Page 32 of Resist

“Okay, no drinking or partying. Be back in time to leave,” Po warns.

“Yes, sir!” Fox jokes as he waves at us. The others turn and hurry back to our car since it’s starting to rain, but I watch Fox. I should walk away, but I can’t.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” I call to him as he heads toward his car. They’re the first words I have spoken all night, and when his eyes land on me, I can finally breathe again.

I see flashing lights and glance over to spot paparazzi, but I ignore them as I look back at Fox.

“Of course. It’s the start of the tour.” He shrugs. “Get home safe, Ryker.” He turns away, leaving me staring. I want to run after him. I want to demand he touch me again . . . love me again, but it’s cruel.

As I watch him drive away, the first tear begins to fall, and I know I would do anything, give up all this fame, money, andpublicity, to go back to the way we were, sleeping in vans and cheap hotels.

I’d do anything to be going home with him.

Instead, I’m left standing there, cameras trained my way as I try to hold back the heartbreak inside.

SIXTEEN

The tour has begun, and it’s busy as we hit the road to the first city and get situated at the venue.

The Dead Ringers are not what I was expecting at all. They are super nice, clearly very private, and down to earth. Oh, don’t get me wrong, they hang with us when we reach the first venue in the green room, talking about everything and anything, thanking us for taking a chance on them, but they are just . . . unexpected.

They go to get ready while we head for a sound check. We have a day to get used to this venue, but we want to be totally prepared.

The rest of the day is a blur. There is so much that needs to be done, and the stadium is so imposing that I feel a little out of place. I never thought we would ever play in a place like this. I know the fans are coming for the Dead Ringers, but even if just one person likes us, that’s enough for me.

It’s everything we have worked for, yet it feels vaguely empty.

As I sit cross-legged in the middle of the T-shaped stage, with rows upon rows of empty seats in front of me, the pit a moving machine of parts and preparing teams, I feel . . . alone, like I have lost something on the way here. I know what it is—him.

Us.

Was it worth it? Was there ever really an us to lose? I don’t know, but it makes me feel tired and down. I promised myself I would give up on Ryker and my feelings for him, I promised I could keep our band together and pretend it never happened, but one look at his face when he sings and it gets harder.

Love is a fucking dick. It lives to destroy you over and over again.

I know what the fans and our label want. Hell, I even know what Dead Ringers want on stage tonight, and for the first time ever, I don’t know if I can do it.

Every touch just reminds me of what I’ll never have, but as they say, the show must go on. This is about more than me. This is about Strike, Dash, and even Ryker. This is their dream. I can’t let them down when we are so close. Standing, I run my eyes over the stadium one more time and head back to get ready for the performance of our lives.

Bouncing on my toes, I peek out at the full stadium. The audience members are dancing and singing along with the music that pumps through the speakers as they wait for the gig to start. There isn’t one empty seat. A sea of people wait for us and the Dead Ringers.

Nerves fill me, and I wonder if I can be as good as they need me to be. Ry notices, and he grins at us, realizing Strike and Dash are pale and worried too. “Hey, what’s with the long faces? Look out there.” We follow his pointing hand. “This is for us. Fuck anyone else. Fuck anything else. We did it. We are finally doing everything we always spoke about, and now you’re going to chicken out? I don’t fucking think so. Who are we?”

We groan, and he waits with his hands on his hips. “I said, who are we?”

“Sanctuary,” we reply in soft voices.

“Not good enough,” Ryker snaps and cups his ear. “Who are we?”

“Sanctuary!” we yell.

“That’s fucking right!” He grins as he looks us over. “Now let’s go out there and show them that, show them we were made for this and their trust in us was not misplaced. Tonight, we take our seats among the gods of rock, and we do it together. Hands in, motherfuckers.” He places his hand out in a familiar ritual. Dash and Strike grin before adding theirs, and then all eyes turn to me. Taking a deep breath, I set my hand over theirs.

“Together,” I murmur.

I’m still confused about a lot of things, but one thing is for sure—I was made to be on stage, and so were they.

“Together,” they repeat as our hands bounce, and we throw them back. “Now let’s fucking rock!”

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