Page 3 of Lost in You

I glare at her through my mirror. Anna has my hair in big rollers, the pins digging into my scalp. While my hair sets, she does my make-up. She’s only been with me for two months. She was highly recommended by some tart that was dating my uncle. When the tart got kicked to the curb, Anna stayed. I suspect she's doing my uncle, but I don’t ask. I think if I knew, I’d fire her and that would piss him off.

Anna picks out my outfits for tonight. A couple of dresses, which I love because I can wear my cowboy boots with them; a pair of jeans with rhinestone tank tops in various colors; and my least favorite is an uncomfortable leather number with stiletto heels. I hate the leather outfit, but Ian says it gives me sex appeal, which apparently I need. I refuse to have my shows staged. I hate it. I want my fans to expect the unexpected and that includes my clothes. Wearing the same thing over and over, night after night, is boring and lacks creativity. I want my shows to be fresh.

When Ian walks in, he’s on his phone. He doesn’t say hi to Anna and her face drops. If they aren’t doing it, she wants to or they did and he’s ditched her. That's usually how he operates.

He hangs up and looks at my outfit, very Sandy fromGrease. I want to fire whoever suggested this idea. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah, I am. Are the contest winners here?”

He rolls his eyes. He hates the contest winners, but I love them. They make this all worth it. To know that they’ve won tickets by repeatedly calling a number to enter a contest shows a lot about a person’s character. Ian thinks it’s too charitable and Alex says it’s not enough so she usually invites them to an after-party. This just pisses Ian off even more because he says he’s stuck babysitting all night when he should be able to enjoy himself.

“Yes, they're here, are you ready?” he sighs heavily. He’s frustrated and angry about something. What else is new? Ian is good at his job, but his interpersonal skills need a lot of work.

“Where are they?” I need to know because I like to focus on them during the concert.

“Front row and one girl answered all your trivia questions right so she has a backstage pass.”

“Did you—“

Ian puts his hand up for me to stop talking. “I told her she and her guest can come and go as they please, but to wait until after the show is over before approaching you.”

“Perfect.” I kiss him on the cheek, earning a tiny smile from him. I know deep down he loves me, but loves the money and power he has more.

He opens the door. I take a deep breath and step out. I’m flanked by my bodyguard, Jones, and the rent-a-cops as they push us through a wall of reporters who all have press passes. They never get it. I don’t do interviews before a show. This is my rule, not Ian’s. I hate having my fans wait. They expect me on the stage at eight and that’s where I’ll be.

Alex holds my hand as we walk the long hallway. The chanting gets louder the closer we get. She squeezes my fingers. She gets so excited before each show. Me, I just get nervous. Not the butterfly nervous – no, I’ve never felt that – but the I’m-going-to-hurl nervous.

We stand on the side of the stage and I can see some of the fans. There are signs that sayI love you, Hadleyhanging from the second floor seats. Little girls are standing, looking for any sight of me. Sometimes I just want to run out there and sit on the stage and talk to them. Each and every one of them, but I’ll never get that opportunity.

The lights go down and the crowd gets louder. ‘Hadley, Hadley’ echoes throughout the venue. My band starts up and that’s my cue in this tight leather contraption and hair sticking out everywhere to get on stage, all for my first three songs.

I kiss Alex and give her a hug before doing our secret handshake. I can barely see it’s so dark. I count the steps I took earlier, remembering my movements so I don’t trip or walk off the front of the stage. When I’m in center, I take a deep breath and count to three. My foot starts moving to the beat of my song.

When the spotlight comes on, it’s just me and the light. I sing with my eyes closed. When the first verse is over all the remaining lights come on and I can finally see my fans here to sing with me, and I’m reminded why I’m up here.

I love it.

Chapter 3

Ryan

The things I do for friends. Well, actually just one friend. If anyone else had asked me to attend a concert where there are five men – or are they boys? – dancing around and gyrating their junk in our faces, I would’ve given them a resoundinghell no.

Yet I stand here, for Dylan, while she paws at these dudes in white pants. What guy wears white pants anyway? She freaks out each time one of them touches her and yells loudly in my ear that she’s never washing her hand. I want to remind her that she has other peoples’ germs on her because they’ve touched a lot of people and themselves throughout their performance. Watching Dylan sing the lyrics while I stand stiff-legged, being jostled between her and the girl on the other side of me, is a bit annoying. I should step out into the aisle and allow them more space to get closer, but Dylan would freak.

It’s times like this that I want to be different. I want to be in the center of the crowd, jumping up and down and singing along. I want to be able to walk out to the concourse and buy a hotdog or even a t-shirt to remember the night like every other teenager in the country. Why my parents are so strict about money, I’ll never know. Both of them work, so where does all their money go to?

When the group leaves the stage, Dylan grabs my hand with the hand she said she was never going to wash, sharing the boy band germs with me. She pulls me through the crowd, saying “excuse me” each time we bump into someone else. Once we clear the row, she turns and faces me.

“Are you having fun?”

“Of course,” I lie.

“Isn’t the front row the most amazing thing ever?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty cool.” I will give her that. Being in the front row at a packed concert is definitely an experience. Something I would’ve never had the opportunity to do if it wasn’t for her. “Are you thirsty? You were singing your little heart out.”

“I am,” she says, pulling us through the entryway. Instead of turning left where the concession stands are, she turns us right and we smack into security. She shows him the lanyards that hang from our necks and he signals for us to go through. She drops my hand as soon as we come to another door with another security guard. With our lanyards shown again, we enter.

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