Page 41 of It Happened on a Sunday
“Hey, Las Vegas,” I practically purr as the spotlight finds me. “I’ve got to ask… Are you feeling lucky tonight?”
It’s the first moment of the concert—and the last moment I feel like I haveanycontrol over what’s happening. Because the second I ask my question, the crowd starts screaming Sly’s name. Over and over and over again.
Through the first song. And the second.
And the third.
It feels less like a concert and more like an uprising with a beat. Like I’m the last calm voice in a room filled with flames and noone’s listening.
Every couple of minutes, the audience pauses their chants to sing along with the lyrics, but as soon as I start to think it’s okay, that they’ve come back to me, they start screaming and waving their signs again—most of which have to do with Sly.
The moment I launch into “Any Other Day,” a song I wrote about two people who find themselves in an unexpected relationship at an unexpected time, I know I’m in trouble.
The crowd goes from yelling Sly’s name to chanting “Sloaney!” in unison at the top of their lungs. Because, to my fans at least, I’ve apparently gone from the Black Widow to a child’s plaything in the space of one jumbotron announcement.
I swear to God, if I ever meet Marquis, I’m going to punch that bastard in the balls.
The whole thing is infuriating. More, it’s terrifying. I’ve worked too damn hard to claim my place as the Black Widow to just let her be erased because the world has decided it likes me better as part of a couple. I’m worth more than that, and so is what little peace of mind I’ve been able to claim.
I barely survived Slayden and Jarroane. No way do I have the strength to do it again. Three times is definitely not the charm.
I probably should have rethought this song, probably should have cut it out completely. But half my setlist is love songs—most doomed, some not—so how was I supposed to knowthisis the one that would get them?
“Any Other Day” isn’t based on experience, and it’s not a new song, either. But you wouldn’t know it from the way the crowd reacts. From the second the band starts the opening chords, they go wild. And that’s saying something, because they’vebeenwild since the moment I walked out here tonight. But this? This is another level altogether.
They’re screaming, stomping, jumping, and making so much noise that they actually shake the venue before I sing a word.
I stop for a few seconds, signaling the band to let the fans get their excitement out. But that only drives the anticipation to a fever pitch.
The whole venue is swaying around us now. I remind myself of the articles I’ve read, the ones that say stadiums and concert venues are built to do this. Remind myself that everything’s fine and no one’s going to get hurt.
Still, it makes me nervous.
A look behind me at the band tells me they’re on edge, too. Their faces reflect a combination of my own surprise, awe, and concern.
I glance down at the pit, right in front of me, looking for Jace. Since Sphere doesn’t have a typical backstage area, he started the concert down there. But he’s not there now—probably trying to marshal security somewhere.
Just as I decide I’m on my own, his voice comes through my in-ear. “The longer you give them to calm down, the more frenzied they’re going to get. Just push through it so we can move on.”
I nod so he knows I heard him, then do the only thing I can: launch into the lyrics and hope for the best.
As I get to the bridge, people start peppering the stage with presents for me. Plastic spider rings come flying from all sides, along with flowers, packages of gummy bears, several stuffed animals (spiders, of course), friendship bracelets, and other Halloween merch.
Usually there are a couple of songs during my set when people throw things—we gave up asking them to stop and instead built in choreography that keeps me away from the front of the stage during the deluge. But “Any Other Day” isn’t one of them, so I’m right at the edge of the stage when people start chucking things at me. Even worse, they’ve added a bunch of new, bigger items to the repertoire.
Footballs—most small and cushy, but some larger and harder—come flying straight for me, along with blue-and-white jerseys with the number seven on them and a bunch of other things that I’m assuming are merch for the Austin Twisters.
I start backing away, but by then it’s too late. The stage behind me is littered with hazards. I get hit in the arm by a football hard enough to bruise, then nearly trip over a jersey as I attempt my escape—all while I keep belting out lyrics.
Security guards around the stage attempt to stop the bombardment, but for every projectile they manage to stop, five or six more make it through. At Sphere, the stage is smack dab in the center of the venue, which means things are coming at me and my band from almost every direction. There’s nowhere to go for cover because we’re all the way at the bottom of the venue with seats surrounding us on three sides. Our only way out is to leave the stage altogether.
“We can end it right now,” Jace growls in my in-ear. “I’ll bring the lights down and get you offstage.” I shake my head violently. No way is my running away from this—from anything—going to be the story people take away from tonight.
I need to get this situation under control. We have another hour and forty-five minutes to get through, and if this hysteria goes unchecked, someone—or a lot of someones—could get hurt.
A giant fuzzy spider gets me full in the face, and a ball with Sly’s grin on it slaps me on the side of the head. Not even twelve hours later, and he’s already becoming the image of my undoing.
And no, this isn’t his fault. But that doesn’t matter, because this is what I was trying to tell him. This is why it will never work between us.
