Page 4

Three

Isaac

T he lights are blinding as I clutch the guitar pick between my fingers and sing into the mic. Beyond the brightness, I don’t see individual people but a tidal wave of bodies and voices. Arms reaching overhead, phone flashlights gleaming, my own lyrics being echoed back to me as I reach the bridge.

To my right, Lola smiles so brightly I can see it in my periphery. And behind me the band plays, and it’s all I hear in my earpiece.

Being on tour is like nothing else I could have imagined. After my music really took off online, I knew the fan base had grown. Now, being here in a stadium where fans fill literally every seat, and they sing every word of my music, is incredible.

A fucking dream come true.

On the bridge, I let go of my guitar and swing it behind me so I can hug the stand and sing directly into the mic. I manage to make eye contact with some screaming fans in the audience as I bare my soul through the song.

Some lyrics I wrote when I was drunk or feeling emotional or pissed at my dad. It’s a song about being on my own, about saying goodbye, about finding myself. Most people assume it’s a breakup song, and I guess, for all intents and purposes, it is.

They just don’t realize it’s Theo Virgil breaking up with Isaac Goode.

I open my eyes and stare into the eyes of a young woman in the pit as she screams my own words back to me, and there’s a connection so visceral between us that she starts crying immediately.

Damn, girl, who hurt you?

On the last chorus, I pull the guitar back to my front and play even louder, giving a little jump as I strum. Lights flash, and my name in bright bulbs behind me pulse as the song ends and the crowd goes wild.

“Thank you, Los Angeles!” I say, breathless, as I hold up a hand. I toss the pick into the crowd and the people scurry for it desperately.

Sweat drips down my brow and my muscles ache, but I wouldn’t trade this for anything. As the band and I bow, I’m already excited just thinking about doing it all over again two nights from now in Portland.

The four of us make our way offstage and meet in the back for a postshow celebration. Lola and I hug each other as the other guys share some high fives and cheers. Every show feels like a celebration.

Granted, we’ve only been on tour for a week now and this is only the fourth show, but I don’t know if I’ll ever get sick of it. The energy is amazing.

The only downside, and I’m going to chalk this up to beginner’s stress, is that I haven’t written a word all week. In fact, since that day in the bathroom, when I stared into the mirror and wondered if I’d be a slutty loner for the rest of my life, the words just stopped coming.

No music. No lyrics. No feelings whatsoever.

Someone passes me a water bottle and I quickly chug it down, dousing the last third over my head. Lola and I make our way to the tour bus out back while the rest of the guys hang back. The tour bus is big enough for all of us, but they like to stick around and make sure their instruments get packed up correctly.

All I have to do is pass my guitar to the nearest roadie. As he takes it from my hand, he looks into my eyes and smiles. “Got it, boss,” he says with a wink, and I hesitate.

He has dark-brown hair that curls from the front to the back, cropped shorter on the sides in what I like to call a country mullet. He has nice eyes too, something I’ve noticed nearly every night of this tour.

“Thanks,” I stammer after clearing my throat.

Lola would have my head if I tried hooking up with one of our roadies. As he walks off with my guitar, my eyes follow him, and Lola notices.

“Don’t even think about it,” she barks, grabbing the back of my arm and hauling me toward the backstage door.

“What?” I ask, feigning innocence. “I was making sure he had my guitar.”

“Right,” she replies, unconvinced.

“Then let’s go out. I need to get laid, Lo. It’s been a week!” I complain as we reach the door. The moment the security guard opens it, I hear the fans screaming. The short distance from the door to the bus, I turn and wave to them as they snap photos of me and beg me for an autograph.

Lola passes me my cowboy hat, and I slip it on quickly before jogging over to the crowd of mostly ladies to sign what they have. I sign pictures, hats, shirts, and one pair of breasts. I wink at the girl as I hand her back her black marker.

“I’m never showering again,” she says with a sigh.

Gross .

“Hope you enjoyed the show,” I reply with a laugh.

After the tits, I move down the line to a younger woman who is staring at me with wide, tear-brimmed eyes. I smile at her and she starts to cry. Just when I expect her to ask me to sign something of hers, she reaches out her hands and clutches onto mine.

“Your lyrics saved my life,” she says with a sob.

I freeze, staring at her as emotion burrows itself in the back of my throat.

“You have no idea how powerful your music is,” she continues. “I ran away from home because of your songs and they’ve gotten me through the dark times. You’re amazing.”

A tear slips down her cheek and I scan her features, trying to discern how old she is. Does she know that I ran away too, or is it a coincidence? Does she have any support, or is she sleeping on the streets?

My heart swells as I stare at the young woman. I don’t know what the fuck to say. I’ve had interactions like this before on my indie tour, but never this intense. My music reaches further now. More ears. More fans. More exposure.

“Thank you,” I stutter. “Take care of yourself. I’m proud of you for putting yourself first,” I say, and she cries more. Then she puts out her arms, and I let her wrap them around me, engulfing me in a hug as my security guards in their yellow shirts approach.

“That’s enough,” one of them says, but I let the girl embrace me a few moments longer.

Finally, when she pulls away, she whispers, “Thank you, Theo.”

“Uh…you’re welcome,” I say as I let the guard pull me away and guide me to the bus. The girl’s voice echoes in my ears.

