Page 51 of After Effect

Chapter 13

Lilly Cisneros

I got out of the cab, my casted foot first. I winced as I tried to haul my battered body upright on my crutches. I hadn’t taken any painkillers since I left the hospital. I didn’t want to risk being drowsy when I got on stage.

But the pain of my existence was almost enough to make me puke. One step. I stifled a cry as the crutch pressed into the bruise on my ribs.

That little yelp was enough to alert the crew, and in an instant I was surrounded by the event coordinators. “Ms. Cisneros! What happened?!”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” I forced a smile through the waves of excruciating, life crushing pain. Thank fucking god I’m a masochist, or this would seem insane. “What direction is the stage?”

The crew managed to find me a wheelchair from the medical team, and a strapping young man from the sound crew sprinted my chair across the lawn. I stared at the passing grass in focused delirium.

What the fuck am I doing here? I should be resting in the hospital, yet here I am, so desperate to succeed, that I’m dragging my fucked up, broken self onto a stage to perform for… a couple hundred of people?

Was I just doing this for the money? My ego? Or… because I wanted to save Finch from the deal I had made.

I knew the answer. I didn’t need to lie to myself. I owed this to Finchy.

I let them push me in the wheel chair to the stage, then I walked the last few feet on my crutches.

Drake Morgan, the master of ceremonies, a young surfer looking dude dressed in socal beach levels of formal, was on stage where I should have been, making an announcement to unhappy fans. His voice boomed through the speakers.

“We apologize for anyone who was here to see Lilly Cisneros. She was in a car accident and won’t be able to make the show after all. But, if you’d like to see her at a future date-“

Crutches forward. Secure on the metal ground. Lift and move. I took my first step onto the stage. Everyone fell silent.

One more step.

“Lilly?!” Drake Morgan stared at me in complete and utter shock. Satisfaction pulled my lips into a grin. I took another step, and another, hauling my broken ankle to the center stage. I reached out a hand, and Drake gave up the microphone without protest.

Then I turned to face the audience.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Los Angeles!”

The crowd fucking screamed. A couple hundred people suddenly turned into a couple hundred more. Camera flashes exploded like machine gun fire. Another couple hundred people. Then another. It went from respectable to packed in an instant.

I was the star of the show. The star of the whole fucking tour, as I stood on that stage with stitches under my right eye, not masked by makeup, contusions on my bare shoulders, revealed by my sleeveless shirt. My jeans were ripped, my hair was a mess. But my belt buckle was shining in the stage lights, and my single cowboy boot was planted in the moment.

This is what it’s all about. The rush of adrenaline through my veins masked the sharp ache in my leg.

“Drake here is correct! I was, in fact, in a little bit of an accident some, uhh…” I glanced down at my watch, “I guess maybe fifteen hours or so ago. I’ve been better. But then again, the last time I broke my leg, my ever-proud Puerto Rican father still made me show up for my little league soccer game. So this is way easier than surviving ‘aim for the cast’ from the goal net.”

The crowd chuckled along with me. Every word helped my resolve.

“But the show must go on, right? I broke my leg, not my throat, after all.” I cast a warm smile toward the audience, then turned to the emcee and gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Thanks for covering for me, Drake! But I’ll take it from here.”

“I have never been so happy to get kicked off a stage.” Drake responded in perfect time. Some more laughs. “Put your hands together for Lilly Cisneros!”

The roar of the crowd reverberated through my entire body, from my head to my broken toes. Finchy wasn’t in the crowd. I mean, of course he wasn’t. He was still in that hospital bed, resting and recovering.

This was the first time he had ever missed one of my performances. But I wasn’t going to choke this time. Today, I’d make him proud.

The heat of the stage lights panned down to my shoulders, and my music started. A slow, seductive melody blasted loudly enough to fill the open air. Then I pressed my lips to the microphone.

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Finch Corbin

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