Page 47 of Undercover Star
"CAN SOMEONE FIND MARISSAfor me?" The sweat-soaked shirt being yanked over his head by four eager hands muffled Matisse's voice.
"Do you need her right now?"
"Yes. Before I go back on." Matisse gulped water while he kicked out of his boots and unbuttoned his trousers. He shoved them over his hips, and Lynn was right there, yanking them down his legs. She had the black leather trousers he wore for the final part of his performance slung over her shoulder, and Matisse grabbed them from her, already anticipating the struggle to get into them, sweaty as he was.
He didn't care that the dressing room door stood wide, that staff passed back and forth out in the corridor. At this stage of the performance, the crowd was hopping and everyone was busy.
The floor under his bare feet was blessedly cool, and Matisse tried to make the most of it before he headed back out into the inferno of spotlights and noise.
He was still catching his breath after the final dance routine, glad he'd gotten through it without a mishap. His concentration had been shot all week. He'd barely slept, and he'd been so distracted he'd set his phone to remind him to eat and drink in the run-up to the concert.Afterhe'd hidden the thing in a drawer, so he would only hear it, but wouldn't keep checking for text messages every few minutes.
Matisse's heart fluttered, his head buzzed, and his hands shook. Some of that was concert adrenaline. The crowd was wild and had driven him through his performance. Would they still be as enthusiastic by the end of the night?
He heard the staccato tap of Marissa's heels in the hallway, and then she stood in his dressing room and looked at him. Matisse felt like a toddler being caught with his hand in the biscuit tin, but he pushed the feeling aside. This was important.
"Can we have the room, please?"
Everybody stopped at the unusual request. Then they did as he'd asked. Lynn was the last to leave, after handing him the basket filled with the bangles and bracelets that were part of his costume.
"Marissa, I—"
"You're doing great," she interrupted.
"Don't. I know I'm just about hanging in there. Which is what I want to talk to you about. Josh and I had a fight. A week ago. I think... I think we both said a lot of stuff we didn't mean. But Josh told me two things that have been bugging me ever since. One was true. The other I never answered. And I haven't heard from him since."
The hug was unexpected. Marissa wasn't the hugging kind. She was brisk and professional. She offered solutions for problems. She'd taught him to take responsibility for his actions. She'd never just... hugged him.
Matisse clung to her form in something close to desperation. "I didn't know what to say to him, so I never called him. It may be too late, you know? But I think... I think I need to do this. Now. Today. Before the end of the concert. I need to give him an answer. And I need your help."
"You're doing great, Matisse," she told him again. "And I'll be here for you. Always. Now, tell me what you need."
––––––––
THE LAST CHORD OF THEsong faded and the insane screaming quieted to merely deafening levels. Josh didn't want to watch Matisse being mobbed by armies of fans as he'd been before the radio show. He didn't want to see strangers pawing at him, didn't want to see him sign arms and legs, T-shirts and cleavage using anything from pen to lipstick. He wanted to remember the quiet mornings when Mat spoke in whispers because his throat was sore, wanted to remember Mat sitting cross-legged on the bed, headphones on and humming while he worked out new songs on his guitar.
He wanted to remember the two of them together, not this arena-sized insanity.
Josh knew he should leave and keep the memories that meant the most to him foremost in his mind. He knew he shouldn't stain them with anger and regret.
He didn't move an inch.
Montgomery had told him he needed to see Matisse as he really was, watch him do what he loved to do. And if he never saw Matisse again, then he'd savour every moment the man was in his sight. Even if right now it wasn't Mat, with whom he'd fallen in love, who stood on that stage but Matisse, the star. Matisse, who had to please his crowds of fans, who used his songs to say what he couldn't say any other way, and who couldn't ever simply walk down a street holding Josh's hand.
Josh stayed and watched Matisse sing his heart out for his fans. Watched him grab a towel to wipe his face and then cross the stage to the microphone set up on a stand, right in front of the VIP area. It was as close as he'd been to Josh since they'd parted ways a week ago.
"This is going to be tonight's last song." Matisse waited for silence, and that silence slowly settled as the fans caught on to their idol's suddenly serious mood.
"There won't be any encores and I hope you can forgive me for that. I love spending time with you all. I love writing new songs. I love planning performances and practising until they're as perfect as we can get them, because I know that, at the end of all that work, I get to stand right here, in the light. At times, it feels like being caught in the middle of a tornado. At other times, it feels profoundly lonely. It can also make me lose sight of everything, except for that next concert or that next performance, almost as if I'm working undercover and the real me is hidden away. For the last weeks I've been so caught up in preparing to meet you all that I didn't take the time to say something that's very important to me."
The arena was so quiet, a pin could drop and everyone would hear it. Matisse turned his head, and an assistant handed him an acoustic guitar. He settled it across his body and ran his fingers over the strings, head tilted to listen in the way that Josh had found so enticing the first time he'd seen it.
And still the crowd was silent.
Expectant.
Waiting.
For no reason he could articulate, Josh's heart began to race.
