Page 1 of Rockstar Daddy's Second Chance

One

Cass

The bass pulses beneath me; its rhythm a physical sensation. My band, the Wild Band is already out there, warming up the crowd for the star of the show.

I’m standing backstage, where everything’s dimly lit and shrouded in smoke, but the energy is electric. Even here, removed from the crowd, I can feel it—the weight of all those people waiting, their anticipation so thick I could almost reach out and touch it. Waiting for the one person they came to hear—me.

I should be getting ready, running through a last-minute vocal warm-up, and going over the setlist. But instead, I stand completely still, my eyes unfocused, my mind a million milesaway. I’m waiting for that old familiar feeling—that headrush, but it doesn’t come.

This used to thrill me—I couldn’t get enough. It was heady, like the best drug ever. But, lately, it doesn’t seem to matter. The thrill is gone, and I feel empty. When I step on stage now to the roar of the thousands of fans—it’s never quite enough. The lights, the music, their screams—fleeting whispers that vanish as soon as I walk off stage. I’m left feeling restless, or worse, nothing at all.

My manager, Derrick, struts up behind me, clapping a hand on my shoulder. He’s all business tonight, his voice slicing through my thoughts.

“Cass, the crowd’s ready. Let’s keep the energy up, okay? Make this one unforgettable.” He flashes me that all-too-familiar grin, the one he wears whenever he’s thinking in dollar signs.

“Isn’t that what I always do?” I say, forcing a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach my eyes.

Derrick’s expression sharpens. He knows I’m off tonight, but he doesn’t push it. Maybe he senses that I don’t have the patience for his pep talk, or maybe he just doesn’t care as long as I get out there and give them what they came for. Either way, he steps back, nodding for the stagehand to signal my entrance.

As the lights dim and the crowd’s roar swells to a fever pitch, I take a deep breath. It’s showtime.

The concert goes as planned—better than planned, if I’m being honest. I hit every note, each song rolling off my tongue like muscle memory, and the audience eats it up. They scream, they cheer, they chant my name. And for a while, I let myself feel it, let myself pretend that this is everything I’ve ever wanted.

But the moment the last note fades, the hollowness returns, settling over me like a shroud. I bow, wave, and head offstage, just to return a little while later for my encore. I take my final bow. The cheers follow me, fading as I disappear into the darkness, replaced by the echo of silence that feels both familiar and oppressive.

Derrick is waiting in the wings, looking smug. “You nailed it out there, Cass. That crowd would’ve sold their souls for another encore, for one more song,” Derrick states with satisfaction.

I brush past him, shoving my hair out of my eyes. “Isn’t that what they’re here for, the music?”

He lets out a laugh like he thinks we’re in on some grand joke together. But there’s no humor in it, not for me.

The minute I’m back in my dressing room, I close the door, leaning against it and taking a long, steadying breath. The makeup lights glare too bright, the mirrors reflecting back an image I barely recognize anymore—a man with sweat-matted hair and an expression that’s as empty as it is tired.

This is what I wanted, I remind myself, though the thought feels sour. And it’s true. Once upon a time, this was my dream. Allof it—the fame, the lights, the music that reaches people, moves them, leaves them wanting more. But somewhere along the way, the dream twisted and morphed into something hollow. Now, it feels more like a cage, trapping me inside an endless cycle of empty performances.

Derrick barges in, phone in hand and an ear-to-ear grin plastered on his face.

“Cass, you’ve got to see this—social media is on fire. Everyone’s talking about the show. They’re calling it the best performance of the year.” He pauses, waiting for me to share his excitement. When I don’t, his smile fades, replaced by a confused frown.

“What’s with the face, man? You should be celebrating.”

I shake my head, feeling the weight of the night settle on my shoulders. “I’m just tired, Derrick. That’s all.”

He narrows his eyes, scrutinizing me like I’m some puzzle he can’t quite figure out.

“Look, Cass. You’ve been acting like this for a while now, and frankly, it’s starting to worry me. You know we’ve still got a few more shows coming up. We’re talking record-breaking numbers here. This is the prime of your career. People would kill to be where you are.”

“There’s more to life than this,” I say quietly, almost to myself.

Derrick scoffs, shaking his head. “More? Cass, come on. You’ve got the world at your feet. What more could you possibly want?”

I let the question hang in the air, unspoken. I’m not sure what’s missing myself, but it’s something money and fame can’t buy.

Derrick’s eyes sharpen, and he gives me a knowing look. “There’s some groupies outside. Two of the girls are smoking hot. They’re probably just what you need right now. Why don’t I invite those two in? Huh?” He says with a knowing wink, dangling the offer as a temptation in front of me.

I hesitate. I doubt they could change how I’m feeling, but I finally give an abrupt nod. “Sure, you’re probably right.”

He gives me a grin and leaves. A few moments later, the door is pushed open, and in walks Sam, my bass guitar player. He’s tall and lanky, with a saw-boned look to him. He’s a long-time friend of mine. He’s followed by Derrick and two young groupies. They barely look over eighteen, even dressed the way they are—which is one step away from looking like prostitutes. Which is basically what they are, I think, with a cynical grimace. Instead of money, they want bragging rights about being with someone famous.

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