Page 3 of It Happened on a Sunday
And the lasers flash like memories trying to work their way back in.
I shut them out, slamming my walls down as tight as I can. But the screams of the crowd still get in. The screaming and stomping and sobbing I can’t ignore, no matter how hard I try.
And God, do I try.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Get it together, Sloane. Get it thefucktogether.
You’ve only got one more song. Surely you can keep your shit on lock for the next four minutes and twenty-seven seconds.
But my breath is coming in short gasps now, my throat growing tighter by the second. I’m not sure I can keep it together for four seconds, let alone four minutes.
But I have to. Because the trauma doesn’t matter.Idon’t matter. The only thing that does is finishing the show and getting off this stage before anyone knows something’s wrong.
I close my eyes, open my mouth, and try to sing the first line. But the sign is right there behind my lids.Black Widows Eat Their Mates,with a picture of Jarrod and me directly below.
Only the words aren’t ink. They’re knives, and somehow they’re finding all the tender places he’s already cut.
As the crowd throws presents at the stage—projectiles they’ve bought or made—flashbacks slam through me, one after theother. I try to block them out, try to force them back before they slice me wide open all over again.
His fingers on the guitar.
His blood on the tile floor.
The feel of silk brushing against my skin.
The blue of his eyes.
The rich syrup of his voice.
The strength of his fingers wrapping around my thro—
A bouquet of roses hurtles into my arm. The stems prick me, and the pain drags me deeper, turning my skin cold despite the bright lights and hundred-degree heat.
Get it together, I tell myself again, even as my teeth start to chatter.Get it the fuck together.
The band is still playing the intro, looping it around and around until the drums thump inside my chest like a second heartbeat. The sensation cuts through the static like nothing else has, and I use it to claw my way back from the abyss—inch by inch, thorn by fucking thorn.
This time when I open my mouth, I don’t stop singing until the whole damn song is out.
I hit the last note. Breathless, hollow, empty.
As I do, the platform beneath me shudders and starts to drop. Damn it. I didn’t claw my way back fast enough. My team noticed, or they would have given me a few extra seconds onstage for a few waves.
The platform locks into place below the stage, and I catapult myself off it like my whole damn body is on fire.
My assistant manager, Olivia, is waiting at the tunnel entrance to meet me, flask in her hand. I grab it, then take a long, desperate drink.
The sweet tea burns like bourbon as it makes its way down my raw throat. Despite that, I drain the flask dry before lowering it. Only to find Olivia and several stagehands watching me witheyes so blank they come all the way back around to judgmental.
They think itisbourbon, because that’s what I want them to think. The Black Widow can knock ’em back like nobody’s business. I, on the other hand, am not much of a drinker.
Don’t like the smell. Don’t like the taste. Really don’t like the feeling of being out of control. Too much of my life has been out of control already. Tonight is just another case in fucking point. But living down to other people’s expectations, especially when it’s a lie, gives me the advantage.
“What else do you need?” Olivia starts, but I just shake my head as I stalk toward my dressing room.
To breathe. I just need a moment to fucking breathe.
