Page 55 of Ticket to the Stars: Part One

As far as I knew, Priest hadn’t gone out with other girls, so maybe that kiss did mean something to him. Maybe he was trying to hold himself back to keep the band together while not knowing how much Deacon was struggling.

Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. Maybe it was all wishful thinking, and none of them were looking at me like I thought they were. I was a normal girl. A little curvy but not stick thin. I had some pudge on the belly. I didn’t think my face was beautiful or anything remarkable; my eyes were a nice color, but that was it. Nothing about me was special enough to draw the attention of all three of these guys.

Although, I would’ve said there wasn’t anything too special about my voice, either, but here I was. Maybe I was wrong about all of it.

“I say you don’t even need a jacket. I say you wear this,” Priest went on, unabashedly checking me out again. “Fuck, you look so good, Angel. I want to—” He must’ve realized we weren’t alone, because he coughed and took a step back, rejoining the others as he finished, “Shower. I want to go shower.”

Both Deacon and Bishop looked at him strangely, and I was too flustered to do much of anything.

“Uh, yeah.” Priest took another step back. “I’m gonna go. Shower and all that. A really long, ice cold shower. Bye.” He raced out of the room, grabbing his bag and disappearing after that.

Did he get all weird because of me?

A few seconds passed, and Deacon muttered, “He’s gonna jerk off.”

“Yeah” was all Bishop could say.

“Um, excuse me, I’m still standing here,” I chimed in, causing both of their stares to return to me. I didn’t know who to stare at, so I settled for glaring at them both. I wanted to move on from the whole jerk off thing, so I went on, “I can’t wear those wings. I can’t.”

Deacon frowned. “I didn’t even realize you were wearing the wings until Priest pointed them out.” That was as much of an admission from him as I’d ever get, I bet. Deacon hardly ever spoke from his heart.

“He’s right,” Bishop spoke with a nod. He ran a hand through his brown hair, conflicted. “The wings are too much. Priest was right, too: I don’t think you need wings to be our angel. If you’re in all white on that stage, everyone’s going to get it. We don’t need to spoon-feed them.” He folded his arms over his chest as he thought. “We should figure out a way to introduce you to the crowd, though—something they’ll remember.”

“No wings?” I asked.

“No wings,” Bishop agreed.

Oh, thank God. I didn’t know what I’d do if I was forced to wear those wings on stage… besides sweat my ass off.

Ramona wasn’t happy about the refusal of the angel wings, but it was four against one, so we won out. The guys helped me with the whole body paint thing, and I decided to take a bit of inspiration from each of their designs—only, obviously, my colors would be swapped. I’d be mostly white with a few hints of black.

A week went by, and soon enough it was time to put on a show. And what a show it was.

Chapter Twenty-Four – Bishop

The Aegis Theater had a back entrance for the talent, and photographers and fans weren’t allowed back there. Ramona was driving separately, whereas us four piled into Priest’s car and drove ourselves. We brought our outfits, masks, and body paint; we’d get ready in the dressing rooms. We wore big sunglasses and hoodies to hide most of our bodies and faces; you never knew when someone would try to sneak a picture.

We each had our own room, and we separated to change and get ourselves ready. We had our set list, and the theater’s workers had done soundchecks already, so we were pretty much ready to go.

Ready for our first show in damn near eight months, and our first show with Angel.

Speaking of… she was nervous. I knew she was. This being her first time and all, she was letting the nerves get to her—a mistake, but until she experienced the adrenaline that came hand in hand with being on that stage, in front of a huge crowd, the doubts would remain. She had to get up there, had to sing her heart out, and then she’d realize everything would be fine.

Because it would. I had faith in her. She’d sound amazing and she’d look amazing. Hopefully the crowd could get behind the change.

Ramona had leaked a little something to the press. Radio shows and other news outlets reported that Black Sacrament had undergone a change. Most people—the ones who didn’t know about the contest—would assume the change had to do with Pope’s exile and Priest taking his place as our frontrunner, so they’d probably be shocked when they saw Angel strut up to the front of the stage.

The painting took more time than usual. We’d gotten new white paint for this show. Our crosses would glow when the lights went out—and they’d go out moments before we introduced Angel to the world. We’d do a few songs without her, and then, right when everyone thought this was it, that Priest being our frontrunner was the only change, Priest would announce our newest member.

I wished I could be in the audience and watch. I hoped the crowd went wild, but there was no telling what would happen, hence why we needed to get on with it already.

I was dressed in all black—black pants, a black button-up shirt, and black leather gloves would come once the paint was on. I rolled the shirt’s sleeves up to my elbows, and then I started to paint. A flat black color, along every inch of skin that was visible. The paint itself didn’t come off with sweat. Let’s just say getting it off was never fun.

My bit of white came in on my lips. It’s where the top of a cross started, traveling down my chin to my neck. It crossed on the base of my neck, more of an upside-down cross than anything else, the rest of it disappearing beneath my shirt.

We each had our own crosses. Priest’s were smaller, beneath the eyeholes on his mask. Deacon’s mask was split down the middle, half white, half black, with a thick cross separating the two, white on the black side and black on the white side—a yin yang, upside-down cross.

We also slicked our hair back with temporary black dye for each show. We literally left not a single part of our bodies untouched—at least not any part of us that was visible.

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