Hidden with a Rockstar (Holiday Harmonies #3)

1. The Gig

THE GIG

"You don't understand, this tempo is already sitting at one-seventy," the guy on my screen says, "and she's layering ghost notes under that? That's insane."

I'm clicking around the spreadsheet as I listen to the video.

I divide my screen into three parts: a spreadsheet fills the middle of the desktop, and I position Riley Puth's latest practice recording leaning against my pencil case. It acts as a blocker—anyone walking past the cube sees just another accountant hunched over work.

The YouTuber keeps talking over it. "Look at her left hand—see that, wow, right there—"

On screen, Riley's expression doesn't change. She transitions out of the solo as if nothing just happened.

Just a slight exhale. So cool.

The commentator laughs. "That's amazing."

I realise I've been leaning closer to the screen without meaning to.

My phone vibrates.

I grab it and read the messages flooding in before my brain catches up with my mouth.

Ravita

TONIGHT. TONIGHT.

Marnie

I'm hiding in the stockroom watching this.

Ravita

I'm packed and ready. My mask has been in my bag since last week.

I'm already pulling up the group chat, already typing back:

I'm packed too. See you two at the airport! Riley owes me emotional compensation for the resale tickets.

Ravita

It was worth it. Even if it's instant noodles for months.

Marnie

We're pathetic.

Ravita

I know.

The spreadsheet sits idle on my left monitor. Fifty-three thousand dollars in a category labeled "Other." I closed the tab without saving.

I dig through my desk drawer—stapler, USB stick, chocolate bar—and surface with the limited edition Siren mask. This is an exclusive version with ombré scales.

Somebody please bring tissues.

Ravita

Already have them. I've got multiple packs, a pack for each of us.

Marnie

What if tonight's the night she does the supreme stick technique?

Ravita

ALL of them are supreme stick techniques!

I laugh at my desk. Susan in the next cubicle glances over. I pretend to be working. The bonus: Jani won't clock me from the stage. Years of this—going to shows, seeing my sister play on stage while my friends scream and I record.

The venue fills up around six forty-five. Ravita's already claimed our spot—four rows back, dead centre, phone charged, mask already tied in place. She's adjusting the ribbon for the third time since I arrived.

"It looks good Ravita."

"Its not symmetrical. What if she looks up and sees three of us with lopsided ribbons?"

"You're right." I look at my pocket mirror to make it balanced.

"I saw your post is going viral again." Ravita asks. "I saw there was like three hundred comments the last time I checked."

"It was the power of Riley. I just analysed what I saw, it's no big deal. "

"It is a big deal! They even sent you these limited edition masks!"

"I admit that's the best thing about having a fan account."

"Lena." She looks at me. "You're now professional music journalist."

"No way." I laugh. "I'm an accountant."

Marnie shows up two minutes later with a tote bag dumped full of snacks. She threw her arms around both of us without hesitation. All three of us jump up and down in excitement.

"I can't believe this day has come!"

"Get your mask on!" Ravita announced.

We adjust our ribbons in synchrony.

The scales catch the stage wash and send flecks across my cheekbones. I catch my reflection in my phone screen—the mask makes my jawline sharper, my eyes bigger.

"Okay before they start," Marnie says, turning to us, "I need to say something."

"No," Ravita says. "Not today."

"I haven't said anything yet!"

"You're going to talk about the Belladonnas again and I've decided to deny you that platform."

"I'm just saying their bassist is—"

"No," Ravita repeats.

"Don't be rude, I haven't finished talking, Ravita."

"I'm protecting you from yourself. Tonight is The Sirens, Riley Puth energy. Not Belladonna energy."

Marnie crosses her arms and rolls her eyes.

"Okay fine, but I'm allowed to appreciate multiple bands."

"You're allowed. But you're not going to do it in front of me." Ravita checks her phone. "Five minutes. Get your cameras ready."

The Sirens open with "Service Topline," and the bass line drops through the floor.

Everything else drops away—the reconciliation report.

My phone up with the camera steady. Watching Riley tear through her drumkit kit with focused ferocity that gives me goosebumps.

