“Thank you so much, Charlotte! We’ll be in the back after the show. Come say hi and ya know, maybe buy some merch.”
I glance at the brunette in the second row one last time before following Fozzie and Tim offstage. She’s still staring. And I’m still enthralled.
We head to the greenroom where we usually stay until Intermission finishes their set. Tonight will be a little different. We’ll head back out in a few minutes and start signing early, while the crew sets up for the headliner. We want to make sure we get to everyone who wants to interact with us, especially for the hometown crowd. My mom, aunt, and cousin are out there, waiting to hug me.
After exchanging a few high-fives, fist bumps, and “Well done, boys!” with our crew, I accept the water bottle our tour manager hands me, pull out my phone, and start scrolling through social media. It’s my usual routine right after we get off stage. The guys and our stage crew go back out and take down the equipment while I down a few bottles of water and relax for a minute. At the beginning of this most recent tour with Intermission, Fozzie suggested I take the time to chill out because he saw how much performing takes out of me—mentally and physically.
Honestly, it’s one of the kindest things anyone’s ever done for me. Don’t get me wrong, I love performing. There’s no bigger rush than being on stage and sharing our songs with the crowd live—the way they were meant to be heard. My body soaks up all the energy: the rush from the smiles, the heads bobbing, the hands in the air. But all of that is exhausting for me.
People assume I’m extroverted and outgoing because that’s what I show them onstage and on social media. I love it, but it’s a side of me that I’ve learned to play up, not the entire person I am.
Having a few minutes to myself, after the set, gives me what I need to calm down and recharge. I use the time to interact with people who might have tagged us on social media. Building relationships online has been a huge part of getting noticed and constructing our fan base. It’s part of the grassroots marketing we’ve done since we started, building an audience with engagement. I try to like everything we’re tagged in—if it’s relevant. It’s the easiest way to let our fans know that we see them and we appreciate them. Not everyone can get to a show, and online support can generate a huge buzz and get our music heard by more people.
Tonight, my motivation to get on social media is spurred by something else—or someone else. I can’t get the beautiful brunette from the crowd out of my mind, and it’s fucking with my head because even after three months of women in various cities throwing themselves at me night after night, the only person who stimulated my interest as much as this girl, in the last few years, was Miss Honey.
This is where being a hopeless romantic is a pain in my ass, because I’m not even obsessing over a real person. I’m obsessing over the person I created in my head. It makes for great songwriting material, but it’s shit for my love life.
The tragic mind of a creative.
I don’t fuck around with groupies. I mean, I have, but I got that out of my system early in my music career when I was just a horny teenager sowing my oats. Back when I got excited by the mere thought that girls wanted to fuck me. It’s not my thing to have meaningless sex with a blur of faces. I need to feel a connection. Don’t get me wrong, I can get off, but there’s nothing better than looking into a woman’s eyes when I’m fucking her and knowing there’s a strong mental bond behind that.
Instead of stopping to read through all of the messages of people who’ve tagged me or the band, I immediately search for EmVee, wondering if she posted any pics or videos from the show, with the hope that she tagged the hottie.
“Boom!” I say out loud as I click on the most recent photo EmVee posted of herself, flanked by two other girls. The caption reads:
Rocking out to Drowned World with my beautiful sisters! Love you @commonliz & @commonmaddie! #Underground #cltmusic
Sisters? These girls are sisters? I never would have guessed they were related at all. EmVee’s covered in tats, with long, silver hair and a face painted with dramatic makeup. She probably has a YouTube channel where she gives makeup tips to goth girls. The girl on her left side is the stereotypical Southern belle. Big blond hair, wide, blue eyes, tanned, glowing skin on a Barbie body. I bet she knows how to use the correct forks and makes all the Chad’s dicks jump.
