Standing on a massive stage, staring out into a huge arena, I was sweat-soaked, adrenaline coursing through my body. Our light show made it hard to see anything but a sea of figures in front of me, and up on the seated stands I could see the shadow of thousands of them. It still blew my mind that all these people had come to hear us play.
The first time we played Glasgow, we’d played The Barrowland. We’d all been psyched but extremely nervous to play the renowned Barrowland Ballroom where so many legendary rock bands had played. The Barras, that’s what the locals called it. Just to play Glasgow, the city of music, was amazing. It had been so special.
But now we were selling out arenas in Glasgow.
Epic.
And I wished as I sang my heart out with the crowd, striding from one end of the stage to the next, that all the other shit would disappear because this was what made me happy.
“Well, you turn my insides and make them outsides,
You string out my bones like bunting.
Splatter my heart and call it art,
And art is meant for the world to see.
Public property with an admission fee.”
They sang my song of hatred of the paparazzi back at me with as much ferocity as I sang it to them. There were moments, only ever offstage, where I resented our fans. If it weren’t for the phenomenon they’d swept us up into, the tabloids wouldn’t care what the hell we did with our lives. But because the fans cared, the tabloids knew we’d sell magazines and bring them those online hits they wanted.
The funny thing was that every time I sang this song, one of our biggest-selling singles to date, the fans sang it back to me like they cared how much I hurt. And any resentment I felt melted away.
The thrum of the music vibrated through me as I ended the song on its huge note. My chest heaved with breathlessness as the amps’ growls died out and the cheers from the crowd came at us like a windblast. Their shouts and whistles, the clapping and stamping of their feet became a heartbeat that found rhythm with mine.
“Thank you, Glasgow!” I yelled into the mic. “You guys are the best fans in the world. We love visiting this beautiful city. I don’t know if we’ve ever been any place where music is as appreciated as it is here.”
They cheered harder like I knew they would and I grinned, wiping sweat from my forehead. “We’ve got one last song for you and then I’m sorry to say we have to go.” The crowd screamed harder at the lie. We were traditionalists and they knew it. We’d finish up, leave the stage, and then at their pounding demand, come back on for our encore.
The lights had dimmed behind me so the stagehand who came out with a stool could barely be seen. When he was gone, a spotlight lit the stool he’d set center stage for me. My Taylor leaned against it, plugged into the amp. And the mic stand was now in front of it.
“Well, guys, we’re going to say goodbye the only way we know how.” I put the mic onto the stand, slipped onto the stool, grabbed my guitar, and did it all unable to look at Micah.
I’d been dreading this song since we’d walked onstage tonight.
We’d been having a good day. The guys and I were exhausted because this was the end of our European tour, but we’d decided to head out and take photos in Glasgow for our social media pages. It was a fun day.
Until a new headline hit the tabloids.
Someone had snapped a photo of me and Jay Preston kissing outside a bar in Berlin a few nights ago. Jay was the drummer of a Canadian rock band and we’d both been playing the city at the same time, different venues. Our bands met in a bar and while Micah got drunk and left with some groupie, I’d gotten drunk and left with Jay.
I hadn’t expected anyone would find out about it, but once again there I was, plastered all over the internet.
Our fans had viciously attacked me on Instagram for breaking Micah’s heart again. They did the same to him anytime he was photographed with another girl.
I’d worried that when we stepped onstage that night, there might be some shouts about it from the crowds, but the incident didn’t exist for them.
Unfortunately, the incident existed for Micah.
He’d gone quiet when we were out doing tourist stuff and I was grateful for the sullen response, and for the fans who stopped us on the street for photos and autographs, making it even harder for him to say anything to me about it.
But then I got back to my hotel room and hadn’t even been in there five minutes when I heard the knock on the door. It was Micah. And he was pissed.
I could still hear him shouting at me, tears in his eyes. “Jay Preston! Jay fucking Preston?”
It was so unfair. He did this every time. He could go off with groupies and I didn’t say a word, I suffered in silence, but God forbid I let another man touch me.
Micah was born in the wrong goddamned century.
“I hate you!” he raged, shaking his hands like he wanted to wrap them around my throat. “I hate that you do this to me!”
“Me to you? What about your groupies, Micah?” I’d said, trying to stay calm. I never wanted to be that rock star who screamed like a banshee in her hotel room and caused scenes. “You whore yourself out all the time. I don’t. That doesn’t mean I don’t need someone sometimes.”
“I’m right here.” He pounded his chest breathlessly. “Take me. I’m all yours.”
“Until you decide I’ve hurt your feelings and you go stick it in someone else to spite me.”
His face mottled with frustration. “How many times do I have to explain? If I’d known you were coming to work things out, I never would have been with her. I can’t even remember her fucking—”
The door to my hotel room blew open, cutting him off. Gayle waved a keycard as she glared at Micah. Austin and Brandon were right behind her. “The entire hotel can hear you.”
“Come on.” Austin grabbed Micah’s arm.
“We’re talking.” Micah shook him off.
“I swear to God, man, you better let him walk you out of here because if you don’t, I’m going to fucking beat that pretty face to a pulp,” Brandon warned.
Micah lifted his chin defiantly. “Try it.”
“You think I won’t.” Brandon strode over to him. Our drummer was a big guy and although they’d never gotten into a serious physical fight before, he’d easily subdued Micah on the rare occasion our guitarist got a little aggressive when drunk. Brandon cut me a worried look before turning back to Micah. The anger slammed back down over his expression. “I hear you come at her like that again and I will fucking end you. You hear me?”
Micah’s head whipped back like Brandon had actually hit him. “I would never hurt her.”
Brandon snorted. “You do it all the time. And if you’re not careful, it’s going to rip this band apart. Now get out of Skylar’s room before I physically remove you from it. And I swear to God, man, stay out of her business. She gets enough shit from the press and the fans. She doesn’t need your immature ass in her face about it too.”
“You need to stay out of this,” Micah warned.
“Enough.” Gayle sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. “Is this what it’s like when I’m not here?”
Austin shook his head. “No, we’re fine. It’s just been one of those days.”
“Well, I’m officially worried.”
“Don’t be.” Micah shrugged off Austin’s grip. “We’re fine.” He stormed out of my room without looking back at me.
Brandon rubbed my shoulder affectionately. “You okay?”
I was shaken but what was new? “I’ll be fine.”
But I wasn’t. These days I never was. And now I had to finish our set, like always, with the love song that I’d written about Micah. A love song he knew I’d written about him.
It was also the only song the band didn’t play with me. I did it solo.
I took a shaky breath, exhaled, and strummed the opening chords.
“Under my bed there’s a box
Filled with these things
My heart has saved.
A photograph of a young man,
Wearing green and a face of the brave.
“And beneath that there’s
A case my mother bought
That she couldn’t afford.
Inside, a CD of a song
That made me realize what I was meant for.
“Somehow one day, one rainy day,
This boy found himself in that box.
Somehow one day, one rainy day,
He smiled his way into my thoughts.
“I think of those moments I’ve kept
Hidden and safe
Beneath my old bed.