Her sticks blur. My hands shake right after I stop the recording.

"Did you see that?" I grab Ravita's arm.

"I did!"

"I can't stop watching this." Ravita says, rewatching on her own phone.

"It was so good," I said.

Marnie is just breathing, fanning herself. "I can't. I can't handle this."

My sister Jani is on stage left with her bass slung low, black hair falling across her face as she locks into a groove. She has no idea I'm here. Tonight I'm just a fan in a mask with her two best friends, screaming about the drummer.

The Sirens' performance lasts for forty minutes. It's never enough.

"That was," Ravita says when they exit stage left, breathing hard, "the best performance they've ever played."

"No it wasn't," Marnie argues. "That was good but the Brooklyn performance was stronger."

"That was ages ago."

"But it was the greatest set of my life."

The band changeover begins. Ravita's already texting.

"Let's pass on the Belladonnas?" I ask her, though I know the answer.

"Hard pass."

"Nooo, please?" Marie clasps her hands together, using her best puppy eye expression. "Just stay here we've paid already for these tickets."

"Okay, okay."

We've let it rest. Our group chat is based on unanimous enthusiasm—Riley, The Sirens. We don't do complicated feelings about rival bands.

The Belladonnas' crew starts rolling gear out for the changeover, and the floor roars anyway—louder than it did for The Sirens.

"I'll be back—merch run," I say, already up on my toes. Ravita gives me a thumbs up.

"Nothing with a Belladonna on it."

"Of course," I say, grinning, and weave off through the crowd on my own.

They aren't even playing yet—still setting up, a tech taping down cables while the bassist runs a low line in soundcheck.

I've got my phone up and my mask on, scrolling my Riley footage with half my attention and hunting for the merch table with the other half—which is exactly why I don't see the person stepping backward off the floor with an armful of cable until a hand connects with the side of my face.

Not my face. The mask.

The impact is hard enough that I hear the crack before I feel it. I feel my stomach drop. The ombré scales fracture along the seam where the gradient peaks. The strap breaks. Everything burns itself into memory: the mask separating, my soda flying, orange Fanta painting an arc through the air.

It lands on leather pants. Black leather pants, now streaked with a dark stain, belonging to a woman staring at the mess as if it has offended her.

"Oh my god, your pants—" The apology is halfway out of me before I even look down at my own hands and see the pieces. "You—you just destroyed it." My voice cracks right down the middle.

She's tall. Brown dreadlocks with purple ombré at the tips. Full sleeve of tattoos winding from wrist to shoulder. Hazel eyes pin me in place.

"Ugh. These are custom." She says, gesturing to her pants, now having a huge wet stain on one leg.

"You can wash those! But my mask is limited edition." I hold the pieces higher so she can see the cracked scales.

"It was an accident."

"Accident? You're standing right there without paying attention to where your hands go."

She purses her lips and steps closer. "I'm sorry, I'll buy you a replacement."

"You can't. What I had is gone."

"Right, how about I buy you regular one?"

"I don't want a regular one. I want the one your elbow just murdered."

"This is ridiculous," she says, running her hand through her hair. "You're going to stand here and keep arguing."

"It was a limited edition mask!"

"Well, what did you expect? You were standing in the middle of the venue floor."

"That's where people stand, I was within my right to stand."

She stares at me. "You were on your phone, in the middle of the venue floor. Not paying any attention to your surroundings is not my problem."

"The irony of you breaking something while acting like I'm the problem is not lost on me."

We stand in the wreckage of our respective damages.

"Enjoy your evening," she says, in a voice that means the opposite, and walks toward the stage door.

I stand at the merch table holding the two broken pieces, watching her disappear backstage.

"That was Rhonda," the guy behind the counter says, nodding toward where she went. "Sorry she's not usually like that."

"She was really rude."

"She's usually more—I don't know. Professional? Tonight she seems off."

I buy the tour print. I run my thumb along the fracture, feeling where the ombré shifts from teal to violet. The edge is sharp.

