Chapter Twelve
Twelve
The show in DC goes off without a hitch. My “If Not for My Baby” duet Band-Aid has already been ripped off thanks to The Morning Show with Joe Jennings , and by the time Halloran and I close out the Pittsburgh concert under the strobe lights, we’re comfortable, electric, and alive.
Tonight’s show in Atlantic City is somehow even better. It’s my first big concert—hello, twelve thousand people—and where I expect crippling imposter syndrome I find only bone-deep, near-spiritual rightness. I wonder if I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
I’m even more rejuvenated onstage this evening because earlier today Indy dragged me to visit the boardwalk before sound check, where we ate enough kettle corn and cotton candy to guarantee cavities.
Indy’s the most popular person I’ve ever met, and usually has a friend in every city we visit, meaning sometimes she barely makes it back to the venue in time to snap pics of Halloran’s meet and greets or record videos of his vocal warm- ups.
But today she was bored and antsy and I was grateful for the field trip.
The crisp seaside sunshine and smell of brine and hot dogs was a much-needed break from the tour bus.
Not that I mind spending downtime with the band.
The other day Wren showed me the correct way to hold drumsticks using some leftover take-out chopsticks.
Grayson, Pete, and Conor often monopolize the space with raucous games of Call of Duty and Mario Kart , but lately they’ve asked me to join in even though I consistently die within sixty seconds of gameplay.
And as usual Halloran keeps to himself, which I tell myself is the best-case scenario.
Especially since I realized this morning that the days Halloran and I hardly see each other have somehow become the worst kind of days.
That level of hung-up-ness needs to be carted off and executed before a cheering crowd.
Those are the sorts of things my mom still says about my dad— If he wasn’t at the party, it wasn’t a party worth being at— all these years later. I cannot fathom a fate worse than hers.
Perhaps spending too long on the road, or singing devastating lyrics into each other’s eyes each night is the culprit. Regardless of why, when tonight’s show ends and we parade offstage into the greenroom, I’m determined not to speak a single word to him.
“Unreal!” Indy pulls me into a hug. “There was something really special about the crowd tonight.”
Everyone else must feel it, too—the room is buzzing.
The whole band is smooshed in here plus a gaggle of VIPs, and a top-forty rap song with a bass I can hear in my skull is blaring from the speakers.
I can only see the back of Halloran’s head—his hair extra unwieldy after tonight’s show—as he talks to Pete and a balding man I believe to be the venue owner.
For the first time on the tour, we’re in a city known for its nightlife and we don’t have an overnight drive.
We’re sleeping on the bus, and while my soul withers a bit at the lack of hotel shower, we don’t have to go anywhere until tomorrow afternoon, which means tonight is the night I promised Indy and Molly I’d go out with them.
Everyone is planning to hit a bar or two and then go gambling, because it’s Atlantic City and that’s apparently what you do.
I signed my soul away days ago, and the she-devils have come to collect.
I’m even wearing a tiny denim miniskirt and have traded my cowboy boots for knee-high heeled ones as instructed by Molly, who is finally being less growly and sour.
“You guys have some incredible chemistry onstage,” Indy says, still gushing about the show.
“You think?” I ask, squeezing in on the couch next to Wren and propping my boots up on the table beside a smattering of drinks.
“Oh, yeah,” she assures me, perching on the armrest. “I got some great footage, too.”
Footage of Halloran singing to me like I’m the only thing standing between him and a ruthless apocalyptic wasteland? Don’t ask to see it. Do not ask to see it.
“Oh, cool.” I chew at my lip. “Can I see—”
An eruption of squeals cuts me off as Jen enters with a veritable horde of beautiful women.
It’s hard to tell how I know they are all beautiful given a) how many of them there are and b) how swiftly they descend into the already packed greenroom, but the slivers of exposed, toned abdomen and swaths of shiny curled hair are enough for me to get the picture: groupies.
And not just any groupies, groupies procured by Jen.
I can’t tell if I applaud her for taking care of the band in every way imaginable or if I’m kind of disgusted.
When no less than four near-models descend on Halloran like fleas on an alley cat, I decide it’s the latter.
“What pissed in your beer?” Grayson asks, slouching into the armchair to my left with a plastic cup of something clear and icy.
“Me?” I blanch. “Nothing. Why? Do I seem weird?”
“Chill out. I’m messing with you.”
