As Jace approaches, his expression isn’t predatory, but instead wary, like he’s afraid of what he’ll see. He comes to a halt right in front of me. “Thanks for coming, Alison.”
“I go by Ali,” I say in what I hope is a growl. “Not Alison.” Only my dad calls me Alison.
I stare at his feet, not wanting to even see whatever scathing response he comes up with. I’m surprised to find he’s wearing a beat-up pair of Vans instead of some designer brand. Huh. I guess he’s not into the whole “famous and fashionable” thing.
Jace strides back toward the hallway he just came out of, motioning for me to follow. I stay at his side and try to keep my expression neutral. I can’t let Jace see that he’s getting to me. He’s not even apologizing for what happened last night. No, he’s just acting like nothing is wrong, like I’m just another obsessed fan who actually wants this tour.
I force in a deep breath. It’ll be over soon. I just need to get through it.
The guy from the tech crew who greeted me earlier meets us in the hallway. He’s scrawny and wears thick glasses, and I’d bet he’s hardly any older than Jace. But as he follows along with us, he gapes at Jace like he’s witnessing a god, and he keeps snapping pictures of us with his phone. Great. I guess those images will be the evidence Jace needs to keep away a media scandal.
We reach the sound room, hidden away just a couple dozen yards from the main stage, and Jace vaguely gestures around. “This is where all the sound controls are.”
I take in the equipment in front of me. Most of it I’m familiar with, but some of it’s different. I walk around the room, running my fingers over the analog mixer, the power amp, the signal processor. I still remember my piano teacher making me learn all the stage technology when I was little. I’d thrown a fit; I wanted to play music, not learn about boring sound systems. But he’d insisted, saying that part of respecting music was respecting the devices that help create it.
I trace the ridges on one of the processor’s knobs. The technology hasn’t changed much since I last performed, but now that I can never be a part of it, the equipment feels cold and foreign under my fingertips.
“You’re missing a monitoring system. How do you play without one?”
The question slips out of my mouth before I can stop it. I don’t really want to know, right? Right. I shouldn’t have a casual conversation with Jace, not after what he did.
Jace raises his eyebrows and walks over to me, his arms crossed firmly over his muscular chest. He pauses to pat a small analog mixer, like it’s a dog needing attention, and then says, “Most of this equipment belongs to the stadium, but we like to use our own tech for the important stuff. Like the monitoring system. It’s already been packed up for our next show.”
I take a step back. “So then you’re leaving soon.”
“Tomorrow afternoon, thankfully.”
I try not to wince. The way he looks at me with disdain as he says “thankfully” makes me think I’m the one he’s happy to be leaving behind, and not this city.
“When do I get my money?” I demand.
Jace looks toward the tech crew guy, who’s standing in the doorway. He’s busy taking another picture of us and pretending he isn’t hearing a word we’re saying.
“I’ll give you the check when we’re done with the tour,” Jace says.
“Forget the tour. You give me that money, and I promise to not go to the media.”
He laughs in my face. “I don’t trust promises, sweetheart.”
I feel like I’m going to explode. Sweetheart? Does he really think he can call me condescending pet names, after how he treated me? But I guess he doesn’t think that. He knows it. After all, he’s the one with the money and the leverage. I’m tempted to call this whole thing off just to spite him.
Instead, I take in a deep breath and ask, “Why do you use an analog mixer instead of a digital? Wouldn’t a digital mixer be better for punk music? Especially with all your guitars?” If I have to endure Jace’s presence, I might as well talk about something I’m interested in.
Jace blinks at me, and his sneer slowly melts into a frown. “You know about PAs?” he asks slowly. I can tell by the way he hesitates at the word “PA” that he’s trying to test my vocabulary.
I roll my eyes. “Of course I know sound systems.”
“How?”
“I’ve performed before.”
Jace lets out another scoff. “What venue would allow you to perform?”
“Carnegie.”
