Page 137 of Raise Me Up

Strange to think the comment doesn’t bother me. Not when giving up the fame and the money and the screaming fans gives me the opportunity to see Beau and Stas any time I want. Not when I can feel the tattered pieces inside of me finally mending.

Proof I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

I glance over at Stas and Beau flirting in the kitchen and nearly lose my self-control. Beau’s got her caged against the island, his hands grippingher exposed hips in that little cropped sweater she’s wearing, his tongue licking up the trail of powdered sugar on her cheek.

If we didn’t have company, I’d fuck them both right there.

No. I’d take my time with them. Take them upstairs to my bed and show them how much I’ve fallen for them.

Slipping my hands in my pockets, I continue watching their playful struggle in the kitchen. Beau lifts his head from Stas’s neck and flashes me a blinding smile.

Can I be certain I won’t fuck this up?No. But Stas and Beau are making me question everything I thought I knew about myself.

Maybe I can be what they need. Maybe if I work hard, I can bemore.

forty

Beau

One song.

That’s all I need to crawl my way out of this hell. One solid track, and I can get back to who I was before I got kicked out of Lithos.

Before I grew a tumor, too.

It’s so simple. Everything I’ve ever wanted is within my gasp. Literally at my fucking fingertips as I sit on the piano bench in Liam’s studio at three in the morning.

My hands clench into fists. So why do I feel sick to my stomach? Like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for fate to decide what it wants to do with me? Either pull me to safety or finally shove me off and end this foolish dream of mine once and for all.

“Beau.”

I smash my fists down on the keys. “You told me to work through this shit. Let me work through it, okay?”

Fuck me for making Liam drive me here in the middle of the night just because I woke up with an itch to write a song.

It’s the most complex piece I’ve ever composed. It might besomething. If only I could fucking play it.

“That was before you had brain surgery, Beau. Shit’s gonna take time. There’s a limit to hard work. Even I recognize that now.”

I let my hands slide off the keys. “Or you recognize that this isn’t working. My career’s over. Just tell me straight up, Liam. I’m done being handled like I’m breakable.”

Fuck the ups and downs of recovery, too. If I’d known I was going to feel like this, I might have opted to leave the damn tumor in place.

Removing it didn’tfixme. It only made my arm worse.

Stasi keeps telling me to be patient. I think she’s wearing herself thin trying to convince me everything will be fine. That things will get better. She’s putting her all into date nights, most of which she ends up massaging my arm until I pass out on her lap.

It’s so one-sided. I hate it.

I drop my head onto the piano, convinced Liam’s silence is confirmation of my garbage playing.

It’s been months since I’ve felt productive. Fuckingyearssince I’ve created anything of quality to share with fans.

This is the career I chose. I’ve wanted it for as long as I can remember. I’ve worked so hard to get here.

And now I’m failing miserably.

Worry curls in my gut that I’m pissing Liam off. I wouldn’t blame him for getting upset with me. I asked him to bring me here in the middle of the night just to waste his precious time. I dragged Lithos down. Now I’m dragging Liam and Stasi down, too.