Page 3 of Heart Beats

I rise from the bench while holding her hand, every cell of my being wide-a-fucking-wake as we walk into the wings. The handheld mic is on the piano. We don’t exactly have privacy, but it’s as close as we’re going to get for now.

“I’m glad your sister dragged you here tonight.”

“Me too. Your natural voice is fantastic. It’s refreshing, because that’s not the case with all live performances, especially from artists produced by major labels.”

“Thanks,” I say, chuckling. Compliments from female fans are normal, but never like that one. I’ve got seconds left with Maria. Not nearly enough. “I’ve gotta get back out there, but you’re welcome to watch the rest of the show from here. We can talk more after the encore.”

A wave of applause signaling the end of Luke’s solo steals my ability to hear Maria’s answer. Now I’ve really got to get out there. Shrugging an apology, I release her soft hand, then trot my ass back to work. Behind me, the band goes all-in onSugarcoated, a gritty pulse-pounder. It drops as a single next week, and if all goes according to plans and predictions, it’ll be another number one.

I don’t take time to introduce the song, I just dive in, belting the lyrics as I crisscross the stage, working up a fresh sweat that turns my white shirt nearly see-through. It’s intentional. Everything about the show is—except those unscripted minutes with Maria.

Minutes that are over, and I don’t have time to think about because the show must go on. There’s not even an opportunity for me to look for her in the wings.

A couple of songs later, I spot her in the front row. Seconds later, she and her sister disappear into the depths of the stadium… and don’t come back.

The audience doesn’t know it’s a chore for me to finish the set. That my enthusiasm during the encore is fake. I’m a performer. An actor. I’ve given the world exactly what they wanted and expected for the last sixteen years.

Even my bandmates can’t tell my head’s not in the game. They’re used to me withdrawing to my dressing room after a show. Nobody’ll knock because everyone expects me to be getting my freak on behind the closed door. That’s what goes down. Has since my first tour. How many seventeen-year-olds lose their virginity to not one, but three gorgeous women, all enthusiastic about doing anything and everything? Not damn many, I’m sure. Thank God I’ve tamed the fuck down since then.

A stealthy escapeand brief cab ride later, I’m at the hotel, with none of my bandmates or tour crew the wiser.

“Good evening, Mr. Marsh,” the concierge says as I enter the lobby from a side entrance. “You’re the first to arrive for your group’s afterparty, but everything is ready to go in the executive suite.”

“The afterparty. Shit.” I exhale while raking my fingers through my hair. “How about you never saw me come in?”

“Of course, sir.” The man doesn’t miss a beat or show a hint of emotion. “If there’s anything you’d like delivered to your suite with the utmost discretion, since nobody has seen you arrive, simply call or text that number,” he says, handing me a business card.

“Thanks. I’ll do that.” I nod, then head for the service elevator. By the time I reach my floor, I’ve requested a platter of light finger foods, three large bottles of sparkling water, and a bucket of ice to be delivered on the sly. My buddies can do all the partying tonight. I’ve got a song to write.

* * *

maria

The city where I put my foot in my mouth disappears from the rearview mirror as the highway stretches as far as my eyes can see in the darkness.

Mya snorts when I tip my head back and groan for what has to be the hundredth time since we left the concert. “Are you going to torture yourself all the way home?”

“Yes.” I’m definitely replaying my dufus comment in an infinite loop for the next ninety minutes. Then all night, tomorrow, and probably for the rest of August.

“Here, this’ll help.” Mya taps some buttons on her car’s stereo display, bursting into laughter when her choice in music makes me groan again.

“How is listening tothat songgoing to help me?”

“Oh, it’s not. But it’s sure helping me!” She swats my hand when I reach for the controls. “No way, chica. Listening to Jagger pour his sexy heart out—again—is your penance for botching a once-in-a-lifetime chance to bang a rock star.”

“You’re a mean sister.”

Mya lets the faux insult roll off. She knows I don’t mean it. She’s also laid-back in ways I never will be. In ways I can’t even pretend to be.

“Why can’t I be normal?” I ask, sighing. It’s a question I’ve asked more times than I can count in my lifetime, though it has been a while since the last time.

“You’reMarianormal, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Until I unleash the full effect ofmynormal on a rock star. I can’t believe I said that stuff to him. Jagger Marsh chosemeto go onstage. He held my hand, privately thanked me coming to the show, and my response was to tell him he can actually sing, and that it’s refreshing since lots of famous musicians can’t? Who says that to a world-famous, mega successful musician?”

“Only you,” she says, snorting another laugh. “Only you.”

I slap my hand across my eyes and groan. “Where was my brain?”

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