Page 68 of Rock Strong

“Let’s do this!” I shouted, and the energetic opening of Feel the Burn began, fueling the excitement, the fever, and pulse of the entire stadium. This. This was the biggest reason I did what I did—the connection with our fans over the music. That’s what it was all about.

The legions of women who’d come to see us over the years didn’t get that. They thought it was about the glitz, the glam, money, cars, houses, boats, drugs, and shit. It wasn’t. I leaped, holding the mic stand, landing on my knees right as Wes’s guitar riff pounded.

Abby understood.

But Abby wasn’t here.

She’d said she didn’t belong in my life, that it would change me from notorious, wild front man to someone I wasn’t, someone the fans didn’t want to see me become. She couldn’t bear the responsibility of causing that. Had she forgotten, though? Before I became a singer, before my image was spattered on the cover of magazines, before my tattoos wove the story of my life, I was a drama geek—an actor.

And act, I would.

All I wanted the next morning was a bagel.

I dragged my ass out of bed at 8:30 a.m.—earlier than sin—and ambled downstairs to the hotel meeting room for the mid-tour breakfast buffet we were hosting for all our staff. I’d asked Robbie if I could take a rain check—ixnay on the uffetbay—but he’d said, “No fucking way. You need to be there.”

Asshole.

I scraped my feet along the floor, still wearing my robe, beauty mask perched on my forehead, and ran into Nathan, who pointed me in the right direction. I saluted him with my rolled-up copy of The New York Times, which I had no intention of reading, but I looked cool holding it.

Everyone was there already, bright and chipper. I wanted to smack every last one of them with the newspaper. No one should be so happy this early in the morning. Wes and Robbie and Corbin were there, but not Tucker. Not yet, anyway. All the roadies, the lighting crew, and the string section, including Abby’s friend Rosemary, were there. Her friend wavered at the end by the fruit bowl, glancing at me every so often. She gave me one of those smiles where you know she’s thinking, Look at you, you jerk…you despondent sack of shit. Actually, at a second glance, she looked like maybe she wanted to talk to me but didn’t know what to say. Maybe it was better if I stayed away from her. I couldn’t take another difficult conversation so close to the last one.

Yes, yes, I know I’m the bad guy here, my eyes told her. Don’t rub it in.

I finally found the bagels, toasted, and slathered mine with cream cheese. I felt a hard pat on my back. “Nice outfit,” Robbie said. “I see you’re proud of your review.” He pointed his chin at the newspaper under my arm.

“What review? I was only holding this to look well-rounded and intellectual.”

“Stop shitting me, Liam,” he whispered, his eyes falling on the newspaper. “Turn to the Arts section.”

“Huh?” I did as he said, unfolding the paper and delving deeper into the review section. I rarely read the actual newspaper, except for the times my mom used to make me clip the coupons, considering all the stories were all online anyway. I found the article with the headline “Feel the Meh.”

“Fuck me.”

“Yeah.” Robbie’s lips turned into a thin line, the kind of quiet scold my dad would’ve done. “Keep reading.”

The reviewer, some dick I remember seeing last night backstage, said I’d given a “lackluster performance.” He said that, for a twenty-two-year-old, I should have had more energy. My moves were all there, and I’d hit all the right notes, but something was missing. He said I sounded like I was suffering from hemorrhoids and that his seven-year-old son could have written better lyrics to Save Me Tonight. Too bad former cellist Abby Chan, who left the tour for unknown reasons, wasn’t there to save the show, I read to myself.

Save the sh—

What drugs was this assclown on? From now on, we should permit reviewers into the VIP room only if a) they gave us a five-star review, or b) they were willing to blow my cock.

Fucker.

But the worst part of the review was this line:

As if all this weren’t enough, the band decided to omit a recent addition to their set list, an acoustic ditty by the name of Abby Shines, presumably about Collier’s recent love interest and cellist, leading fans in attendance to express their extreme disappointment on social media.

“Shizzle.”

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Robbie said, a hard eye turned on me. “You need to get your shit in order, Liam.”

“Ya think?” I looked up from the offensive paper. Robbie stood, one hand on his hip, one wrapped around a glass of orange juice. It was like I was being scolded by my PE coach in front of the entire team. I refolded the paper. “Don’t need to tell me twice.”

I started off toward the coffee, but he held on to my arm. I yanked it away. “You’re a big dog now. No more holes in the wall, pubs, and bars, my friend. You cannot let people down. This is your career, and every step of the way needs to be on point.”

“I hear you,” I said through clenched teeth. Shaking my head, I sighed. “I…I just got caught up, Rob, but I know what to do.”

It was true. I always had. Despite my reputation, I wasn’t really a wild man. I only pretended to be. Fact was, I’d been a professional from the very beginning. Everything I did—from the song lyrics, to the clothes I wore, to the boys I’d put together as my bandmates, to the album covers and videos—everything was a strategic move designed to move us up the ranks and get noticed. I was as determined to reach my goals as any other entertainer.

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