Page 5 of Opening Strain

Thelights go out.

Panting, I put the microphone back into its stand and take a stride toward the center stage to join the band in our bows. “Fuck!”

My scream is drowned out by all the noise in the building. I don’t even think Coop, standing closest to me, heard.

I take another tentative step and a searing pain races through my leg.

Our fans call out to me.

When we hit our mark, I force my lips to smile and wrap my arms around the guys. Wave at the crowd. Blow kisses. Bow for the ovation.

All the while, my insides scream in pain.

We turn and march into the greenroom. With all my concentration, I keep my gait steady.

Coop exclaims, “Let’s give them another wave!”

I long to yell no fucking way, but the other guys already have turned. Unmoving, I remain frozen until Tris calls out, “Come on, Bennett. They want to see us one more time!”

It’s not his words but rather his excitement that forces me to capitulate. Well, that and the fact nobody knows about the freaking agony I’m in.

On my good leg, I spin. “Coming!” With every other step, blinding pain runs up my leg. I put as much weight onto my good leg as possible, schooling my features into excitement.

“This is amazing,” 007 says under his breath.

As one, we raise our hands high and wave to the audience. We take three more quick bows before I say, “Let’s leave them wanting more.”

Without waiting to see if they follow me, I force myself to walk as if I’m not in excruciating pain. After what happened with Darren, UC's fans can't witness my vulnerability.

Darkness descends as we enter backstage. Hugs are exchanged but I don’t bother. Instead, I allow myself to limp to the nearest chair, toss theRecord News—featuring Jeremy Davis’s article—onto the floor, andflop into it.

Leaning against the backrest, I utter to no one, “Thank fuck I made it.”

Our manager approaches, yelling, “That was a phenomenal performance. The band’s never sounded so good.”

My hands move toward the inside of my thigh. Freaking hurts like a mother.

At my side, Luke drops my cell onto the table—following an unfortunate incident with a call in the middle of one of our gigs, we now have to turn them in before taking the stage. His head tilts. “Hey, what’s up, B?” Every time he uses this nickname for me, I find it disconcerting . . . still I don’t correct him. No way will I return the overly friendly favor, though.

Because the truth’s going to come out anyway, I admit, “I think I landed wrong when I did that jump.”

Luke chuckles. “That was some crazy-ass shit out there. It worked like a charm, though.” He pauses. “Wait. What did you say?”

Through gritted teeth, I repeat, “I landed wrong. My leg fucking hurts.”

“Oh crap.” He comes around in front of me while others mill about the room, congratulating each other and slapping backs. “Where? What hurts?”

I point to my inner thigh. “I’m not sure what I did. I can’t put any weight on my leg.”

He runs his fingers through his shoulder-length light brown hair, a couple of shades darker than mine. Which is now plastered to my face following our performance under the lights. “Let me get you a footstool.”

A minute later, one materializes under my foot. No idea where it came from, but I don’t give a shit. I just want the pain to stop.

“Could you get me some Advil or something?”

“Already on it, B.” Someone passes him pills and some water, which he hands over to me.

“Regular Advil, right?”

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