Page 15 of The Rockstar

“Can you handle them?”

He raises the pen and gives me a salute. “With pleasure. Now go bring down the house.”

I’m already moving when I spot Vivian and Valerie slipping through the crowd. A security guard steps in their way. Vivian’s hands go up in protest, and I can feel her attitude all the way from here. She looks so tiny compared to the guard, but of course, she doesn’t let that deter her. I almost feel bad for the guard.

I lean toward Jensen. “That tiny girl with the big attitude and her sister, let them through.”

Jensen whistles to the guard and waves off, and they’re escorted to the cordoned-off front section. Valerie looks both thrilled and still in disbelief. Vivian meets my eyes and gives me a grin that slices straight through me. Then she blows me a kiss.

Fuck. My chest squeezes.

I turn toward the stage and step into the spotlight. The crowd’s small, scattered, curious. No roar, no chants, just soft murmurs, and a breeze pulling at my hoodie.

None of them expects me. They expect to see someone else.

With a deep breath, I set the guitar case down, unzip it, and take out my old acoustic. It’s been a while since I used it. I’ve gone full electric for years.

My fingers are steady. The hoodie comes off. Then the cap. The mask stays off.

The moment I strum the first chord, it’s like coming home.

I start with “Rock Me,” one of my older singles. Stripped down like this, it’s less anthem and more confession. People start drifting closer, eyes wide, like they’re not sure if it’s really me.

By the second song, “Rage and Riot”, phones are out. Cameras flash. The crowd is swelling now, word spreading like wildfire. I should feel the pressure, but all I feel is ... free.

Song three is “Velvet”, and I close my eyes on the final note, letting the silence hang. When I open them again, I look straight at her.

Vivian. Front row. No phone. No filming. That pride on her face feels more real than any standing ovation I’ve ever gotten. Valerie stands beside her, hands to her mouth, eyes wide.

I roll into the fourth song, “Exit Wound”, and it’s rawer than I remember. My voice cracks in one place, and the crowd cheers.

Then I breathe.

“This last one,” I say into the mic, glancing back at Vivian, “is for the woman who made me remember what soul-deep happiness feels like.”

The crowd lets out anooh, and I grin.

“And her sister, too. Their booth has the coolest records this side of the state. It’s the last one by the popcorn stand. If you expect nice, accommodating ladies, though, you’ll be disappointed.”

Laughter ripples across the lawn. Vivian’s cheeks flush.

I start playing “Welcome to My Life.”

I’ve never performed it like this before, but I remember how I felt when I wrote it, and how Vivian explained she felt it, too. People talk about love at first sight, and I never really believed it.

Twenty-four hours ago, I never would have thought I’d feel something so deep and intense. I never would have thought what started as hiding in the cabin would end with me performing to at least two hundred people in a relatively obscure music fest.

But here I am.

As I strum the final note and let it hang in the air, the crowd erupts, clapping, cheering, someone yelling, “Marry me!” from the middle section.

I grin and lean into the mic. “Sorry, I’m already emotionally unavailable. My heart’s been hijacked by a girl who sells candles smelling like Mr. Darcy’s sweat.” A wave of laughter rolls over the field.

My gaze zeroes in on her—Vivian, flushed, wide-eyed, still not holding her phone.

I give the crowd a bow and stare at Vivian, jutting my chin subtly toward backstage.

She hesitates for a second before shaking her head with a smirk, mouthing, “What are you doing?”

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