ward off my worries. “She’s fine, fine. She’ll make a full recovery.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and nod. “That’s good. So…” I lift my brow at him again.
“She’s not going to make it to the show,” he says, letting that sink in. I’d already figured as much, but the confirmation sucks. We worked really hard in rehearsals to make our duets absolutely perfect, but now those kids will never get to enjoy the fruits of our labor.
“We’ve got a replacement for you, though,” he says, forcing himself to sound chipper. I know it’s forced, because he uses that fake smile that he normally reserves for journalists like Kandy Florin.
“You want me to perform with someone blind? No practice, no nothing, in front of all these sick kids looking for a good time? This isn’t some grungy jam session in a dive bar, Merrill.” The last thing I want to do is disappoint this audience.
“Don’t worry. She knows what she’s doing. She’s got the lyrics down and you two will be fine. You’re both professionals.”
“Who is it?” I ask, a last glimmer of hope flickering inside of me. After nearly fifteen years in the rock scene, I’ve made my fair share of contacts. Maybe I’ll know her, or at least know her work. That would certainly set my mind at ease.
“Chelsea Garten,” Merrill says plainly. Then, to my look of non-recognition, he adds, “She’s a country singer.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, dropping my forehead to my hands.
Don’t get me wrong, I like country music all right, and I have a hell of a lot of respect for those artists, but we don’t exactly have the same style. I can’t imagine some little slip of a thing with hair bigger than her head and a sequined minidress shining like a disco ball exactly
fitting in with my image.
“I’m not,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Chin up, you’re on in five. And remember, it’s for a good cause.”
Merrill stands and leaves me on the couch there to process all of this alone. I was nervous enough before his announcement when I had almost three weeks of practicing with Julia under my belt. Now? With this Chelsea person I’ve never even met? I feel like I’m gonna puke. This is going to be a complete disaster. But at least I’ll have my couple of solo songs to wow the crowd with before we let them all down.
I’m back on my feet and pacing, just thinking about it. I wait for the familiar pang of longing, that craving for a hit to slam into me like it normally does when I’m this stressed, but surprisingly, it doesn’t materialize. Maybe all this meditating bullshit really is working.
I stop my frantic pacing and stand in the middle of the shabbily-furnished room, glancing over to the mirror.
“You’re going to be fine,” I say to myself, watching my lips form the words as if it were someone else talking to me. “She’s a professional. She has the lyrics. It’s going to be fine,” I repeat, hoping it sounds truer the second time. I stare at myself in the cracked mirror for a long moment before I take a deep breath, filling my lungs to the brim.
“Besides,” I exhale with a laugh, smiling at myself and the memory of Merrill trying to cheer me up, “it’s for a good cause.”
Good old Merrill. He might drive me up a wall sometimes, but he’s not wrong. This show isn’t really about my new reformed reputation. It’s not about trying to jumpstart a serious comeback for my career. It’s about those kids. Whatever the universe wants to throw at me tonight, I can take it, because I am not letting those damn kids down.
The knot in my chest releases and suddenly I’m relaxed, focused, and ready to put on one hell of a show. Which is a good thing, because it’s just as I’m shaking out the last nerves from my arms that I hear the emcee bellowing my name over the cheering audience.
“Chin up, Ian,” I say, mimicking Merrill’s false cheerfulness, “it’s showtime.”
I give my arms one more shake, jumping up and down in place to get rid of some of the overabundance of energy I have. Being on stage has always been electrifying, but I haven’t felt this good in a long time. Being clean really does suit me. I jog out on stage, my arm held high, waving at the crowd.
“How are you guys doing tonight?” I say into the mic, my voice echoing throughout the theater. This place is jam-packed, and despite some of these kids being in wheelchairs, or being attached to IVs, it’s all smiles as they roar back at me. That kind of response is more addicting than any hit of smack.
“You ready to party?!” I hold the mic out to the audience and they cheer back even louder.
“Let’s do this.” I drop my hand and fit the mic back into its stand just as the stage lights come on behind me and the band launches into the first song.
Apparently I’m not the only one feeling the energy tonight. Every beat, every note, every cue is absolutely perfect. We go straight from the first song into the second and I’m starting to feel like nothing could possibly bring me down. But it’s as the second song winds down and the lights dim for a short break that I remember what’s coming next: my unrehearsed performance with Chelsea Garten.
I dip backstage while the emcee comes out and announces the change in the lineup. I’m mopping the sweat from my forehead with a towel a stagehand gave me when I see a silhouette in the opposite wing. A perfect little silhouette. Petite, hourglass shape, and legs that wouldn’t quit even though she couldn’t have been over five feet without those heels. I’m trying to make out any more of her features when the emcee says, “Once again ladies and gentleman, Ian Monroe!”
The stagehand whips the towel out of my hand and shoves me out of the wings. I nearly forget to look into the audience because I’m so distracted by her, whoever she is, but my training and years of experience kick in before I make a fool out of myself. Whoever she is, she’ll have to wait until after the show for me to find her. And I will find her.
“And Miss Chelsea Garten!”
That’s when the sexy mystery silhouette steps out of the wings and my damn heart nearly stops. That’s Chelsea Garten?
She’s not at all what I expected—okay, so the light blonde hair was probably what I expected, but she’s got it in an understated braid draped over her shoulder. She’s cute as hell with that wide smile and big blue eyes, but there’s something sultry about her, too. The way her jeans hug her hips and those five-inch heels shape her ass so perfectly I know I’m never going to be able to forget it. She waves at the crowd, smiling big and bright, and then steps right up to me, nudging me with her shoulder.
“You ready for this?”
I swallow, my mouth dry as the Sahara in summer, but manage to nod. “You?”
Then she turns that smile on me and my knees nearly buckle. “Always.”
I’ve barely got a second to get my wits about me before she starts the band up and opens the first song with this captivating crystal-clear voice that shakes me to my core. I’m so lost wondering who the hell this girl is and how I’ve never met her that I nearly miss my cue. But I don’t, jumping in on my spot on autopilot.
Instantly, we’re harmonizing perfectly like we’ve practiced this a million times. Her clear high melodies mesh perfectly with my deeper growliness, and there’s something building in the air. I think I might be going crazy, but after the first song, I finally look out over the audience and realize, no, they feel it too. Something special is happening here with the two of us. One of those rare moments of music magic.
She looks over at me positively beaming, her face flushed in a way that makes me want to drag her backstage and do terribly dirty things to her. But I can’t think about that right now. We’ve still got another song to sing before I can totally lose my shit over this girl I’m suddenly obsessed with. I tilt my head to the side and she nods, counting off the band to start in on the second song.
It seems impossible, but the second song goes even better than the first. We’re a little more comfortable with each other’s styles and manage to pull off some awesome improvisations. I already know I have to work with this girl again. More than work with her, but I’ve gotta start somewhere.
At the end of the song, Chelsea dips back into this adorable little curtsy and without thinking, I grab her hand and lift our arms up high.
The crowd’s on their feet, a standing ovation sweeping through in a blink. But I hardly notice that because Chelsea’s hand in mine is like a hot coal, and it’s lighting a fire in me that only more of her can quench.
Find out what happens! Grab Addicted!
About the Author
Zoey Oliver has a crush… on writing alpha men and the women who intoxicate them.
Also by Zoey Oliver
Suspended
Addicted
Forbidden Prince
Boss Daddy