The brunette almost seems plain standing next to the other two. That’s not a slam. She’s gorgeous, but in a completely different way. Her face looks natural, as if she’s not wearing much makeup—if any—just the rosy cheeks of someone flushed from dancing. With loose, sable waves cascading over one shoulder and a bright smile, she’s sultry as fuck in the most unassuming way. It triggers the librarian fantasy I’ve always had. Sexy, nerdy girls are my kink.
As I study the photo, I realize now that the neckline of her dress is actually quite modest. Her boobs seem to be spilling out because that’s what happens to voluptuous girls who wear V-necks.
I wouldn’t say I have a type, but I am partial to women who have some meat on their bones. There’s nothing sexier than curves in all the right places. A round ass, big bouncing tits, and padding over her hips so I have something to grab onto when she’s riding my…
“Jesus,” I hiss. I’m getting a fucking hard-on just thinking about her. I tip my water back and down what’s left in one long pull.
“What’cha doing, Austin?” Tim asks from the doorway.
“Sexting your mom,” I respond without missing a beat.
“She wishes,” he says with a laugh. “You know she wants to grab your pretty hair and—”
“Oh my god! Stop!” I yell. I know I started it, but damn, Tim’s always taking shit to the next level—the creepy level. I take a moment to scan the area, and notice our drummer isn’t back yet. “Where’s Fozzie?”
“Probably checking his bass drum for cracks.”
My stomach sinks. “Fuck. I should have asked first.”
Tim shrugs. “I don’t think he cares, to be honest. He’s still out front talking to people. I’m heading out, too.”
“I’ll be there in a minute. Want to finish responding to a few messages.”
“Tell mom I said hi!” he teases before ghosting.
Fucker.
But at least my boner’s gone.
I do want to get back on the floor and start talking to people who are sure to be lined up at the merch table, buying T-shirts and CDs while waiting for us to come out. I won’t let the exhaustion and my natural state of introversion take over until later. One of my favorite parts of playing live is afterwards when we get to meet fans who came to see us—and the new people we convert who were here just to see the headliner. I’ll never get bored with signing stuff and taking photos with fans. That powerful connection will make people talk about us.
But EmVee was kind enough to tag the picture with @commonliz directly over the brunette’s rack, so I want to check the profile quickly. I need to know more about her.
Why does that social media handle sound familiar?
A quick thumb click takes me to her page—a page I vaguely recognize.
No fucking way.
Liz Commons: Duke > Columbia > Surgical Resident. It’s a beautiful day to save a life.
There’s no fucking way Miss Honey and the girl in EmVee’s photo are the same person.
Yet here I am, looking at the exact Instagram account that popped up when I’d entered “Liz Commons surgeon” into an internet search, to find out more about her the night I dropped her off at the hospital.
The girl in the profile photo, with mousy-brown hair and thick, black-framed glasses, looks nothing like the smokin’ hot goddess from in the second row. Except those cheekbones—and the gorgeous peachy-pink tone I’d imagined her skin would have if it hadn’t been purplish-blue last time I saw her.
The revelation is flipping my world upside down.
Maybe I shouldn’t have brushed Miss Honey off so quickly. The girl I connected wit
h tonight sure doesn’t seem as boring as I’d imagined her to be when I checked out her profile six months ago.
2
Liz
“That was amazing, Em!” I tell my youngest sister after watching the opening band disappear around the wall behind the stage. Their phenomenal energy still has me buzzing.
“I’m glad you dug it,” Emily says.
“Do you know both bands?” I ask.
As a tattoo artist, Emily connects with a ton of people in Charlotte’s creative circle. She meets people from all over, but she’s ingrained in the local community.
“Just the opening band. They’re sweet guys. I’ve done a lot of Fozzie’s tattoos. Ask to see the trampoline man. It’s some of my best work.” She says it with a wink, and I have no clue what that means.
The only time I get to see Em’s work is when I scroll though her Instagram. She uses that as her portfolio. I don’t know anyone she tattoos. Her art is amazing, though. It always has been, even when it’s pencils to paper or acrylics to canvas.