Thank you, Theo.

I want to tell her that Theo didn’t do shit. He didn’t run away or write those words. He might have performed them, but it was Isaac who shed the blood, sweat, and tears in those songs.

“Everything all right?” Lola asks as I climb aboard the bus. She’s already pulling out her clothes for a shower. I always let her go first.

“Yeah,” I reply, shaking off the interaction.

“The driver said we’re not leaving until five,” she adds as she rummages through her stuff.

My head picks up, my interest piqued.

“In the morning?” I ask.

“No, next Tuesday,” she replies with sarcasm. “Yes, in the morning.”

I glance down at my phone. It’s only eleven thirty, and we don’t have a show tomorrow.

“Does that mean we can go out?” I ask with excitement.

She turns around and gives me a stern expression. “Yes, but just a few beers and no hooking up.”

I huff in frustration. “What? You think I can’t make it back in time?”

“If anyone can go out, find someone to fool around with, and make it back in five hours or less, it’s you,” she says coolly.

“Aww…you’re just saying that.” I smile brightly.

“I’m serious, Isaac. Just a few beers.”

“Yes, Mommy.”

She takes a quick shower and I’m right behind her. The tour manager isn’t going to just let us leave on our own, so we have to have a driver take us with security nearby. But at this point, I don’t give a shit. It’s been nothing but work for a week straight, and tonight, I’m ready to have some fun.

Lola and I are the only two going out. The rest of the band, Hugh, Rio, and Waylon, rarely party with us, anyway. Hugh is married and travels with his wife, Rio is like sixty, and Waylon prefers to stay in and unwind alone.

Lola picks a local bar that seems low-key enough, and we climb into the back of a black SUV together with two security guys dressed a little more discreetly than before. It’s not a gay bar, much to my disappointment. But I get it. It would blow my cover, big time.

I never set out to spend my career in the closet. This isn’t how I wanted it to be, but my image grew too fast before I had a chance to say something.

Not to mention, the country music fan base isn’t exactly the same crowd who cheer on the pop stars who come out. I don’t know how they’d react, and I’m terrified to find out.

And then, of course, there’s the issue of my label not knowing I’m gay. They asked me to sign on the dotted line and I never thought to stop them and say, “Hey, by the way, you should know, I enjoy sucking dick. Will that be a problem?”

So, yeah. The likelihood of getting that tonight is very slim to none, but I’ll happily settle for getting drunk at a bar on a rowdy Saturday night.

I slip out of the SUV with a pair of shades on, and Lola looks back and laughs at me.

“What?” I ask. “I want to be incognito.”

She loops her arm through mine as we make our way inside. It’s a loud, busy bar with a dance floor to the right and a long bar that is brimming with people. Feeling instantly exposed and uncomfortable, I’m in desperate need of a drink.

Just when I think this is a stupid idea, the security guard ushers us to a set of stairs on the right.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Someone called ahead and reserved you a VIP table up here,” he says.

Lola and I make eye contact, sharing an expression of surprise. We’re not really VIP people. We’re more dive bar, hole-in-the-wall-type people, but this I could get used to. Especially when they show us to a large area with a private bar, servers, and large tables occupied by others.

“Welcome,” a cute server says as we sit down at the table. “What can I get you guys to drink?” she asks.

Before long there is an entire bottle of Tito’s on the table between us because neither of us felt right ordering beer in a place like this.

“Holy shit, isn’t he an actor?” Lola asks as she nods her head to the table next to us.

I turn around to see some fancy action star behind me with a throng of women around him.

“Oh fuck, yeah, it is. He’s even hotter in person,” I whisper back to her.

It feels strange to be at the table alone with Lola, and I wonder if this was a mistake, but before long, others start to approach and see our empty seats and spare alcohol as an invitation.

The vodka goes down easy and the party blurs nicely around us. Some people recognize me, but it’s not like being surrounded by fans. Most of them are other celebrities or friends of celebrities.

As the night goes on, I let loose. I get flirty. Typical Theo behavior. I’m touching people and making inappropriate jokes, and I lose track of Lola because she caught the eye of some hot young actor.

A very good-looking guy ends up sitting next to me and telling me all about his Instagram page devoted to fitness, which I can’t be less fucking interested in. But I’m drunk, so I fake it and focus on how nicely muscled his thighs are and how good he smells and how nice his lips would look around my cock.

But I never make a move. I just listen to him go on and on about his career, his message and his values, and I never once nudge him to go to the bathroom with me to fool around.

Why? Because he knows I’m Theo Virgil, and it’s not worth the risk.

One pic of me hurrying off with a guy would ruin everything and at the beginning of my big tour.

Even when he places a hand on my thigh, I manage to talk him off, and I’ve never done that before. It all just feels so fucking unfair. Lola is in the corner of the bar making out with some dude she just met and I’m denying myself this fitness god because I’m afraid the world won’t like it.

When Lola and I finally stumble our way back to the SUV, I’m in a bad mood. I should be proud of myself for making the smart choice, but I’m not. I’m just pissed and still a little horny.

Deep down, it suddenly feels like I’m living in Truett Goode’s house again. Like the whole fucking world is Truett Goode’s house, and I’ll never be able to escape.