Page 51

Several hundred fans without tickets are outside, holding hands and crying on the sidewalk.

There are tears shimmering in Sterling’s eyes during the last few songs, every one magnified huge on the Jumbotron as it tracks down his face.

It’s emotional for you, and you aren’t even the one on stage.

You’ve seen the concert a couple dozen times at this point, and you know every move, every transition, and every costume change.

You know when the pyrotechnics are going to shoot into the sky, you know when a big group dance number’s coming, and you know all the call-outs that the fans scream back at Sterling.

There’s still something magical in the air that night.

A vibe of finality imbues every moment, from the moment Ster walks on stage and introduces himself — which you always thought was funny, because talk about unnecessary — to the moment when he’s alone on stage, eyes closed, as he belts the ballad that he closes with.

He’s wearing the turquoise jumpsuit that you love, the one from the plastic figure in your office, and his hair has gone to rogue frizz from the humidity still hanging in the air.

He’s electric. After the last note, he normally blows a kiss and leaves the stage while the crowd thunders through one last round of applause, gathers their things, and beats a massive exodus for the doors.

But tonight, he pauses on his mark. Holds out his arms to the crowd, like he could possibly encircle all of them in his arms.

“Thank you for joining me on this tour. I love you all,” he calls. His voice catches. “I’ll see you soon.”

The audience loses their collective mind.

They stomp the stands to the point that you can feel it from the floor, where the VIP tent is, like it could register as seismic activity.

They make heart- hands, they blow kisses, they scream like they are trying to call down Jesus.

All the European shows, you’ve waited backstage to be closer to Sterling, but you wanted to watch this one, the last one, from the audience.

To see it like it’s meant to be seen. You feel wrapped up in the sonic energy the crowd is projecting, an almost palpable force. It’s warm. Fiercely loving.

Sterling lingers on stage a moment longer, soaking it in. Then he waves and exits.

It takes about forty-five minutes for you to be escorted back to him through the labyrinthine web of corridors behind the stage.

You knew that would be the case when you chose to watch from the floor.

You always feel stupid riding in the dinky golf cart, being zipped around from place to place.

He’s in his dressing room, which is awash in flowers—every person who knows him in the whole world must have sent an arrangement—fresh from a shower, his hair pulled back in a wet braid, gulping his water.

Sterling always looks tired after a show, but tonight he looks particularly weary.

Emotion is naked on his face. He’s leaning against the long vanity, his body folded in on itself.

“You were amazing,” you tell him by way of greeting, sweeping him into your arms.

His forehead wrinkles, and he pulls back. “You think so? There was that section from Golden with the feathers, where I didn’t quite… ”

You quickly shake your head. In one motion, sink into his big chair and pull him down onto your lap.

“Nuh-uh. It was perfect. It doesn’t matter anymore.

It’s over. As far as everyone in that stadium was concerned, it was the most beautiful, glorious, life-changing experience on Earth. That’s the story we’re going with.”

That makes him roll his eyes. Crack a smile, looping his arms around your neck. “You’re stupid,” he declares.

“That’s not nice,” a feminine voice drawls from the doorway. You turn your head. Belatedly, the woman leaning against the frame knocks. “Oops. Sorry, Ster. Am I interrupting?”

It’s Ronnie Lewis, lead singer of Neon Roses, the band that opened for Sterling the last two cities.

There hadn’t been time to get any huge acts for the six stops on the Euro extension, so all the openers were a little less-known, more up-and-coming.

Sterling absolutely loved the chance to support smaller talent.

Neon Roses was an act that he hand-picked after listening to their music on TikTok, a trio of pop-rock sisters.

Veronica, alias “Ronnie,” middle sibling and frontwoman, has long, long dark hair shot through with a riot of bleached highlights and twisted into a complicated crown of plaits.

Her elfin ears are pierced six or seven times on each side, from the lobes straight up the helix, and threaded with little silver hoops.

She’s got thin lips and a bit of an overbite, but it all adds up to sexy and alluring on her face.

At the moment, her black eyes are sparkling with mischief, and one hand is hidden behind the voluminous maxi skirt she’s wearing with a tiny crochet top.