“Sorry, but—which one was Fozzie?” I ask.
She mentioned Fozzie, Austin, and Tim multiple times tonight during drinks before the set, but I still don’t know which guy plays which instrument.
Em smiles. “The drummer.”
One of the things I love the most about her is that she’s very chill. She accepts everyone. Well, almost everyone. She doesn’t hold it against me that I don’t know much about her life. We’re almost seven years apart, which means we didn’t really grow up together. We were never in high school or college at the same time. Growing up, I used to pretend she was my baby, even when our parents were around, but once she grew out of that cute newborn age, I grew out of babies. Emily is the eccentric, artistic, wild child who gives our parents regular headaches. Still.
She continues, “Austin is the lead singer who couldn’t take his eyes off you.”
“Whatever. That’s ridiculous.” I brush off her comment. I mean, a part of me hoped his sexy gaze was for me, but I know I’m not the kind of girl hot musicians fall for, so I assumed he’d been eye-fucking Emily, Maddie, or any number of random beautiful girls around us.
“Where did Maddie go?” I ask, craning my neck to search the crowded room.
Maddie is the middle child, the beautiful socialite with a huge personality. As Senior Vice President of Feminine Apparel and Cosmetics, she’s the only one of us who works for Commons Department Store, the business our father started almost thirty years ago. (Yes, that’s her official title. Emily and I love to tease her about it.)
Though, Em did work there for a few months after she graduated high school. In an effort to get her excited about working with the family, Daddy tried to incorporate her personal talents, asking her to design a clothing line. His vision was to have a section of the store geared toward younger, funkier patrons. For various reasons, that idea was never going to work out.
One: Emily didn’t last long under Daddy’s watchful eye and helpful advice. Two: She’s opposed to the wealth and class differences corporate America creates in our country. Three: The appeal of the Commons Store leans more toward middle-aged soccer moms than Em’s punk-rock goth vibe.
I have to give him credit for trying to get Emily involved, though. I know she thinks he tried to use her artistic eye as a pawn in his quest for more wealth. But I knew, deep down, he was trying to get her interested and involved in the family business by allowing her to use her talent and creativity. At least that’s how I saw it.
“Oh, she’s letting you call her Maddie? I have to call her Madeline when we’re in public.”
“She’s still on that kick?” I roll my eyes. “It’s so pretentious.”
“Wow, Liz! Coming from you, that’s saying something.”
“Do you think I’m pretentious?” I ask.
Unlike Emily, I have this bad habit of caring what people think. I can’t help it. It’s the world I grew up in. As the oldest, I’d been groomed by my parents to swallow every spoonful of advice they dished out about how I’m supposed to be and how I should conduct myself. But I never thought of myself as pretentious. Then again, most people who are, probably don’t think they are.
“You’re Harris Commons’ daughter and you’re a surgeon. In many people’s eyes, that’s, like, the definition of pretentious.” Emily winks at me. “I’m kidding, ya know. You’re the most chill, down-to-earth surgeon I’ve ever met.”
“Former surgeon,” I mumble, looking down at the scar on my right ring finger. Reality flushes away the brief moment of happiness I’d found tonight losing myself in the first concert I’d attended since freshman year of college. The rush of adrenaline searing through my veins from watching the sultry, tattooed, lead singer quickly fades.
“Stop! You’ll be chopping people up again in no time, Liz. Give your hand time to heal.” She loops her arm in mine. “Come on! Let’s go tell the guys how great they were.”
Emily has no clue how bad my injury is. No one does.
Six months ago, I suffered a critical hand injury in a car accident. The antique diamond-and-sapphire ring my grandmother passed down to me on my sixteenth birthday got caught on something—I can’t remember what—and tore the finger away from my hand. The injury, called ring avulsion, required multiple surgeries to repair severed tendons in my right hand. As bad as it was, it could have been much worse. In many cases ring avulsion results in amputation.
