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I suppose Justine’s right. She sits on the amp, crossing her legs underneath her. “I think it might be hard for her, seeing all the women go crazy for her brother.”
“What are you talking about?” I sit on my stool and tune my guitar while Elle conducts her impromptu business meeting.
Justine laughs. “You’ve got this simmering lead guy energy. The hot, tortured rocker thing going on. The women in the crowd are freaking crazy for you.”
I shake my head. “I’m just here to sing.”
“Really? Because when I watch you perform, it’s like you’re trying to mesmerize the crowd with your voice, your lyrics. You put them in a trance.”
“Do I putyouin a trance?”
She blushes and looks away. “I enjoy singing with you.”
I give her a neutral half-smile. “We harmonize well together.”
“Other than Dana, have you sung with anyone else?”
I shake my head and look over my shoulder at my sister, who is holding up our rehearsal.
“No.”
Ajay slaps me on the shoulder and gives it a good squeeze. “Mr. Broody prefers to play alone,” he tells her. I want to elbow him in the gut and tell him to get back behind the drums where he belongs, but he doesn’t give me a chance and stands out of reach.
“How did you join the band?” she asks Ajay.
“Elle asked me after I won a drummer competition their dad held.”
“Oh, I remember seeing some of that online. I didn’t realize you won.”
Ajay nods.
“Gotta say, I’m not a fan of this bonding session,” I tell him, but don’t say anything to Justine. I actually don’t mind her hanging around. She’s a nice kid and eager to learn.
Finally, Elle comes over and says we’re ready to finish so we can get the hell out of here. Tonight is the last night Talking Til Dawn will be on the tour with us. Tomorrow, they’ll head to Beaumont and start working in the studio with Liam on their next album.
We run through the setlist and then start over, but this time, we’re putting on a full damn show for anyone hanging out in the arena. The crew works tirelessly to make sure the sound is perfect, and all is going swimmingly until, between songs, someone on the loudspeaker calls for Eleanora to report to her desk, and then it’s downhill for me even though deep down I know it’s notmyNola.
There’s too much of everything all around me. Nola’s voice in my head. The note she left me in my thoughts. Her engagement ring pressing against my chest, cutting deeper and leaving its mark because of my guitar strap.
Every damn lyric I’ve written over the past handful of years is because of her. Because I have loved her, worshipped her, and now, I’ve lost her.
When it’s time for Justine and me to perform, I need a minute. This song can’t be about missing Nola; it has to be about the music. The show. The job.
Right now, I’m a performer.
The rocker people have come to see. They expect me to sing the songs they love and don’t give a rat's ass that my heart is broken into a million shards of glass, slicing into my flesh as they try to escape.
The song ends, and it sounds like shit. Complete and utter crap. “Run it again?” I demand, walking back to the mic.
Justine lifts one brow. “It was perfect.”
“Not even close,” I mutter.
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue.
I glance over my shoulder at my band, and we start the track again. And again, until her voice finds mine in all the right places. I close my eyes and let the lyrics flow from me, picturing Nola standing there, stage left, the entire time while I sing about the heartache this “pause” has put me through.
When the last of the melody is played, I open my eyes and see Justine, staring back at me with so much intensity, I have to excuse myself from rehearsal.