Page 55 of Hold Still

I look at my assistant. “What did she mean that she has a surprise for me?”

Aiden shrugs. “No idea.” He points to a stack of papers. “Let’s get through all this so you can make it to your rehearsal on time.”

REHEARSAL’S FINISHED ANDI’m out of sorts. The band likes ‘Take Me’ and even collaborated on some new musical licks for it. It felt good to play something new—which I wrote. All by myself.

Then why am I at odds with myself? I wander backstage and grab a turkey, stuffing and cranberry mayo sandwich—Thanksgiving leftovers—and hot tea. I didn’t have time for dinner today thanks to Aiden, so this will fuel me for the night.

As I bite into the sandwich, a couple of female hotel workers pass by and give me “the look.” I glance at the time—I could take one, or both, of them to my penthouse and squeeze in a quick fuck. The girls are cute and I could use the diversion.

Before I can make my move, a text chimes. McKenna. My anger resurfaces. Do I want to read what Miss Know-It-All has to say? Shaking my head, I return to my dinner, but the girls have moved on. My temperature rises at McKenna, who is now an effective cockblocker. I finish my sandwich with one bite.

My phone chimes again, reminding me I have a missed text. Fuck it. I open her message.

I apologize for how I left things today. I shouldn’t have told you what I was thinking. I don’t know everything about your relationship…your marriage.

Damn straight. All of my anger leaves my body at her words, though. She admits she was wrong. I can’t seem to hold a grudge against this woman. Before I can think better of it, I reply:

Come to the concert tonight. I’m going to debut ‘Take Me.’ I’ll leave your ticket at the Industry line.

Why did I ask her here? Maybe I want to show her she was wrong about me. That I wasn’t an arrogant asshole with my ex-wife, and was only interested in himself. Doubt niggles at the outskirts of my mind. Still, I was faithful.

McKenna’s response is one word:Alright

After calling Aiden over and instructing him to leave McKenna a ticket, I go backstage to perform my pre-show ritual. One-hundred decline diamond push-ups. A run through the scales. Sing ‘Lamento Borincano,’ a traditional Puerto Rican song made popular by Marc Anthony. One last mug of tea.

Checking the clock, I have ten minutes before the curtain goes up. I jog in place to get rid of the nerves that always attack before showtime. The stage manager instructs us all to get to our places. With one final swallow of tea, I strap on my guitar, go behind the stage and wait at my mark.

The band starts to play the intro music to the first song. The audience claps and I shake my fingers, still jogging in place. My stomach feels like a bunch of bats have taken up residence. Inhaling and exhaling slowly, I clear my mind of everything except the first note I’m going to hit.

The light show begins, illuminating my band up on the stage. The musical overture strikes a higher note, and the sold-out audience shouts. Finally, it’s time. The hydraulic lift I’m standing on starts to rise slowly into the center of the stage. I close my eyes before the spotlight hits me—learned that trick the hard way.

Breathe.

I begin strumming my guitar, open my eyes and walk toward the mic. “How you doing, Las Vegas?”

My question is answered by the full house shouting and clapping and stomping their feet. It’s going to be a great show. Smiling, I sing the first line of the song.

After the first half, I walk over to the drum set and grab a bottle of water. I down most of it and pour the remainder over my head and toss the empty to Aiden offstage. Shaking my head, water droplets rain down on the audience. Screaming from the ladies shows their approval.

“Are you having fun?”

The audience shouts, “Yes!”

Smiling, I ask, “Can I have the house lights? I want to see you!”

The lighting guys comply, and I am able to make out the first few rows. Walking up to the edge of the stage, I scan the upturned faces. I reach out, clasp some hands and tap others. Scanning the crowd for the one doe-eyed brunette with a pink streak in it—unless she’s already changed it—who has captured my interest.

There. She’s smiling at me, waving her arms in the air. I wink at her and all the tension of the day drains to the floor. What is she doing to me?

Deciding to fuck with the band and crew, I sit down on the edge of the stage, my feet dangling, and pick up my acoustic guitar. “Hi, ladies,” I say to the first few rows, off mic. They squeal and fan themselves.

My eyes lock with latte ones and I lick my lips. Into the mic this time, I say, “So, I’ve been working on some new stuff.” I strum the guitar. “Want to hear?”

The wall of sound that responds to my question is overwhelming. My fingers continue to play basic chords. I nod. “Guess that’s a yes.”

More applause.

“Listen, we didn’t rehearse this and the song isn’t quite perfected yet, but I’d love to know what you think.” I swivel around and tell the band to take a break. When they’re off stage, I say, “So, now it’s just you and me and this guitar.”

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