Page 23 of The Drummer

“Yes,” I lie to a chorus of surprise. “Yes, I’m working on new music.”

“But I still walk alone… Should I just move along…”

Maybe it’s not a lie thanks to the mystery breakfast club girl. Technically, Iamwriting again after all this time, even if it’s just a few baffling lines that will never see the light of day.

“Really.” Her tone is skeptical as she leans back in her chair. Her gaze sifts over me, and my heart beats faster at the challenge pooling in her eyes. “Anything you can tease for your fans? We’ve been waiting a while.”

“Not yet,” I say. “But it will be epic.”

I hide a cringe at the grave I’m digging. As if I don’t have enough of those sprinkled around me.

“Okay, then let me ask you this. I have Jana Furmali on record saying you told her Night Shifts Black was done and she broke off the recent engagement with you after you cheated on her. How do you respond to that?”

By fighting the urge to detonate.

My blood boils as I stare at her in disbelief.

“Casey, how do you respond?” she repeats.

“That you shouldn’t be looking to my bitter ex for anythingon-the-recordabout me.”

“So it’s not true?”

“No.”

“What about her claims that there’s more to the night you and Luke overdosed than people know about? According to her, the two of you were in a violent fight and he assaulted you?—”

“Enough!” I jump up from the couch. “This is bullshit,” I snap at TJ. “I’m not doing this.”

“Casey,” TJ warns. “You promised. You have to…” He goes quiet at my hostile look.

“I have to… what? Defend more ridiculous rumors I’ve already addressed a hundred times? The world knows more about me than I do, apparently!Everyonedoes, so why are weeven here?” I wave around the room. “What’s this accomplishing?”

Targeted stares burn through me from all sides. Shock and anger from my bandmates. Smug glee from Kara and the producers. Abject fear from my manager who’s watching his biggest account slip into oblivion.

And I’m sick of it. I’m sick of being a symbol and a prop and a fucking chess piece for other people to drag over a board while they monetize my trauma.

“So therewasan assault. Is that really what landed you in the hospital? Is that the real reason for the split? Casey!”

Her questions become shouts as I storm away.

“Are you getting this?” a producer hisses.

“Got it,” a camera operator says.

I ignore them and smash through the door.

Tears poundthe backs of my eyes as I tear down the hall toward my hotel room. My hands are shaking, my head pounds with old scars and fresh wounds. God, everything hurts, and I can barely function enough to open my door.

As soon as I do, I slam it shut, secure all the locks, and slide to the floor.

Arms trembling, I wrap them around my legs and rest my forehead on my knees. Sobs form in my chest and work their way up my throat. I shake my head and swallow them back down in painful gulps.

I never give in to them. I can’t. I have to be the strong one. I’m the one who stayed. The one who survived. The one who was here to bear the brunt of the anger and abuse and frustration and exploitation. Just like I was my entire life.

Casey Barrett, the invincible shield who takes the blows meant for everyone else.

But I’m not invincible. I’m scared and alone and just as broken as the ones I’m protecting.

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