His eyes grow wide. “Carnegie Hall?”
I nod. There’s no way I can form any words right now. I haven’t talked about my past for a long, long time, and there’s a familiar stabbing pain in my gut as I mention Carnegie. I remember that night so well—I’d been terrified but exhilarated as I performed with a group of highly advanced piano students. It felt like every single eye in the audience was glued to me as my little hands flew over the keys. Everyone was waiting for me to screw up and prove that kids don’t belong in the most prestigious music hall in NYC.
I performed perfectly. And that was the real start of my music career.
Jace’s eyes narrow with suspicion. “Tell me where the ‘h’ note is on a keyboard.”
“There is no ‘h’ note.”
“Then tell me what an analog mixer does, as long as you’re so interested in mine.”
I rattle off an explanation that leaves him looking mildly impressed. “Great. So you’ve read a Wikipedia article about them.”
“I’m not making it up! I used to play.”
“Then prove it,” he demands.
I shake my head. “I’m deaf now. I don’t play anymore.” I don’t say what else I’m thinking: that I haven’t touched an instrument since the surgery permanently stole my hearing. That I don’t think I could if I tried. That the pain of it would kill me.
Jace smirks. “That’s what I thought. You can’t play now, and never have been able to.”
“That’s not true.”
“It’s what I’ll believe until you prove me wrong.”
Jace and I glare at each other for a good five seconds, and then he abruptly turns toward the door. “I’ll show you the equipment trailer next,” he says and begins walking away, not waiting for me to respond.
Eight grand, I remind myself. This is worth it for eight grand.
No, it’s not, a small voice in my head whispers. Nothing is worth digging up those memories.
But I ignore the voice and follow him out the door.
8
JACE
I TEAR OFF my damp T-shirt and throw it in the corner of my room. The heat outside combined with my angry, anxious nerves have left me covered in sweat and feeling downright gross. I wish I could swap out the painful memories that have been crowding my mind for days, but for now, a fresh shirt is the best I can do.
I search through my closet for a T-shirt, knowing I need to hurry up. I’m procrastinating bringing Ali her check, but I really don’t want to go back out there and have to talk with her again. Twenty-seven minutes I spent with her on the tour. Twenty-seven minutes too long. She spent every moment scowling at me, and I spent every moment knowing I deserved her anger, and probably worse.
But apologizing for flipping her off would have inevitably led to her demanding an explanation. And I’m not even sure I have one of those to give, at least not after getting to know her a little on the tour. Yesterday, her deafness had seemed like a giant, painful reminder of the past I’ve worked so hard to escape. Today, her deafness had hardly even mattered. Her disgust for me was far more distracting. Guilt usually isn’t an emotion I let myself feel, but it kept clawing at my mind every time she’d shoot me one of those angry, frustrated glances.
I left her by the equipment trailer, promising I’d return in just a few minutes with her check. I’ve already written it out and have it waiting by the door, but I’m suddenly tempted to rewrite one for a higher amount. The money obviously means a lot to her. Every
time I mentioned it, she got this desperate glint in her eye that made my guilt even stronger.
A knock comes at my door right as I shrug into a long-sleeved shirt. It’s way too hot to be wearing anything with sleeves—between the heat and the cramped, dusty landscape, Los Angeles has got to be one of the most miserable cities ever. But the long-sleeved shirt is a comforting reminder of one of the few good things from my past—growing up in Denver, with its thick snow and chilly air.
“Come in,” I call, and Jon pushes open the door to my room. He leans against the doorway and crosses his arms, his lips pursed in a tight scowl. After the lecture Tony gave us this morning, I don’t think Jon is going to forgive me anytime soon for giving a fan the finger.
“Did you get the pictures?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I take my phone out of my pocket and toss it to him. “I already forwarded them to Tony.”
Jon nods and starts flicking through the images on my screen. I wait for him to show approval, but his scowl just deepens. “What happened to her face?”