The injury took away my ability to operate—which brought the third year of my surgical residency to a grinding halt. Thankfully, my parents worked with my mentor and the head of the residency program at CHC—Carolina Hospital Center—to pull a ton of strings and push through a year-long fellowship in Surgical Critical Care. It will give me a year to rehab from my injury, with the ability to jump back into my residency when I get clearance to operate again. Had they not been able to do that, I would have been forced to quit the program altogether. Needless to say, a surgical residency is pretty intense and competitive, and there’s no room for a surgeon who can’t operate, no matter what the reason.
After months of intense physical therapy, I have this gut feeling that I’ll never perform another surgery. Instead of coming clean and admitting it to my colleagues, I keep sleepwalking though the weeks, mouth plastered in a fake smile, pretending I’ll be given the green light to operate soon. As each day passes, I fall deeper and deeper into a spiral.
What am I going to do if I can’t perform surgery? All those years—all those dreams—wasted.
My sister leads me to the back of the venue where the bands have merchandise tables set up. While we stand in line, Emily bumps my shoulder with hers and nods toward the door. “Of course she’d find the most Chad-looking guy in here to talk to.”
Turning my gaze in the direction Emily nodded, I groan internally at the sight. Maddie’s talking to Jordan Fletcher, the head surgical resident in my program. My heart races and bile forms in my throat, building up so quickly I can barely swallow it back. A concert with my sisters was supposed to give me a break from the anxiety and anger swirling in my head, and through my blood, about the future of my career. Instead, I’m faced with the one person with the power to ruin my entire night. In trying to remove myself from all the crap piling up in my life, I’ve inadvertently shoveled more on top.
Jordan is the last person I expected to see here tonight. The Underground doesn’t seem like the type of place where he’d hang out. Then again, I don’t know much about his life outside of the hospital. He never accepts when any of us surgical residents ask him if he wants to grab a drink. We work ridiculous, exhausting hours, but there are times when we need to let off steam and talk with people who understand what we’re going through. He rarely participates in any of our banter at the hospital either. If he speaks to us, his peers, at all, it’s usually barking orders or a condescending remark about our performance. Evidently, the only people worth his time are the ones who can help him advance. If anyone could be called preten
tious, it’s him. Daddy would love him.
At first, I wonder how Maddie knows him, but as the social butterfly of our family, she’d earned the nickname Mayor Maddie years ago, so I shouldn’t be surprised when she knows anyone.
Before I have a chance to tell Emily I don’t want to go over there, she starts yelling.
“Madeline!” she calls out in the thickest redneck accent I’ve ever heard. “Madeline, when we gonna hit up that NASCAR race you been wantin’ to go to? I ain’t never been, but I reckon I’ll go with you if you want to. I hear they throw chicken bones!”
When Maddie turns around, her brows are furrowed and her lips are spread in a thin line. It takes everything I have not to burst out laughing. She looks just like Mama when she’s trying to let someone know how embarrassed she is, yet still keep her cool in front of other people.
“You’re terrible,” I say to Emily.
“After this we should go to the bar next door to do some shots. We’ll get super trashed and barf in her car on the way home.”
I think she’s kidding, but just in case, I better shut it down. “As fun as that sounds—”
“I’m in,” a male voice in front of us says.
“Austin!” Emily jumps into the arms of the man I recognize as the sexy singer of the opening band. With his dirty-blond hair and tattoos covering every inch of visible skin from neck down, he’s hard to miss. “You guys fucking slayed!”
If his charisma on stage was enough to have me throbbing between my legs, standing a few feet away is practically orgasm-inducing. As he hugs Emily, his penetrating blue eyes catch mine from beneath the shadow of his black hoodie.
I lick my lips involuntarily, which makes his mouth quirk. A tingle zings though my system and I immediately cast my eyes downward. The intensity of standing this close, and not having his hypnotizing performance as a reason to stare at him, is too much.
OPEN YOUR HEART: Material Girls 1 Page 2