Page 18 of Crimson Desires

And yet, something about performing with Wicked Crimson made me insanely fucking nervous.

Maybe it was because I knew that I was going on this tour to prove something. Not only to my father but also to myself. Maybe it was because I was, for the first time, singing songs that I cared about.

One of the ways that I survived my pop career despite the massive amounts of hate and ridicule that I received was through the knowledge that, because I didn’t give two shits about the generic, radio-friendly music I was being forced to perform, I had no emotional investment in my success.

If my song hit the top charts, that was all well and good. If it flopped massively, who cared? It wasn’t like I had written it or anything.

Things were different with Wicked Crimson. I genuinely loved every song that we’d written, and the thought of people disliking the art that I had put my heart and soul into was petrifying. Worse than that, though, was the worry that people would like my soulless corporate pop music more than they liked my new stuff.

The opening band played its final chord. They thanked the crowd. Then, the lights went black.

The stage manager rushed forward to usher us into position. I tightened my fist around my wireless microphone and steeled myself.

I was not going to fail. I was going to rock the fuck out of this concert.

This was my dream.

And I was going to chase it.

Chapter Five

Aster

According to Ava, merch was sold in two waves.

Wave one was the “pre-show” crowd. These people were usually sober. Despite their excitement, they had enough sense to be respectful. Most of them were already fans of Wicked Crimson or Jack Maverick, and as a result, were a lot more forgiving of how outrageously overpriced everything was.

Wave two was the “post-show” crowd. These people were about as pleasant to manage as a horde of zombies. They were usually hopped up on adrenaline and alcohol. The concert had convinced them to buy a shirt... but it was a mixed bag on whether the concert had convinced them enough to fork over sixty of their hard-earned American dollars.

“Sixty fucking dollars for this? You’ve got to be kidding me,” screamed an older man. He was standing behind his teen daughter. The daughter had the decency to look embarrassed.

“I don’t make the prices. Do you want the shirt or not?”

The older man reached into his wallet, pulled out a stack of bills, and threw them at me.

Honestly, as a career waitress, I’d endured worse. Still, it didn’t make him (or any of the other concertgoers for that matter) any more pleasant to deal with. My only saving grace was the fact that there was no pressure to earn tips—and therefore, I didn’t have to pretend to be nice.

It wasn’t like I was going to be a bitch to the customers for the hell of it. But not having to lick their boots for a 20% tip was a nice change of pace.

All in all, my first night as Wicked Crimson’s merch attendant hadn’t gone over too badly. Naturally, I’d made a few mistakes. I’d accepted a fraudulent fifty-dollar bill that I didn’t realize was fraudulent until it was too late, and I’d accidentally given someone two shirts instead of one—but nothing too egregious.

After the stadium cleared out, I packed up the merch station. Stuffing everything back into the boxes took me about forty-five minutes. I grabbed the largest of the three equipment boxes and began making my way over to the loading dock.

When I got to the loading dock, it was abuzz with bodies. The equipment truck was parked close to the dock entrance for easy load-in. Security blocked off the loading dock from the sidewalk, and crew members swarmed the area like worker ants.

In theory, this should have made it impossible for a fan to sneak into the area.

However, I’d quickly learn the #1 rule of traveling with a celebrity: don’t underestimate the fans.

Halfway to the equipment truck, a tall girl with blonde hair, brown eyes, and a spray tan that made her look like a human barbeque chip ambushed me. She had a wild look in her eyes; the same look gamblers get when they see a casino floor.

“Is Jack in there?” she asked.

“What? Who are you?” I backed up, looking around for the nearest security guard.

She ignored me, angling her head to look at the equipment box behind me. “He’s in there, isn’t he?”

I raised my eyebrows as I realized what the girl was talking about. She thought that Jack Maverick was hiding inside the equipment box. At first, I thought she was kidding. But the look on her face told me that she was completely serious.

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