“Huh?”
“Her face. It’s all swollen on one side.” He walks over and tilts the phone so I can see the picture on the screen. It’d been taken right outside the sound room, and Ali and me are both wearing smiles that look painfully fake.
Surprise jolts through me as I realize Jon’s right. I haven’t looked closely at Ali all evening; her glares have kept me from meeting her eyes. But the swelling is obvious now that I examine the picture. I reach over and flick to the next image, and I wince as I see the swelling in that one, too.
I snatch the phone out of Jon’s hand and scroll to the last photo in the series. The sweltering heat had left all of us sweating by the end of the tour, and some of Ali’s makeup had worn off. Without the thick plaster of foundation on her cheek, I can see the greenish shadow of a fresh bruise.
“Shit,” Jon says, peering over my shoulder at the picture. “Did she have that yesterday?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. But it doesn’t matter if the bruise was there yesterday, because it shouldn’t be there at all. I flip back a few pictures until I find one that shows her arms. Cold nausea slams into my gut as I see what I was both expecting and dreading—a band of bruises curling around her forearm, like a hand grabbed her there. The bruises on her arm are faint, but the fact that they’re old just makes me feel worse. Whatever happened to her face wasn’t a one-time deal.
Jon gives his throat an uncomfortable clear. “Do you think . . . ?”
“Yeah,” I say, not bothering to finish the sentence for him. I know we’re both thinking the exact same thing. Jon comes from a decent family, but he’s spent plenty of time fetching ice packs for me and helping me wrap sprains.
“Shit,” Jon repeats.
He sounds sad and concerned, but it’s nothing compared to the emotions roiling inside me and lighting my nerves on fire. I don’t need this right now. Hell, this is the last thing I need. June fifth is always a horrible day, but it’s only supposed to last twenty-four hours. Then I can spend 364 days shoving away the memories from my past and pretending none of it mattered.
Except it does matter, because now it’s re-entered my life in the form of a girl who is clearly in trouble. I think of how careful she was to keep space between us during the tour, and of the desperate look in her eyes when I mentioned the money. Could this be why?
“Um, do you want to sit down?” Jon asks, his voice strained and uncertain. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”
I let out a shuddering breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. My heart thunders in my chest as I take a couple shaky steps toward the bed and sit on its edge. I have the sudden urge to grab the sheets and pull them over my head, to just hide from this situation like I used to hide from my nightmares when I was a kid. Not that it ever helped much back then. It was impossible to escape bad dreams when I was living with a monster.
Jon bites his lip. “You stay here, okay?” He hooks his thumb over his shoulder, gesturing toward the door of the RV. “I’ll go give the girl her money.”
“No,” I say.
“No? Jace, you promised it to her. You can’t back out.”
“I mean, no, you’re not going to give it to her.” I stand up and stride toward the door, walking fast so Jon can’t see how shaky my legs are. “I am.”
Jon sidesteps in front of me, blocking my way out of the room. “You’re not going to ask her about the bruises, are you? We’re trying to keep this girl away from the media. Stirring up drama isn’t going to help things.”
“Drama?” I repeat, my voice a growl. “Someone hurt that girl. That’s not drama, that’s a crime.”
Jon holds up his hands, as if to ward off my glare. “Okay, sorry, that was a bad word choice. But my point stands. There’s no way you’re going to help things by getting involved in this.”
I press my palm against my forehead, wishing I could just shove away the thoughts rattling around my mind.
She’s being hurt.
She’s in danger.
She needs help.
“I have to try,” I say to Jon.
He heaves a frustrated sigh. “Look, Jace, you don’t even know for sure if she’s being abused. Maybe she just—”
“—fell down the stairs?” I say, my tone dripping with sarcasm. “Slipped on a wet floor? Got accidentally hit with an opening door?” I shake my head. “I’m sure she’ll have some sort of excuse. And I’m sure I’ll recognize it, because it’ll probably be one I’ve used before.”
