Page 1 of Heart Break Her

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Sebastian

Givemetitsanda sharpie. Give me women screaming my name. Give me thousands of nameless faces.

But look them in the eyes and pretend I can still feel anything through the pot and booze? No thanks.

Unplugged shows are the worst.

Up close. Personal. No massive stadium to drown out individual sounds and faces. Instead, the fans are close enough for me to watch them sweat. Close enough to see the tears streaming down their cheeks. There’s no room for mistakes.

Which has the potential to be a big problem when I’m already wasted. I never should have let Adrian talk me into this bullshit. Tonight is going to be rough.

You need to be relatable.

Adrian keeps throwing that word at me. Like he thinks that’s what women want from a fucking rock god. Women don’t get down on their knees because they want to relate. No. They want to break off a piece of the untouchable. They want to know what it’s like to suck the dick of the unattainable. They want a glimpse of the other side before settling down with husbands and kids. Something to think about with their vibrators inside them when they get bored of their white picket fences and the missionary position.

So that’s what I’ll gladly be. After all, my fans are incredible. Every naked inch of them.

Feedback cuts through the speakers and shoots straight to my nerves.

“Fuck.” I adjust my beanie.

A roadie gives an apologetic look from the side of the stage, but Adrian is already on it. He’s been our band manager long enough to be able to read me like a fucking book. He knows I’m a razor’s edge away from losing my shit, and the last thing I need is someone adjusting the sound who doesn’t know what they’re doing.

Where is Rodger anyway? And when did our crew fill up with so many people I don’t know? Adrian better sort this out because the rest of this tour needs to be perfect. I might be the biggest disaster to hit the cover of Rolling Stone, but the music has to be on point.

Eloise takes her seat on a stool to my left, tuning her guitar while someone adjusts my microphone.

“You look nervous,” my sister says over the rim of her neon-red sunglasses. Her eyes are nearly as dark as her eyeliner.

“I’m never nervous.”

“Sacramento.” She throws one word at me to prove her point, tipping her sunglasses up over her eyes before returning to tuning her guitar.

She just had to go there, had to do what siblings do best and open up infected wounds. Four syllables, and the reminder of that night is bleeding out all over the stage.

Sacramento was a lot of things, and not just the end of our fourth tour—the roughest one yet. It was the culmination of what months on the road had been leading up to.

Absolute chaos.

Rain was pouring down over an outdoor stadium. The sound system was totally fucked. Half the band was wasted before the start of the set. Adrian was chewing out the crew for fucking up the lighting, the equipment, and everything else.

It was also the last time I spoke to Myth.Not that I want to think about that right now.

Sacramento was a shit show, a mess, a disaster. It was a lot of things resembling slowly circling the drain. But it wasn’t nerves.

“I’m fine,” I say, waving my hand up, motioning for a roadie to come over. “Just need another shot.”

Eloise puts up her hand in their direction, signaling the roadie to stop, and they get that torn look on their face. One foot halfway forward while the other sticks behind them.

Stay. Go.

Stay. Go.

We sit there watching them try to decide.

Who holds the power in the biggest rock band in the whole fucking world?

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