Page 21 of First Verse

Allison hustles around the counter, her familiar smile bringing one to my face.

“Hey, Auntie A,” I say as she wraps her arms around my waist. She earned honorary aunt status when I was three and I’ve never considered calling her anything else.

“It’s so good to see you, Wild,” she says, grinning up at me. “It’s been way too long. I don’t remember you being this tall.”

My smile turns smug. “Officially taller than my old man now, much to his annoyance.”

She laughs. “I bet. Congrats on the single, by the way. Katie told me she heard it on the radio six times at work yesterday. Well deserved—it’s incredible.” Her smile softens, as does her voice as she leans closer. “Are you ready for what’s coming your way?”

She looks meaningfully to the side, and I follow her gaze to a group of teenage girls at a nearby table who are staring at me and whispering. A quick glance around the café shows me they aren’t the only ones.

I stomp my first instinct—which is to throw up in my mouth and run out the door—and instead give the table of girls a cocky grin. They turn bright red and dissolve into hysterical giggles.

When I look back at Allison, she squints at me like I’ve been body-snatched. “That was disturbing.”

I agree with her. I’m disturbed every time I have to act like Wilder Ashburn, lead singer of Night Theory, instead of Wilder Ashburn, an introvert who’d rather stab himself than socialize.

From the corner of my eye, I see the girls stand, phones in hand.

Oh, fuck.

A steel band cranks tight around my chest. Soft ringing fills my ears.

I should have taken two pills.

“Come on,” says Allison, grabbing my arm and tugging me past tables, most of the occupants of which follow me with their eyes.

I’m naked beneath the piercing stares of strangers. My jaw aches with how hard my teeth are clenched. Every sound is too loud, every light too bright. I’m freezing and burning up, my stomach churning, sweat popping from my pores.

Allison squeezes my arm harder. “Hang on, almost there.”

I keep my gaze pinned on her curly hair, peppered throughout with glistening silver strands. We enter a back hallway, passing a few people in Tullamore-branded shirts, who give me probing looks. Finally, she opens a door and pulls me into what looks like a staff lounge. Thankfully, it’s empty and quiet.

“Sit,” she says, pointing to a padded bench beside the door.

I drop onto the bench and hang my head. Slowly, my stomach settles and the ringing in my ears fades.

“Just like your dad,” Allison murmurs.

I force myself to straighten. “I’m fine.”

Her eyes narrow as she hands me a sealed water bottle. “Sure you are. Drink that, then I’ll walk you next door through the staff entrance. You’ll come out backstage.”

I swallow half the bottle before shaking my head. “I have to go in the front.”

The shrewd look in her eyes makes me feel like I’m five years old again and trying to convince her there’s no mud in the mud pies I just made.

“Eva’s onstage by now. As long as you don’t make your presence known, she won’t see you.” She pauses, head tilting. “Have you heard her music?”

“A little,” I admit. “A shitty recording.”

Rye played the sample a few months ago for Eddie—who has no problem occasionally pumping him for information about Eva—and I happened to be in the same room. I’ve wanted to hear more since that first taste, the urge masochistic but undeniable.

“Then you’re in for a treat.” Allison glances at the clock on the wall. “All right, kiddo, let’s go.”

I haul myself to my feet and take an experimental inhale, relaxing when my lungs fill without pain. “Thanks for saving my ass back there, Auntie.”

“Anytime.” She scans my face. “Anxiety isn’t something to be ashamed of, but it does need to be managed. Especially with the trajectory you’re on.”

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