Page 46 of Ticket to the Stars: Part Two

Well, Cleo knew. My eleven-year-old sister wanted me to date all three of them, and that’s precisely what I was doing. One day I’d have to bring them home to meet her, but not anytime soon.

No, right now, I wanted these guys all to myself, awkwardness and all.

Chapter Eighteen – Bishop

Things were great. Amazing, even. Things were the best they’d ever been. I’d been worried, at first, about this whole relationship between us, but once we got into a routine, everything became normal.

Well, as normal as things could be. It was still a little weird to walk into your friend’s room to find him and another friend in bed with your girlfriend, but I liked to think I handled it pretty well.

Weeks went by. Our show at Greenbay Stadium was coming up. We worked on our setlist, along with our costumes. Angel wanted to spice up our costumes for the show, go deeper on the twisted religious route. Basically wear what clergymen would wear, only with our signature demonic flare.

We got everything ready, and things were moving along nicely. I was happy. I was happier than I’d ever been in my life. How could I not be? Black Sacrament was on the way to making a comeback, and I had the girl of my dreams at my side—granted, she was also dating my friends, but considering we were all in each other’s business anyway, the arrangement wasn’t much of a stretch.

Everything was great.

And then, I swore, it was like I blinked, and suddenly it was the day of our first show at Greenbay.

I was ready, my new stage outfit on and snug, my skin painted black, save for the white cross down my lips and neck, my hair slicked back, my mask covering most of my face. I went to Angel’s dressing room, where I found her finishing up her makeup. Priest and Deacon were already with her, lounging around on metal chairs, watching her with interest.

It’s how I knew it wasn’t a joke for them, the way they looked at her constantly. I could tell by the expressions they wore when they were near her that they really, truly cared about her. They loved her just as much as I did.

There was no seat for me, so I went to lean on the wall near the guys, watching Angel’s reflection in the mirror. She wore her white dress—a Sunday dress, white and innocent, the kind of dress a real angel might wear if they graced the world with their presence—every bit of her skin painted white. She was currently fixing the black cross on her mask beneath the right eyehole with liquid eyeliner.

Out of nowhere, Priest jumped up. He started pacing the length of the room—which wasn’t much, since it was a tiny room. “God, the pre-show nerves. I thought they’d go away after so many shows, but fuck it, they’re always there.”

I think that came hand-in-hand with being a performer. You might get used to being on stage, but you never really got over the nerves. You just learned to ignore them and push through them, but in the back of your mind, you always wondered if the next show would be terrible.

It only took one bad show, after all. One slip-up. One fuck-up, and that’s how people remembered you. Luckily for us, this time our last show—where Priest had kissed Angel on stage in front of everyone—was still in the forefront of everyone’s minds.

“It’s gonna be fine, man,” I told him, and I believed it.

While I was a little anxious—hard not to be, since this open-field stadium was the biggest in the state, something we’d probably only been able to book because Black Sacrament went viral after that kiss—Angel’s presence was soothing. She helped pacify the anxieties within me, just from being near.

It was a superpower of hers, and she didn’t even know it.

“I know, I know,” Priest said, shaking out his hands, like he was trying to expel the jitters in his system. All of a sudden, he stopped pacing and looked at Angel. “Should we fuck?”

That got her to spin around on her chair and say, “What?”

“Should we fuck?” Priest repeated. “It would make me feel more relaxed, getting a taste of your sweet—” Before he could say anything else, a knock echoed on the dressing room door and Ramona walked in.

She was wearing torn black jeans, a studded leather jacket, and an old t-shirt underneath. Her long, curly black hair was free, falling halfway down her back. Her black eyes were done up in a thick eyeliner, and her gaze surveyed the room.

Everyone went quiet after that, and Ramona was smart enough to pick up on it instantly: “Do I want to know what you guys were talking about?” She answered her own question, “No. Can I have a word with Angel?” No one moved, no one said a thing, so Ramona added, “Privately?”

Priest threw up his hands. “Fine, fine. I know when I’m not wanted. You don’t have to say it.”

Ramona cocked an eyebrow, but she said not a word as Priest brushed past her. Deacon got up next and followed him out. I was the last to shuffle out, and once I was out of the room, Ramona shut the door.

We walked down the hall together. It was a few seconds before Priest asked, “What do you think Ramona wanted to talk to Angel about?”

Deacon shook his head, while I answered him, “I don’t know.”

Priest opened his mouth to say something else, but someone came hurrying down the hall, someone wearing a headpiece and holding onto a clipboard. A worker, a nerdy-looking guy. “Is there any way you guys can start early? Forecast changed—we got possible rain coming in two hours.”

We were all dressed, made up, and ready, so I didn’t see why not. We glanced at each other, and then I said, “Sure.”

“All right, come on. Let’s get you ready.” He turned around, leading us away.

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