Become what you can be.
All I am is for you
Because you are—
Hope, when I have none
Love, when I’m all alone.
You make me
Unexpectedly . . . home.
There’s a hitch in my voice as I finish the repeat of the chorus, but this time, it’s not a crack of fear. It’s of pain. The audience has gone silent, swaying right and left before me even without my trademark orchestration. They can feel the love in the lyrics, the specialness of the song that is so different than our usual, and they’re with us all the way.
I hope Sherwood and AMM got their reassurance. Not that it matters. I meant what I said—the song stays either way.
We wrap up the impromptu set with one of our biggest “anthem” hits to send the crowd home happy, and I scream into the microphone, giving it all I have to hold out the last note as long as possible. When my air nearly runs out, I lift my arms overhead, looking up to the lights above us, and collapse forward into a bow. The lights go out.
It’s over.
We hurry offstage, and I stride straight for the greenroom to get my bag. I’m out of here. AMM has what it needs, the track list for the album is done, and the next time I’ll be needed is to show up to the closed studio for recording.
Sean and I will have to talk at some point about the contract negotiations, but it won’t be tonight. Or anytime soon. I don’t think I could sit in the same room as him right now and not spit in his face. We both need time to let this shit sink in.
Our usual exit after a concert is pretty unique. Keeping our costumes on, we get rushed out the back door of the venue, straight into three unmarked panel vans, which drive off in different directions, randomly going all over the city, making sure so nobody can follow Sean, Trent, or me. We’ve all become pros at scrubbing off body paint, towel wipe-downs, and changing clothes while cruising down the highway at seventy miles per hour in the dimly lit, open space of what amounts toa cargo hold, where we’re the cargo. We get dropped off somewhere, and then a different vehicle takes three normal-looking guys to wherever we’re staying to shower, shit, and sleep.
I’m expecting tonight to be status quo.
Except when I rush out the back door, the open door of the panel van reveals someone already sitting inside on the floor of the vehicle. Hope.
She’shere. Wearing my Midnight Destruction T-shirt, black jeans, and a hesitant smile.
There’s a bump to my back, knocking me forward. “I hate you, fucker,” Sean growls, low enough that only I hear him as he passes by me to get to his own transport van. But he pauses at the entrance to the vehicle, looking back over his shoulder.
He did this for me. I don’t know when or how, but he’s fixing what he fucked up, and that goes a long way in soothing my anger toward him. It’s not an apology of words but of action.
We’ll have to deal with each other eventually, and it won’t be pretty, but this is a huge step in the right direction.
“Fucking hate you too,” I answer just as quietly. He doesn’t react, just faces forward and gets into his van, but he heard me. I know he did.
I turn back to Hope, who gives me a cute two-finger wave and a surer grin. “Hi. Could I interest you in some candy or a puppy?”
Yeah, the vans are a bit sketchy, but their blandness is what makes them work for our purposes.
I climb in, slam the door behind me, and sit on the floor beside her as the van starts to move. “You’re here. How’re you here?” I murmur. I feel like my world has been rocked off its axis. I want to believe that her appearance here means that she’s forgiven me, but I know it’s not that easy. Still, hope is growing wild in my heart.
She starts to answer, and I remember that we’re not alone. We can’t speak here, not safely, not confidentially. The drivers are vetted, and there’s a wall between him and us, but part of the top-secret deal is no talking so that there’s zero chance they’ll hear our real voices.
I hold up a hand and then gesture toward the driver. She follows my finger, nods, and then mimes locking her lips.
I want to hear what she has to say. I want to know everything she’s thought, done, and felt over the last couple of weeks. But also, I need to touch her to make sure she’s not a figment of my imagination. Because my mind has been a dangerous place lately, and I wouldn’t put it past my brain to fuck me over with a lucid hallucination of my fantasy come true.
My hands are a mess, literally covered in smeared paint and sweat, but I cup her face, running my thumb over her cheekbone. She leans into my touch, which leaves a smudge of black on her soft skin. I’m quite literally corrupting her with my filth, but I refuse to stop. She reaches up to remove my mask and I help, ripping it off. I swipe my mouth on my sleeve, thankful I don’t paint fully beneath the mask but knowing I’m still gross post-concert. She doesn’t seem to care, running her thumb over my bottom lip and staring at it as she flashes a naughty smile, making me wonder what she’s thinking.
I don’t have time to wonder for long, because she lifts her chin, kissing me confidently. Her lips are soft and warm, parting on a sigh like she’s finally getting what she wants. Me. But the truth is ... I’m the one possessing her. Claiming her. Marking her as I nip her lip. She gasps and I chase that breath with my tongue, wanting it too.
I want all of her. Forever. I will do whatever it takes to make that happen.