Chapter 7
7
Valerie
If the song choice hadn’t surprised me enough, the eyeliner stops me in my tracks.
Urban Decay Perversion, on top of tousled waves, and that electric presence that casts the whole room in neon—Caleb looks and sounds incredible. The original key of this song is at the top of his range, but his voice is sinfully sweet on the highest notes. I’ve missed every version of Caleb, but especially this one—free, fun, having the time of his life and making you feel like it’s the time of yours just because you’re witnessing his joy.
Now he’s waving me up there in the middle of a song.
It’s like I’m time traveling six years in the past—or hell, ten —to become the girl I was back then, the girl who sang with him. I’m even wearing a vintage T-shirt I stole from him years ago, and it’s become so integrated into my own wardrobe that I forgot where it came from until this very moment. The room is full of people recording, and this is going to get out…which I remember is exactly what I wanted. Caleb is throwing me a lifeline. The gesture feels intimate, the first connection we’ve had in years, and I almost don’t want to let all of these people back in.
But performing is like improv—the only response to your partner can be “Yes, and…”
So I say yes. Jane’s already urging me up with a gentle push, and as I weave around the tables, the buzz of the crowd intensifies. The bar is hot, almost humid, and my feet keep sticking to the floor where beer has spilled, but I don’t let anything stop me until I reach him.
I smile shyly at Caleb from the base of the stage, but I’m not sure what to do. The chorus is almost over and I don’t see another microphone—are we supposed to share one shitty karaoke mic? But the emcee is paying close attention, and with a light of recognition in his eyes, he hurries up to plug in the second microphone, offering it to me like a gift.
Here we go. I climb up the steps to the stage and grab the mic for dear life. It’s cold and rough in my hands, the grille dented and scraped from years of misuse.
Caleb points to me and points up. Immediately recognizing the signal, I take melody on the next verse. Caleb layers an earnest harmony on top of my line, his eyes never leaving mine, and his voice is a delicious embrace, even on this cheap sound system in an unremarkable bar in Venice.
And then I remember it all over again.
No matter when or where we play together, it happens every time, this spark. The music we make is lightning across my skin, burning through my veins, igniting me from head to toe. Our hearts set the beat.
I don’t know if I can’t look away or if I just don’t want to.
But a whoop from the crowd shocks me back to my senses, and I tear my gaze from him. I face the room and wink; I toss my hair and sway my hips and lean into the high notes. I make it a show.
Because that’s all this is, for show. No matter how good this feels, I won’t fall for him again—on- or offstage.
This synchronicity is what was missing during rehearsal today . I couldn’t separate the intensity of it from my connection to Caleb offstage, but if we can just connect as musicians like this, that will be enough to make this work. Too quickly, the song ends, and as we each take a little bow, the crowd demands an encore.
The emcee comes up, begging us to honor that request. I squint at him through the harsh spotlight that’s hooked up too close to the stage, trying to survey the packed room. Where did all these people come from?
“What do you think?” Caleb murmurs. He’s all sweaty, face flushed, looking the way he did after his run this morning. But he’s also having fun. And still, he’s asking me what I want to do, the way he always did. Making sure we’re on the same page. Deferring to my comfort.
There’s so much hope in Caleb’s eyes that it just might break me. Something deep in my chest twists. Things have to be different this time— I have to be different. So I just nod, almost violently, and he leans into the microphone. “Do we have any Grease fans in the house?”
I laugh. Fine, Caleb. We can play.
“You’re the One That I Want” cues up on the screen, but we don’t need the lyrics. This was our go-to karaoke song back in high school, when we were playing smelly pubs and crappy time slots and would find a random place to unwind after a show—usually the pizza joint near Riker’s house that was open super late. The arcade was full of broken games, but somehow the karaoke machine always worked.
As the tinny, generic version of the opening bars plays, I flip my hair and smirk, mouthing Tell me about it, stud to Caleb. He grins, then literally gyrates his hips, and I cackle as he turns to the audience, channeling Travolta.
But damn, my throat catches when he sings the first line. I always thought Caleb should have done Broadway, and I believe it even more tonight. He’s got the chops. Caleb slides up to the high notes like they were made for him, and I enjoy getting to hang out in my low register after singing all day. Still, my voice aches a little from fatigue, and I pull back, letting Caleb steal the show this time.
As I finish the second verse, he gestures up with his chin, urging me to join him on his microphone. Heat creeps up the back of my neck. Too many feelings are swirling in my gut and I’m afraid that if I get any closer to him, I’ll fall back into old habits entirely.
So instead, I turn to face the room and grip my microphone tighter as I belt the chorus out to everyone. To make it look intentional, I use the mic stand as a prop, making it sway with my body as I serenade the tableful of bachelorettes near the stage. They whoop at my efforts, and I blow them a kiss. I avoid looking at Caleb as we finish the song, but it doesn’t matter—the crowd is going completely bananas.