The crowd noise is enormous. I'm maybe thirty seconds into turning around when Jani's voice cuts through it.

"Lena?"

My sister is standing behind me with a towel over her shoulder and her bass strap marks still red on her collarbone.

"You came! What are you doing here?" She asks.

"I'm watching a show like everybody else here."

Her eyes widen. "Is that our super limited edition mask?"

"Yeah…"

"What happened?" she says.

"Ugh." I hold my head in my hands. "I don't want to talk about it."

She leans in close, dropping her voice against my ear.

"We gave some masks to the RileyStickLovers account. That's you? Fourteen thousand followers?"

"It might be." I won't lie to her.

"I knew it!"

"Don't tell anyone, please."

"I had no idea you're such a big fan of Riley."

My face goes hot, and I'm grinning. "Please tell me you did not show Riley my post."

"Maybe." She smiles. "She thought it was a professional music journalist, I may have let her keep thinking that."

"Jani!"

"What? She's impressed." She shrugs. "She is curious about the person in charge."

"That's the last thing I need."

"Why? You're good at this."

"I'm too busy for this."

"I had no idea my little sister loved my band this much." She gives a small smile.

"You were incredible."

She squeezes my arm.

"I have to go back and pack up," she remarks. "When's your flight?

"It's in the afternoon."

"Let's have lunch. And I'll set you up with another mask."

"Oh," I say, feeling better already. "Yeah alright."

She disappears through the stage door.

I turn back toward the crowd, and that's when I see her.

On stage plugging in her bass. Adjusting her monitor mix. Checking her tech's headset. The lady who broke my limited edition mask. The woman with the hazel eyes and the custom pants is a Belladonna. She's wearing a new pair of pants.

I find Ravita and Marnie in the crowd. They both have their masks on. They look perfect.

"Where's your mask?" Marnie asks, squinting at me.

"Well, a Belladonna attacked me at the merch table, and it broke."

"What? Their fans are crazy."

"It wasn't a fan, it was an actual Belladonna."

Marnie squeaked. "Really? Whoa. Which one? I'm so jealous."

I fold my arms. "That's not the point."

Kavita elbowed her. "Which side are you on?"

"Sorry."

"So which one?"

"The bassist, her name is Rhonda. She was rude and had zero remorse."

"We will avenge you," Ravita says, and her arm goes around my shoulder. "This is a violation of our group. "

"I just want my mask back. That's all I need right now."

"I'll buy you a new one," Marnie offered.

"You know that's impossible."

"Then we'll steal one," Ravita declares.

"That's felony-level dedication and I appreciate it but also please don't commit crimes."

"I'll commit whatever crimes are necessary," Ravita says. "You're not going through the rest of the other concerts with a broken mask. That's unacceptable."

"Thanks, but I'll email them and see if they can send me another one."

Jani already promised to send one. I can't say that, though—not without explaining why my sister would mail me a limited-edition Sirens mask, and that secret is the one thing I've never let slip in this group.

"Oh true, that's the power of influencing and Riley's drumsticks."

I lean into her, and the mask pieces in my bag dig into my hip. I stand between my friends and watch the Belladonnas play a set I refuse to enjoy, even though their bassist's low end sits in my ribs. Her fingers move across the fretboard with confidence.

Marnie nudges my shoulder. "Her bass is incredible though. I think it's as good as Jani."

"Don't you start," Ravita warns her. "We don't do Belladonna appreciation in this group."

"I'm just saying."

"You're not allowed."

I pull out my phone and open the fan account. I've got four Riley clips to edit. A breakdown to write. A group chat full of concert joy to catch up on. None of it will include the Belladonnas' bassist.

Ravita leans over and sighs. "I love my life."

"Me too. You know what? The Belladonna songs are catchy. Though their bassist really does—"

I feel a surge of anger.

"Don't," I say. "We agreed."

"We all doubted ourselves because of Marnie."

Marnie says nothing. She is observing the show with her hands clasped, radiating joy from every part of her.

I zip my bag over the damaged mask. My new enemy on the stage is playing a bass line. I look at my shattered mask and I hope I never meet her again.