Jon gives a frustrated sigh. “Look, Jace, I know you’re going through a rough time right now. I get it. And, yeah, those bruises are really suspicious, so I understand why you’re worried about this girl. But her safety is absolutely not your concern.”
“If you really think that, then you don’t understand at all,” I say. Then I shove past him, stopping only to grab the check before I rush back to Ali.
9
ALI
I GLARE AT the pavement, my teeth gritted so hard that it makes my bruised jaw hurt even more. What’s wrong with me? I never let people like Jace get to me. He’s a worthless jerk, and what he says doesn’t matter.
Except it does. He didn’t just attack me with words; he attacked me with my past. I’ve tried so hard to forget about my musical career, and he tossed all that work out the window. The pain is back, just as raw as it was that day I woke up from surgery and couldn’t hear. Damn it. Damn him.
I take in a shuddering breath. At least this tour is almost officially over. He went to get my check, and as soon as he hands it over, I’m out of here. If he ever comes back, that is. It’s been a solid ten minutes since he left, and I’m starting to wonder if he’s going to cheat me out of the money.
I lean against the side of the equipment trailer, letting the sun-soaked metal warm my back. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, just for a moment, just long enough to regain my composure. When I open them, I’ll be calm. I’ll forget about Jace’s insults and the memories he stirred up. I’ll take the check and run far, far away.
Something lightly touches my shoulder, making me yelp in surprise. I snap my eyes open and find Jace in front of me. He has his hands nervously stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, and he’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt now. Why did he change into that, of all things? It’s still like eighty degrees outside, and his forehead is already covered in sweat. Maybe the dude is some sort of masochist; he hurts everything and everyone, including himself.
His throat bobs as he clears it, and he shuffles around for a couple seconds, his eyes glued to his feet. I stay exactly where I am, doing my best to look intimidating as I stare up at him. I think of how my mom used to laugh when I was learning a new song; she said I looked ferocious when I concentrated that hard. I try to channel that expression and glare straight at Jace.
Jace stares down at his hands, holding them far in front of him, like they have some sort of terrible disease he’s afraid to catch. Then he pus
hes up his sleeves, even though they’re already scrunched up around his muscular biceps. He takes a deep breath, and I step to the side, wondering what in the hell is going on. He’s not even talking. He’s just standing there, occasionally shooting me little glances that almost look . . . scared.
He keeps staring at his hands for a bit longer, and then he takes a shuddering breath. “Hey.”
“I want my check,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm.
“I’ll give it to you in a second,” he mutters.
“No, now.”
Jace shakes his head and takes a step toward me. He keeps coming closer, until he’s only a foot away. He peers closely at me, his eyes squinting as he examines my face. I unconsciously reach up and cover my cheek with my hand, hiding the bruised area from sight.
“It looks like someone hit you,” Jace says, gesturing to my cheek.
“No,” I quickly say, shaking my head.
He points to my arm. “You’re bruised there, too.”
“It was just an accident,” I insist. “And it’s definitely not your business.”
Jace takes another half-step toward me, bringing us impossibly closer. Finally, he looks into my eyes, and I’m able to see his full expression. It’s not right. Jace is supposed to be angry and condemning and pitiless. But his eyes are . . . sad.
He raises his hands, gives them one more disgusted glance, and then signs, “Let me help you.”
I stare in shock at his hands. What? What? I hesitantly raise my hands and sign back, “I’m totally fine. No one’s hurt me, I swear. I just fell.”
I half expect him to burst out laughing and mock me for my signing, for him to tell me that he doesn’t actually know ASL, and he’s just messing with me. But, instead, he gives me a small, sad smile.
“You’re lying,” he signs.
I ignore his accusation and ask, “How do you know ASL?” Sometimes I’ll run into people who know a sign or two, but Jace’s skills are obviously beyond that. His hands move with an ease that makes me think he’s fluent.
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