A crowd that has clearly doubled since I joined the stage. It’s standing room only now.
Breathless from the performance, I finally look at Caleb. My chest heaves, but I’m grinning—and his smile is completely gone. Instead of looking happy, his face has lost all color. He swallows thickly, glancing around the room.
Shit , he mouths to me, indicating the crowd with his eyes in a subtle way only I can understand, even after all this time. I can see by his wide eyes that he’s panicking, which is strange.
Caleb was always so great with fans. He could hang out for hours after shows, signing merch and taking selfies and just getting to know the people who loved our music. Hell, he used to lecture the rest of us when we’d get tired, reminding us to honor the fans who made all of our success possible. And I’d sign tickets and posters and pose for photo after photo, no matter how my feet hurt, because he was right. We owed it to them.
Something is wrong.
“Thanks, everyone, have a good night,” I say quickly into the microphone. People rush up to the stage.
“Keep your pants on, kids,” Keeley shouts from her place near the stage, where she must have shouldered through the crowd, but her voice is drowned out by the commotion in the room. We’ve really done it now. People aren’t just pointing at us—they’re taking not-at-all-subtle photos of the rest of the band too. I blink when I notice Mary Kate Hampton from Buzzword next to Riker. When did the press figure out we were here?
Glancing around frantically, my pulse steadies when I don’t recognize anyone else. And maybe MK’s presence is totally innocent—I know she and Riker are friends. Still, as much as I wouldn’t mind some decent headlines, I can tell Caleb needs to get out of this room.
Setting my jaw, I square my shoulders and turn to the emcee. The guy is broad-shouldered, maybe late fifties, wearing a black bar T-shirt, black jeans, and an LA Kings cap. He looks like every reliable sound technician I’ve ever worked with, and it makes my muscles soften a little. “I’m so sorry about all the fuss.”
He shrugs. “It’s good for business. But I do have to get to the rest of the karaoke list at some point.”
“Do you have another exit?” I ask. I don’t blame him for wanting to get on with his night. We made a spectacle of ourselves.
He turns to us, grimacing. “We do, if you can make a run for it. Head left past the bathrooms through the door that says Staff Only .”
“Thank you,” Caleb says.
I shoot a desperate look at Keeley behind the fans, and instead of ignoring me the way I deserve after rehearsal today, her eyes fall to Caleb and light up in understanding.
I got you , she mouths, and I want to cry as she makes a beeline for our table.
“Hey, who wants a picture with Riker Maddox ?” she shouts. “If you’re really polite, he’ll sign your tits!”
“No, I won’t!” Riker squeaks, but the crowd starts to shift toward their table in the back. The commotion pulls enough attention away from us that we’re able to escape into the hall.
We turn the corner past the bathrooms, which leads us into a concrete storage room with a dull green Exit sign out the back. There are boxes stacked haphazardly, and several are open to reveal napkins and condiments and bottles of alcohol. If anyone followed us, the last thing I’d want to do is hang out back here, but Caleb doesn’t hurry for the exit. No, he’s leaning against the brick wall, panting.
“Caleb? We should really get out of here.”
He nods but keeps his eyes closed. “Yeah, just…give me a second to catch my breath. God, I forgot how much I hate this.”
I blink, confused by this revelation. “What do you mean?”
Caleb opens his eyes, and he glances over at me, something guarded in his gaze. “I didn’t just leave the band because of you, you know.”
I flinch. “Wow, okay.”
He shakes his head. “Sorry, it was just…things were fine when we were onstage, but then when I saw the crowd at the end, I felt trapped.”
“You were always so good with fans,” I say carefully.
“You’re not the only one who can act,” Caleb says, laughing dryly. “I have anxiety attacks. It’s been a while, and they’re mostly under control, but…between school ending and planning to be down here for the summer, I forgot to refill my prescription. Just give me a minute.”
“Do you need me to…” I trail off, because I don’t know how I can help him. In the dim lighting, he’s ghostly pale. I mirror his posture and rest against the opposite wall, the rough brick clinging to my damp T-shirt.
He clears his throat. “No, I just need to do a couple breathing exercises.” He pulls out his phone, and for a moment I think he’s texting, but we’re close enough for me to see he’s watching the clock. Counting his breaths.
Jesus. He wasn’t ready for this. I brace myself, unsure of what to expect, but after a few minutes, color returns to his face.
“Okay, I’m good now.” He still looks a little shaky, but I don’t want to push it. Almost of its own accord, my hand reaches out to comfort him, but I think better of it. Instead, I wipe pretend dust off my jeans.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t realize…you were always so natural at all of this. It always seemed like you liked the promo stuff.” I thought we were close, once upon a time. If I didn’t know he had panic attacks, what else was I missing? We were supposed to take care of each other. I can’t believe I was that wrapped up in my own shit.
He shrugs. “I was good at hiding it. I might know how to socialize, but I only ever wanted to make music that meant something to people. I never really felt comfortable with the attention.”