“It’s fine, Ronnie. Where are Alis and Phoebe?” Ster asks.

Ronnie makes a vague, dismissive gesture. “Around,” she guesstimates. “We were together right when you got offstage, but Alis was on her phone and Feeb ran off with one of your roadies, that fucking slag. The show was bloody brilliant, Ster. Couldn’t believe it. Best night yet.”

“ Last night,” Sterling corrects her gently.

“More’s the pity.” She pulls a face. “I swear, I could do this every night of my life.”

On your lap, Sterling’s chuckle vibrates through you. “Take it from someone who’s done it for almost two years; it gets tiring.”

“Yeah. That tracks. Doesn’t mean it isn’t a blast. I’ll get to the point.” She twists from side to side playfully. “Can we hitch a ride on your fancy plane?”

He sounds surprised. “My plane? Of course you can. Where do you need to go? ”

Ronnie shrugs. “Wherever you’re going. We’ve never flown private before, and we figured we might never get the chance again. Thought we’d have ourselves a little after-party, yeah? Just take the round-trip.”

“We’re only going back to London,” you speak up. “I think it’s, like, an hour and a half. Not exactly Party Central?”

She emits a dismissive psh . “Plenty of time, if you party efficiently.”

Sterling looks wary. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, Ronnie, but I’m not actually that exciting. I prefer not to have any hard stuff onboard. No judgment, though. Totally get it if that’s a deal-breaker.”

Looking mightily offended, Ronnie tilts her head. “I’m not bringing drugs on your airliner, Sterling-my-love. What kind of low-life do you take me for?”

“What were you thinking?” he asks. He draws his knees up. You are big enough that he can just use you like a goddamn couch, getting all comfy.

Whipping her hand out from behind her back, Ronnie reveals a gallon-sized Ziploc bag with a magician’s flourish. It’s full of cakey brown squares. She shakes it enticingly .

“Are those brownies?” you ask.

“Hash brownies!” she exclaims gleefully. “Got ‘em off a fan at the stage door. She made them specially for us, because Alis mentioned on Instagram that she’d never tried them.”

Sterling sucks his teeth thoughtfully. “You’d eat food from a fan? How do you know it’s safe?”

“Made them for us, not you, right?” Ronnie shrugs.

“We’re not superstars, love. Neon Roses isn’t a big enough deal for people to try and poison us.

A little sweet parasocial fangirling, sure.

Nothing crazy. I did molly with a girl in Cardiff a while back.

That was a trip. Shared our whole lives’ stories while rolling off our faces. ”

“I thought you said that you didn’t want drugs?” you comment to Sterling. You dislike the idea of him feeling pressured, even if the thought of twenty-one-year-old Ronnie from Manchester pressuring Sterling Grayson, Superstar, is more than ludicrous.

His gaze finds yours. “Pot’s not really a drug, right?” His expression is guileless. “You get high sometimes.”

“I do,” you admit guardedly.

“So do I,” Ronnie laughs.

“I never would’ve guessed,” you say dryly .

Sterling cracks his knuckles. The dampness of his braid is starting to seep through your shirt to your skin. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Just then, Alis peeks around the corner.

She can bob under Ronnie’s arm, being almost a head shorter.

Same dark hair, at least at the roots, but hers is growing out a fading Kool-Aid red dye job and chopped into a shag.

She’s got chipmunk cheeks and a striped, sleeveless dress clinging tight-tight to her Venus of Willendorf figure, slit up to her hip.

With the gusto she was playing bass on stage, you kept worrying about a wardrobe malfunction.

You’re pretty sure she’s the eldest sister of the trio.

“Got the wine!” she chirps. “That stupid scrote Colin was good for something. ‘Sappenin, boys?”

Ronnie beams. “Alis got the wine,” she repeats. Turns to her sister. “You seen Feebs?”

“Oh, she’s dead in love with that pyro-tech,” Alis announces. “Got her tongue down his throat in the corridor.”

“I thought he was in lighting?” Ronnie says.

“No, definitely pyro. She wants to know if he can come on the plane.”

Facing Sterling, Ronnie shrugs. A silent question.

Sterling laughs, a little helpless. “The more, the merrier,” he says.

Oh, boy , you think to yourself.

***