Page 43 of Bewitched By the Phantom
“Do I?” I ask, too softly.
He takes another step closer. “Come with me. After this is over, win or lose. Let’s disappear. No labels. No cameras. Just us, writing songs that matter.”
For a heartbeat, I want to say yes. I want to choose the warmth of memory over the unknown, to go back to something simpler, safer. But Erik’s voice is still in my head, singing like he’s cracked me open and poured himself into the empty places.
You were never meant for white-picket grace. You’re carved from fire, stitched from bass.
I take a step back. “I need to think,” I admit.
Raoul’s expression stutters. “He’s in your head, Chris. You don’t even realize it.”
I swallow. “Maybe, but he’s not the only one who is trying to rewrite me.”
Ted claps his hands. “So dramatic! This is gold. Just keep doing whatever you’re doing. And seriously, consider the duet. Think of the fans.”
He leaves us there, but the cameras don’t disappear. Now, there are people standing around silently with their large cameras, focused in on us as we stand in front of each other. I stand in the middle of the room, torn in every direction, by love, by music, by whatever Erik has become to me. And now, the world will see all of it.
They’ll see exactly what kind of woman I really am. And I’m not sure I’m ready to be flayed so wide open for them.
I’m not sure what they’ll see when they look deep inside.
Chapter
Twenty-Four
We wake up to cameras.
I crack open the apartment door at 6:07 in the morning to a production assistant wielding a fluffy boom mic like a sword and a shoulder camera operator muttering about the “golden hour.” It feels less like a band competition and more like the world’s most chaotic reality show. When I try to slip past them to grab a coffee, I’m followed by a small crowd of them. I immediately regret not doing my makeup and then chastise myself for worrying about what they think I might look like.
By seven, there are literal fucking drones overhead, but no one wants to tell me what those are even for. They make me feel like we’re in the SIMS and I’m over here opening the fridge over and over again because no one told me what I’m supposed to freaking do. I’m not a reality star. I should not be recorded this early in the morning. I’m clearly going to look like the world’s grumpiest lead singer. Especially after I started flipping off the drones every time they pass over me.
By 8:15, I’ve already said, “no comment,” about eighteen times. I’m not built for this. Not at all. Someone needs to find a body double, stat, so I can pretend I’m not being watched with every move I make.
These last two days of the Battle of the Bands are no longer about music. They’re about attention and virality. They’re about manufactured moments that can be clipped, posted, and spun into views. The final competition will be judged in part by fan engagement more than the quality of the songs.
I hate it.
I’m standing outside the rehearsal room, the bright, mocking sun in my eyes, an iced coffee going warm in my hand. Behind me, Angels Bleed Mercury are doing a sound check before they launch into their song. The tension is as thick as molasses as I hover in the room, as if they don’t exactly want me here. Jokes on them, I don’t want me here either.
From across the makeshift courtyard, Erik steps into my line of sight like he belongs in it. He has his mask on as usual, the gold glinting in the sunshine streaming down. His jacket is unzipped to show off his dark shirt deliberately unbuttoned a few extra buttons. He looks mysterious and suave, and the cameras fucking love him. So do the fans apparently. Every time he walks past, cameras lift, and the numbers flicker on the screen where we’re given a live count. He gives them just enough—crooked smiles, cryptic comments, and an occasional growled lyric into a rogue microphone—that they’re eating out of his fucking hands.
Unlike me. I’m pretty sure the numbers only go up with me because of my connection with Erik. They don’t move otherwise. I’m too grumpy and uninteresting for that.
The way he interacts with the cameras should make me roll my eyes. Instead, my stomach twists violently, a yearning for him rising in my chest that pisses me off. I’m not a yearner. Idon’t do that shit. But here I am, eating out of the palm of his hand, and so I’m even grumpier when he ends up winking at me.
Raoul, by contrast, has dressed like he’s auditioning for a CW reboot of Rock Star Confidential. He’d even let someone smudge eyeliner under his lashes this early in the morning. He’s clearly trying to look good for the cameras, dressed all in white, his blond hair shining in the sunlight. He looks like a literal angel, like any moment, he’s going to spread soft downy wings and take off into the halo of sunshine around him. It makes me consciously aware of how less put together I must look compared to these two men. Fuck. I’d barely remembered to brush out my hair before tying it up in a messy bun.
Speaking of the devil, as I stand there with my watered-down iced coffee, Raoul sidles up beside me, two coffees in his hand and a practiced smile on his face.
“For the queen of Hell Hath Honey,” he says, offering me one of the cups. “Figured you could use something stronger than whatever’s melting in your hand.”
I take it gratefully and toss my other one in the trash. “Thanks.”
He bumps his shoulder against mine and at least three cameras spin to record us. I wince and try my best not to make awkward faces at them. “How you holding up?” he asks.
“I’m not,” I admit before taking a slow sip of my coffee. Hazelnut. I hate hazelnut, but I drink it anyways. “I’m not built for this reality show bullshit.”
He nods and glances at the cameras as if he didn’t know they were there, but I know he’s been cheesing them up all morning. He can’t pretend with me. He loves the attention. “This whole thing’s a circus. But tomorrow . . . tomorrow is ours. You and me? We’ve been through fire before. We come out better every time.”