“Right,” I say dumbly. It is a Herculean effort to keep my eyes on Grayson and not peer back over to Halloran and his newfound friends.
Each of them is imagining being the one to win him.
To steal him away, be the only thing on his mind, if only for the night.
They want to know what he’s like behind closed doors.
What he whispers on a broken breath in their ear right before he—
“So almost three weeks into the tour and tonight we finally get to see party girl Clementine.”
“I’m afraid so.”
Grayson grins at me and his teeth are perfectly straight. I am sure he never needed braces. “She a menace?”
“No, the opposite. I’m so tired…How do none of you have permanent bags under your eyes?”
“Life on the road. You get used to it.” Grayson leans back, sips his drink, and nods his head to the song a bit. Then he says, “We could skip it. Go back to the bus. I’m pretty tired myself.” He shrugs, the suggestion effortless. “Might be nice to have the place to ourselves for a while.”
Oh no. Is he…coming on to me?
Indy’s abandoned us to edit a video on her phone, and without her intervention there’s no right answer to his offer.
I can’t reject Grayson and have him claim he meant nothing of the sort, making me look stuck-up and overly sensitive.
Nor can I agree to one-on-one time together and his seduction routine.
“Indy would kill me,” I say. “She’s been trying to get me out since Raleigh.”
“I don’t blame her,” Grayson says. “I bet you’re dirtier than you let on.”
Forcing my grimace into a pleasant smile is no easy feat, but I’m up to the task. I’ve known far too many Graysons in my life. Mostly the men my mom dates between flare-ups.
“Shall we?” Indy chimes. Saved by the bell. She’s got her arms around Molly, Pete, and…Lionel, to my surprise. They all look wide-eyed and flushed.
“We just took a shot,” Lionel tells me, tie askew, pure, undiluted glee across his baby features. “Of tequila.”
Grayson stands and downs the rest of his drink. “I’ll catch up with you guys in a bit. Where are you heading?”
“The cantina down the street,” Pete says. “Then Caesars.”
Molly has her wicked villainess eyes on as she murmurs, “We’re going to pop Lionel’s gambling cherry.”
Lionel looks positively delighted by this.
Due to her generally cold demeanor and impressive resting scowl, I can’t tell if Molly’s still angry with me about the duet, but I’d rather be clawed to death by a drunk and vengeful Molly than sit next to Grayson even five minutes longer.
Luckily, he’s no longer listening, instead waving at a coy brunette across the room.
She’s in a big fur coat and tiny jean shorts and looks like an extra from Daisy Jones & the Six .
The sleek redhead next to her is already sitting in Conor’s lap, lifting up his shirt to see the entirety of his tattoos.
And seated to their left is a fresh-faced blonde, deep in conversation with Halloran.
For a moment I see double, my whole body pulsing with the force of my racing heart.
She’s less made up than the rest of them, and I hate myself for thinking she looks like a prettier version of me. In fact, she kind of looks like my mom.
She touches his forearm and my body reacts as if someone’s just told me the ship is going down. I need a lifeboat and a drink. “I’ve never gambled, either,” I tell Molly. “Will you pop mine, too?”
Indy squeals bloody murder and I can’t help my grin.
Molly’s lips twist. “Fine. But only because it’s better with girls.”
My eyes betray me and flit back to that couch, but Halloran hasn’t stirred.
He’s engaged in what seems to be genuine conversation with the gleaming blonde.
He’s using his hands when he speaks, raking his fingers through his hair.
She bites her lip to hide a smile and I don’t blame her.
He’s magnetic when he does that, and I find myself thinking about our car ride.
How it felt to make him really laugh. As we move for the door he doesn’t so much as glance up.
I’m going to need to sew up this ripping feeling in my gut right quick.
I’ve never seen Halloran talk to a woman before—not after a show, not in clips online—but it was bound to happen.
Regardless of my infatuation, he is a red-blooded, thirty-two-year-old man.
Not only that, but a very famous musical artist, and we’re on his tour.
He may not be the clichéd partying playboy, but he’s single—or so I’m assuming—and entitled to any fun he wants to have.
I never should’ve allowed myself to become so interested in him. Surely the chemistry I’ve been feeling has been fabricated by his general sex appeal and charisma. And talent. And sense of humor. And kindness—damnit.
“Let’s go,” I say brightly. “I’m ready for something new.”
—