She’s still undeniable illegal.
Cassandra on the other hand? She’s my type. Blonde with a gorgeous figure, an exquisite face, and a good height. At least five feet nine inches. That she’s almost twice my twenty-five doesn’t bother me. Age has never mattered to me…as long as a woman is over eighteen.
While she and her husband are lost in their haze of threesomes, alcohol, business and society, their daughter is killing herself.
She’s lost.
I know. I was once lost, too.
Fuck, I’m still a little lost. I’m just making a concerted effort to stay clean, out of trouble, away from the Paps, and forget…how alone I am. Lonely, despite having a following of millions.
Real love, though, is fucking toxic. My parents were as much an example as they were an inspiration for the band’s biggest hit. I wrote the song ten years ago when Mom and Dad’s love story was tarnished but not fucking tainted.
After selling my soul the first time, I pushed to have it recorded. Lost in drugs and grief, I didn’t give a fuck.
Besides, I’m just a sadistic motherfucker like that.
At the distasteful thoughts, I grimace. Guitar slung over my shoulder, I step inside the elevator. Before pressing the ‘up’ button, I make the sign of the cross and breathe in deep, my little pre-performance ritual to center myself.
Up I go, rising from smoke and light, like the Phoenix we’re named after. Only, the mythical bird rose from the flames. I’ve been to hell and back and I’m still standing, even if I’m a little bent at the knees. I’d be a fool to thrust myself back into the fire.
Smoke billows around me before clearing, leaving a lone spotlight haloing me. Adrenaline rushes to my head and flows outward into every part of my body. I grin. Screams—loud, wild, and piercing—compete with Maitland’s drumming.
My fingers press through the appropriate chords on my lead guitar. I’m fluid now, pumping my hips, moving across the stage and reaching Adam. Back to back, we play while a controlled fire sparks on each side of the stage and color bursts throughout the arena. Red. Black. White. Blood, death, and purity. Shades of each of the band’s members.
Shades of my heart and soul.
Shadows from the lights and fire allow me to glimpse one or two faces in the coveted front row. A sea of people is out there, focused on us.
The lights switch to red, white and blue, converging onto the huge screens into the Texas flag. The crowd roars. In any other state, the light show becomes the American flag, but, Texas is special, a being unto itself.
I fucking despise Texas.
We burst into a driving rhythm. One. Two. Three minutes pass and we’ve worked the crowd into a bigger uproar, even though the flames have flickered out, a twenty second display that we were forbidden to do. We’ll be slapped with fines.
Girls scream, cry, call my name, Quint’s, Maitland’s, Adam’s.
I soak up the energy radiating in the arena. Feed off of it. Lose myself in it. We’re not ten minutes in yet and we’ve frenzied our crowd. I fucking love it. Already, I’m imagining what my chosen groupies will do to me to show their thanks.
Adam and I break away from each other and I move back to center stage. Immediately, the spotlight singles me out, so I signal the others. The tempo drops, still audible to keep the energy going, but faint enough for what’s next.
“Hey! Out there! Houston, Texas! How the fuck are you doing tonight?” My voice booms out.
Suddenly, it’s all good and I forget to care about anything except my music, my band, and my fans.
Cassandra
I shouldn’t be here, in Sloane Mason’s dressing room. I can list so many reasons why, but one or two top the list. I’ve ignored every one of them, risked having my face plastered in gossip magazines.
I’m a world-renown supporter of the fine arts. The front man for Phoenix Rising is an international womanizer. It won’t take much for the press to draw conclusions about my presence at the concert.
Just beyond the door, the noise is deafening. The band left the stage ten minutes ago and Sloane has yet to enter. I’m anxious and impatient to see him, so I compare my closet to this borrowed space where he prepares himself before he walks out onstage and then comes in afterwards.
One wall consists of an end-to-end vanity with an equally long mirror. The surrounding make-up lights casts a golden glow and blends in with the inlaid ceiling fixtures. A rolling rack holds a couple pairs of jeans and three or four T-shirts, disappointing me. I’d think a celebrity like Sloane Mason would demand an entire wardrobe to select from. There’s a director’s chair, several club chairs scattered throughout the room, and the sofa I’m sitting on. Another door leads to a small bathroom—I know because I checked.