Page 27 of Rebel

I’ve lost who I am along the way, but it’s something I need to do to get what I want, so I turn away and swallow my fear.

When I open the door, the guys are already there, getting mics placed on them. I step in line and let them secure it on me before we are quickly hurried to the curtains near the stage and deposited there. I shift nervously, looking out at the live crowd as the reporter reads the news and weather.

This is really fucking big.

It’s my first time on TV being introduced as Dead Ringers’ new lead singer. I can either sink or swim, and I don’t know which I want to happen. All I know is that this is important for more than the obvious reasons the guys are hyped for.

This is life or death. This is the difference between everything I’m doing being worth something or it all being a bust.

If I have to fake a smile and wave, I will.

I can fake it all.

“Five minutes until we introduce you,” a man wearing a headset tells us.

“Where’s Trav?” I ask with a frown.

“Oh, he said he forgot something in the dressing room and went back.” Kolton looks around. “That was about ten minutes ago though.”

“I’ll go find him.” I hurry away, jogging as I head backstage and to the dressing rooms. Once there, I knock on the door, but there’s no answer, so I swing it open.

I freeze at the sight before me.

Trav is bent over the dressing table, his face red and eyes wide, and in his gaze, I see a plea for help.

SIXTEEN

Idrop my eyes in shame, my skin heating even more. I can’t catch my breath, my lungs screaming. My head spins with all the possibilities, screaming at me to hide. My hands shake as I try to brush my hair back in the hopes she’ll never find out.

Chatter reaches me from outside, and I whirl in panic, knowing they will all see me like this.

Weak.

Just as quickly as the door opened, Beck shuts it and heads toward me, stopping just a few feet away. “Trav, what’s going on?” she asks softly.

“Nothing,” I reply, but my voice is too high, too panicky.

Fuck!

I try to control my breathing and remind myself of my positive affirmations like I was taught, but nothing is working, and I start to drown in her eyes, losing myself to my anxiety.

I never told anyone how bad it is, and even the guys don’t know. It’s only gotten worse after everything that happened, and knowing this is our last shot and we can’t blow it almost has me hyperventilating. My anxiety isn’t always obvious. It’s a quiet nagging in my brain that leaves me shaken and unsure. Sometimes it’s manageable, sometimes it’s fleeting, and then sometimes, like this, it takes over my entire body.

Sometimes it controls me, and nothing works—not the pills, the drops, or even the fucking crystals. It’s just me, battling my own intrusive thoughts.

“Trav.” She tries to take my hand, but it’s sweaty, so I yank it back and stumble away. Fear and shame are my companions. Fuck, how can I be so weak? She’ll think I’m such a pussy. The guys will find out. Everyone will know, and they’ll laugh, then we’ll fail again, and it will all be my fault.

“Hey, stop, look at me.” Her voice tries to pierce the fog, but it’s no use. “Trav!” she snaps, cupping my cheeks. The warmth of her hands causes me to look at her. “Look at me, focus only on me. Breathe with me, okay? In, hold it, and out.” I watch the rise and fall of her chest, trying to copy her. “That’s it. What can you smell?”

“What?” I croak.

“What can you smell?” she asks, forcing my gaze to hers when it wants to bounce around.

“Lavender, you always smell like lavender.”

Her eyes widen but she smiles. “What can you hear?” she asks gently.

“My heart beating . . . The hum of the crowd.” My voice is a bit stronger, and the attack is receding slightly.

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