THAT WEARINESS DOING WHAT YOU LOVE kind of loses its novelty around the second week of eighteen-hour days. Dub, the choreographer, and I expend so much energy working on my opening act for the second leg of the tour, I barely have energy for the show each night. It’s just singing easy BGV parts for Luke’s set. When Luke performs his hit single, I join him onstage to simulate the lap dance from the video. It’s a show-stopper.
The whole plan is getting me lots of face time, lots of exposure. It’s a brilliant strategy, but it’s wearing me down. I can’t let on, though. I don’t want Mr. Malcolm to think I can’t pull this off. I can. I’ve waited too long for this. Nothing will get in my way. Certainly not my own body.
I keep hearing Rhyson’s warning about John Malcolm. It’s galling that I kind of already see what he means. Mr. Malcolm’s not tyrannical, but he definitely focuses on the bottom line, and requires the talent to do whatever it takes to meet it.
It’s been a week since Rhyson called or texted me. We have a fifteen-minute break from rehearsal, so I sit on the stage step and pull out my phone to look at his last text. It was a long one, but I almost have it memorized, I’ve read it so many times. It starts, of course, with a movie quote.
R. Geritol: “So I’m single now, and everything’s changed. I hate it.”—Say Anything
I know you’re mad at me. It was a dick move. I know that, but don’t give up on us, Pep. San told me you’re on tour for three months. I’ve started my tour, too. We can take this time to clear our heads and do what we need to do, but you know I can’t let you go. Please don’t see me not coming after you as giving up. When you get back, you have to give me another chance. You have to. I thought I was doing what was best for you. I wanted to protect you. I’m sorry I went about it the wrong way. Please forgive me, and PLEASE TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF! You know I don’t trust John Malcolm, but this is a great opportunity, so kill it. Your whole life is about to change, because when the world sees what I see, they won’t be able to get enough of you. I can’t. Don’t forget I’m yours and you’re mine.
I LIVE you.
I fight the smile forcing its way onto my face when I see our “auto correct” way of saying I love you. It’s too soon to smile. I’m too close to what happened, to what he did, but I can’t deny he affects me even with just words on a screen. A new text comes in as I’m reading the last line of Rhyson’s message.
My heart patters in case it’s him. Stupid heart. After all he did—the manipulation, the deception, the out and out betrayal—a chain still hooks my heart to Rhyson’s, stretching from wherever I am to wherever he is in the world. I have no idea how to break it. When it comes down to it, in spite of everything, I’m not sure I want to.
The text is not from him. It’s an unknown number. Odd.
There’s a link, and I open it, which is probably stupid, but I’m curious. It’s to a Spotted post detailing our very public fight. And breakup. Okay. Old news. Even my tour mates have stopped looking at me funny by now. Their curiosity has waned, and thank God, so has the public’s.
Another text comes in.
Unknown: You and Rhyson Gray don’t belong together. I advise you to keep things this way.
What the hell?
Me: Who is this?
Unknown: Don’t worry about who I am. Worry about what I have.
A video file comes over. This can’t be good. Finger hovering over the screen, I tap the file. Sounds of loud panting and grunting come from my phone. Two naked bodies in profile, a man and a woman, fucking hard, doggy-style. The man at the back turns his head to grin right into the camera like he’s giving the performance of his life. My heart skids to a halt, burning rubber and slamming on the brakes in my chest. Horror and disgust war in my belly, churning dark emotion until it leaks out through my sweaty palms and under my arms. I can’t process what I’m seeing. How did he . . . How could it . . . It can’t be. The handsome face smeared with a devil grin is Drex. Even though I know it’s not possible, I feel like those malevolent eyes are looking right at me—taunting and toying with me.
My brain is still catching up to what my eyes are seeing, when I focus on the woman. She’s on all fours, her face forward and turned away, but I know her. I see the words hugging her ribs. Lost in the iniquitous sight, buried in the lusty sounds, the prayer looks out of place.
My soul to keep.
As if I needed further confirmation, the woman turns her head just enough for me to see her face clearly. I’m ashamed of my face, looking so much like my mother in a situation she would never have allowed to compromise her.
I tap the screen to stop the video, doing a frantic sweep of the stage to see if anyone heard or saw. Sweat covers my body, slicking my palms and dampening my forehead. My heart rages and rattles inside of me. My hands tremble so badly I drop the phone.