“Oh.” This surprises me. Maybe I really don’t know Caleb at all. When I asked him to do this, I didn’t even ask how he might feel about it. I asked him to jump in headfirst.
“Don’t worry. We made a deal, and I won’t go back on it. I’ll do whatever you need as long as I’m off the hook after the concert,” he mutters, running a hand through his damp waves.
My face warms. “That’s not…I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“You don’t have to make sure I’m okay anymore, Valerie.”
My jaw tenses. There isn’t exactly venom in those words, but it’s enough of a stark reminder that this isn’t some happy reunion. “Right.”
“There’s a reason I left this life behind. It wasn’t so bad being onstage, but…I forgot how much I hated feeling like a commodity after. I’ll do the show, but you don’t have to pretend in private that you care how I feel.”
Maybe there is some venom after all. The coldness in his voice reminds me of that night we fought in Vegas, and something about it shocks me back to reality. We were having fun onstage tonight, but that doesn’t mean anything. It was just for the crowd.
Still, he’s here, and I’ll take what I can get.
“Okay,” I say, nodding sharply. “I’ll let it be.”
“Thank you,” he says. It’s the least I can do for putting him through this. Suddenly, I realize that while Caleb might look like he did six years ago with a little makeup and styling, he’s a complete stranger to me now. So I just let the silence grow between us until it’s unbearable.
“Are you ready to sneak out?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Caleb says. “Should we call a car or something?”
“That could take ages. Let’s just make a run for it.”
“Deal,” he agrees. When we slip through the exit, there isn’t the crowd of fans I was dreading under the starlit sky—but there is one reporter waiting for us in the loading zone. It’s not Mary Kate Hampton—she must still be inside with the rest of the band—but Ryan Tate from Gossip Daily , someone I know all too well from years of bad press.
My stomach drops. How the hell did this jerk get here so fast? Gossip Daily is a lot more inflammatory than Buzzword , and they’ve been giving me a hard time since the first Glitter Bats album dropped. Ryan loves to paint me in a bad light, and he even wrote one of the worst articles about me and Roxanne. He’s made plenty of money off me. His eyes light up when he sees us.
I ball my fists so tight my freshly painted nails dig into my palms.
“Valerie, Caleb, how does it feel to be back onstage together?” Ryan asks with a swagger. He’s white and super tanned in a weathered way from too many sun beds, and his brown hair has that frat boy swoop. He’s wearing a too-tight, deep V-neck tee, and the Ralph Lauren Polo is wafting so strongly I want to cough.
But “no comment” won’t be good enough to get him to leave, and it won’t drum up the good buzz I so desperately need. I force my shoulders back and smile sweetly at him.
“It’s nice to sing together again,” I say. “Now please excuse us, we need to get going.”
He turns to Caleb, whose jaw is set with determination. “I want to hear what Caleb thinks. It’s good to see you, man. It’s been a while.”
Despite what just happened in the stockroom, Caleb flips a switch. Charisma shines off of him in waves, and he looks like a completely different person from the guy I watched fight off a panic attack moments ago. He turns a megawatt smile on Ryan. “It’s good to see you too. Honestly, it’s great to be working with the Glitter Bats again. We’re excited to give the fans a concert to remember. It’s been too long since I’ve gotten to work with Valerie, and sharing the stage with her again is an honor and a privilege. She’s as beautiful and talented as ever.”
My heart flutters, and I try to remind myself he’s just acting. Like he said. I force my own calm and put on my best media face.
Ryan smirks. “Any truth to the rumors that the two of you have been carrying on in secret for years, despite Valerie’s parade of partners?”
I open my mouth to shoot the rumor down, but then an idea sparks: it might be better to spin this. Maybe a connection to Caleb—or even the slightest hint of one—could be enough to shine up my reputation. And hey, he just agreed to do whatever I need.
I need a miracle, and this might be it.
Before I can stop myself, I open my stupid mouth. “Oh, Ryan, our personal life is just that—personal,” I say coyly. “I don’t kiss and tell.”
The moment I say it, I want to pull the words back, worried I’ve gone too far. But when I turn to Caleb, he winks.
“Neither do I.” He turns to Ryan with a smirk. “If you think for a moment that Valerie Quinn would cheat on a partner, you’re clearly just reaching for headlines. But Valerie is right—what we do offstage is our business.”
He says that last part with such innuendo it makes a shiver run down my spine.
“Come on, we’re old friends here. Can’t you give me anything?” Ryan asks, like Caleb is his frat bro or something.
Caleb shakes his head. “Sorry, bro . Any interview requests about the concert can be fielded by Ortega Management.”
And then Caleb kisses my cheek, reaches an arm around my shoulders, and marches me into the night. I know it’s all for the media, but the gesture makes my stomach flip.
It’s a lie, it’s a lie, it’s a lie.
But the tiniest part of me wants to believe it’s not.