Page 118 of Worth Every Game

“This one is called Playing Your Games, and I wrote it over the last few weeks. It’s about someone…” A sudden knot of emotion forms at the base of my throat, but I swallow it down. I can’t sing if I start to cry. I clear my throat and continue. “Someone I fell in love with, but it didn’t work out.”

I shift the microphone and begin strumming the opening chords in a combination that sends chills racing over my skin, and I can tell from the sudden hush in the room that I’m not the only one.

Playing your games will kill me,

You force me out and knock me down,

Hold me till I drown.

I’m afraid to play, afraid to lose

Every kiss is just another bruise.

The sound of your laugh will break me

Like the rush of a storm through broken seams,

But please, oh please, don’t wake me,

From my twisted dreams.

As I continue, lost in the words, voice rising and falling through the melody, I realise when I’m a few verses in that the crowd are singing the chorus with me… and they’ve never heard it before. They've caught on so quickly. I've finally written something that resonates. And to think, it only took the worst heartbreak of my life to inspire it.

I can’t be loved and I can’t be saved.

I can’t leave and I can’t go

Because there’s nothing else I’d rather do

Than stay and play with you

Even if it kills me.

I move into the final verse, buoyed by the response, when I hear the shout. I can’t make it out, but the sound jars me like a barrage of wrong notes, and I stop singing. I raise my head for the first time, staring out beyond the lights, making out the faces in the crowd.

Restlessness spreads like a disease and people shuffle in their seats, trying to see who shouted.

That’s when I see the heckler. “You’re no fucking good.” He shouts again, clear enough that I can hear him. “If you’re not getting naked, get off the stage.”

Dread turns my insides to ice. For a few seconds, I do nothing. But I force myself to gather my wits. If I want to keep performing, I’m going to have to face people like this eventually.

I bring the microphone to my lips, affecting a smirk as I say, “Been there, done that. Sadly no t-shirt to show for it.” I balance on one foot, kicking out the other to display my cowboy boot. “Still got these though.”

Laughter, awkward and weak, trickles around the room.Fuck, this is painful.What was I hoping for? Raucous applause? I’m not a comedian.

A sleazy smile breaks over the heckler’s face, and before I know it, he’s barging towards me, dodging between tables at speed. He cups his hands about his mouth in a makeshift megaphone and yells, “Show us your tits! No one wants you with your clothes on.”

Fear spreads like a web through my body, sticking me in place as the man lurches up to the stage, still rattling off insults I can no longer make out over the roaring of blood in my ears and the shocked murmurs of those in the audience.

A few tables away, someone stands up. “Stay the fuck away from her.” The familiar voice makes my heart boom so hard I swear my ribcage rattles.Jack. He’s here, rising from his seat to his full six-foot-four and marching towards the heckler, who is now only a few paces away.

Hope battles with the fear that’s overtaken me, but the man is getting closer and Jack’s still too far away.Fuck. The drunken heckler reaches out to grope me, and I let out a yelp, staggering back, using my guitar like a shield.

Just as his fingers are about to close over the neck of my guitar, Jack leaps to the stage in one massive step, grabbing the guy by the collar and hauling him backwards.

“Fuck off! Let go!” the man yells, appearing so small in Jack’s grasp that he’s like a puppet being dangled from its strings. Jack releases him, and he staggers a few steps backwards before righting himself.

People are shouting, squealing, and generally joining in on the chaos. Flashes explode as people take photographs on their phones.

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