Page 42 of It Happened on a Sunday
Because being with him means vanishing. Drowning in his spotlight until mine completely fizzles out.
I’ve done that before.
Once was a tragedy.
Twice was annihilation.
There won’t be a third time.
I glance up at the VIP suites. My eyes meet Pauline’s concerned ones, and though I already know what I need to do, looking at her helps me find the words to do it.
I nod once, to let her know I’ve got this. I don’t think twice as I signal for the band to cut the music.
Chapter 17
Sloane
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly as I survey the crowd. Funny how it looks so similar, their love and hate. Sure, when they hate me, they throw different things and they boo instead of chant, but from up here, it all looks the same.
Maybe that’s why my heart is beating triple time, my whole body in full-on fight-or-flight mode. Since flight is impossible, I do the only thing left: I step as far forward as I can, drawing the fire away from my band and straight back to me as the fans continue hurling presents at the stage. Then I take a deep breath and drawl, “Well, well, well,” into the mic.
I make sure my voice is equal parts amused and menacing as I do. It’s a trademark of the Black Widow, one I spent months perfecting before I finally went back on the press and live-concert circuit a year after Jarrod died. It’s saved me many a time through the years, and I’m really hoping this is just one more. “Are all these gifts for little ole me?”
The crowd roars even louder, and—if possible—the speed at which they launch things toward the stage increases. I swear to God, they must be passing baubles up from the back rows by now.
Fuck Sly, fuck his friend, and fuck this whole damn situation straight to fucking hell.
Something smacks against my cheek, and I glance down to see that this time, it’s not a football or a spider. It’s a doll that looks a lot like me…only it’s got a knife through its heart.
See? Love and hate. It’s a fine fucking line.
I clear my throat and ignore the searing pain in my cheek as Icontinue. “Thank you all so much.” This time I don’t have to fake the sadistic edge to my voice as the chanting and screaming start to die down so they can hear me. “Though I think you’ve got me confused with somebody else.”
I bend down and pinch the edge of one of the number seven jerseys between my thumb and index finger. Then I hold it out for the crowd to see. “Sly’s the one who likes to zig and zag. I’m more the biting type.” To prove it, I open my mouth up just a little and let the tip of my tongue dance over the pointy edge of an incisor.
As every security guard not already stationed in front of the stage rushes down the aisles toward me, I narrow my eyes, cutting them from one side of the audience in front of me to the other. “Now, if any of you want to volunteer, I’m more than happy to demonstrate. If not, then why don’t you let me get back to singing, and we can all take a moment to fantasize about what it will look like later when I take a verybigbite out of Sly.”
I widen my eyes and purse my lips, laying one finger on the side of my mouth in an “oops, did I just say that” gesture that has the crowd roaring with laughter.
“I promise to tell you if he’s tasty,” I say as I cross the stage to pick up the acoustic guitar Jennie normally plays much later in the show. “Though I think we all probably know the answer to that.”
“What are you doing?” Bobbi, my drummer, asks. Her eyes are wide with concern.
Because I don’t have time to explain, I just say, “I’ve got this.”
“Are yousure?” Jennie, the lead guitarist, calls back, looking bewildered.
“Don’t worry.” I give her the closest facsimile of a smile I can muster right now, then do the same for Matt and David, both of whom look varying degrees of freaked out.
I don’t blame them, considering I’m not exactly known for myspontaneity, especially in concert. But we left control behind a long time ago. Now I’m just gripping the wheel and hoping to outrun the wreckage.
We haven’t done the scene change that usually signifies the acoustic set, nor have we wheeled out the piano that I usually play, but improv is the name of this game, so we’ll just see where it goes. On the plus side, the people in the audience will get to brag about seeing something no one else on this entire tour has experienced.
I toss one more reassuring smile to my stressed-out band, then stride back to the center of the stage. Luckily, Rajiv and Isabella, who run lights, are on their game tonight. They’ve stopped the electronically programmed sequence that normally runs throughout the show and trained a single spotlight on me as I stalk across the stage, guitar in hand.
“Now, what do you say we make a deal?” I call out as I stop front and center. “You quiet down so you can hear me sing this song for you, and I promise to kissandtell.”
The crowd roars their approval but quiets down quickly when I give them a look that says they’re not keeping their end of the bargain. To reward them, and to calm my still-thundering heart, I slide my guitar strap over my shoulder and start to play “Love You Like You Want Me To” for the very first time in concert, ever.
